The preacher went in through the door and shouted worship words in French. Jésus – Christ dans mon cul! I then saw her smiling with her full lips; defying, mocking, those lips ready to call for Yemoja, never Jésus – Christ. Her breasts, those coffee colored breasts, ready to mix their texture and color with rooster blood, and not the blood of Jésus – Christ , trembled like little mountains commanded to move by a hungover prophet. She laughed, and laughed at Jésus – Christ .
The preacher was so seriously trying to make us think of hell, his glasses moved rythmically on his nose, he had quelque chose of a baboon in his countenance. This is Hell. Didn’t like this preacher too much, couldn’t concentrate on my book with all his Jesus talk. John dos Passos.
At the very end of the Champs-Élysées three drunkards were sleeping in their own piss. Does Jésus – Christ have a special place for malditos borrachos?