Chapter 12

“Oh, Father,” Henri whispered, feeling the ache to shoot bloom in his guts. He was ready to drizzle like holiday frosting all over the caped nuts below. That was it! He almost laughed as he felt the pad of a thumb finding its way to the tip of his gleaming piece. It burned slightly as it parted the lips, finding its way in. A cork. Henri realized he wasn’t going to be able to shoot without permission. Possibly a prayer?

Our Father, who art in barrel, hallowed be your lips, my cock shall come, once your will’s done…

Henri was not built for prayers. He’d never searched the skies for answers, even when young. The sounds of the streets distracted him. He’d always looked down the Parisian boulevards, marveling at the people parading back and forth to and from their manors and rooms.