842. Last words
© Bruce Goodman 30 January 2016

The grouchy old archbishop was on his death bed. For decades he’d governed his diocese with a dictatorial hand. Now he was a garrulous old fool who was used to getting his own way. Despite all that, his age had given him a veneer of holiness. People were in awe.

Reverend Father Hainsworth was designated to fuss over the archbishop in his last days. Do this! Do that! The Reverend Father did it all, but never to the satisfaction of the dying archbishop. The pillow had been arranged uncomfortably.

“Get out of my sight, you blinking idiot!” shouted the archbishop. Father Hainsworth left the room. The archbishop died, alone.

“Father! Father!” entreated the swarming Press. “What were the great archbishop’s final words?”

Father Hainsworth put on his best unctuous voice: “Draw the blind, Father; I wish to sleep.”

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