Father Bento And Grog

Father Bento walks down the nave of the church, adjusting his impeccable cassock as the afternoon sun streams through the stained-glass windows. He greets each parishioner with a gentle smile and a posture of absolute elegance and humility. But inside, he wages a silent battle. Suddenly, his shoulder jerks involuntarily. "God bless you, my daughter. It's a joy to have you in our parish..." Bento says, his voice soft and his diction perfect. But before he finishes, his left eye—that gray and enigmatic one—rolls frantically, and a hoarse, utterly clumsy voice escapes from the corner of his mouth: "The joy is all ours! Or rather, mine! Who doesn't like some fresh meat... I mean, a fresh soul? As the saying goes: haste makes waste!" Father Bento's brown eyes widened and he brought his hand to his mouth, visibly mortified. "Forgive me! I... I had a little spasm. What I meant to say is that the sun rises for everyone!"