"Mary sure has a lot of naked images of black men with grotesquely large genitalia running through her head," said the priest. She smiled. "Of course she does, as all women do. Have you never heard of Masters and Johnson? Surely Kinsey could not have eluded a person of your type. If I were to dig up the foundation under that hairy grandfatherly veneer of yours who knows what I'd find." "Aren't you smart? To think that we could have naively put your name in holy matrimony. But do tell me, now that God is generously revealing all of your perverted ideas, what you think is in my heart!" "I wouldn't know. I don't read minds or hearts. I imagine it is the same stinky muck that is in all men's cravings. If you pay me money, I wouldn't oppose letting you confess your sins to me. Now the price to absolve sins and blowjobs are both the same: 500 dollars -- US, of course. With handsome Adonises, it is a packaged set but not with old goats like you." He shook his head. "To think that I would have married this fine gentleman to such a blasphemous whore." "Maybe I can read minds, hearts, or what-not. I'm reading big breasted women there washing each other's bodies as they do onstage in makeshift showers at Go-go bars in Bangkok; but only because you are too scared of burning in hell for your homosexual inclinations. Rivers run both ways, you know, but socialization on a teenager can alter how it flows. For old goats like you, nobody built your dam when you were young so now there is only cobbled will. Your will tries to redirect the flow since. You know that you cannot stop it entirely. Say 100 Haila Gabrielas and pay me my money." The priest shook his head at the foul fiend and turned away. "Bangkok?" asked the priest. He was directing his question to Michael. "She went there once," he told the priest. "She is always making contrasts of Thailand to Western civilization." "Did she meet this black man there?" "Who knows?" said Michael. Gabriele guffawed. "Why not address me?" she asked. "Then answer for yourself, you disgusting tramp," said Michael. "Maybe I did or didn't," she prevaricated. "Maybe I don't need to meet anyone or do anything. I witness life. If I read something or see something that is happening in my world (even if from a distance) it touches me and I'm inspired by it. I'm not afraid of it no matter what it is." "She's your betrothed," said the priest. "What do you want done." "Let His will be done. She hides her profanity, promiscuity, and obscenities behind art. She never admits anything," he whined sobbingly. "I don't know what to do with her." "Apple her?" asked the security guards. "Apple her!" reiterated the priest. The cooking staff, under their burkas, began to fire apples and soon everyone within the room appled her skull. "Why couldn't you have just drawn still-life or landscapes?" whined Michael. "Join your Turkish friend from long ago!" shouted the Ayatollah- garbed priest.