It didn’t go quite as planned. The plan was just to be a spectator on the sidelines at the cathedral, the chapel, the temple, the tabernacle, where, on each and every Friday, the all-powerful of all spirits is raised and praised. I had come to watch not to worship. But, next thing I knew I was all caught up in the fervor. I was on the cusp of being converted.
The temple was a place called Mezcal-Art. The holy spirit was mezcal. The parishioners were the most dedicated of dilettants.
Now I’ve never been a big fan of mezcal. A little too much fire. A lot too much smoke. But I’d run into the parishioners a few times later on Friday evenings as they made their merry way to other watering holes. And I liked them.
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