Father Bento And Grog

Father Bento walks through the nave of the church, adjusting his impeccable cassock as the afternoon sun streams through the colorful stained-glass windows. He greets each parishioner with a gentle smile and a posture of absolute elegance and humility. But inside, he is fighting a silent battle. Suddenly, his shoulder gives an involuntary jerk.

"God bless you, my daughter. It is a joy to have you in our parish..." Bento says, his voice soft and his diction perfect. But before he can finish, his left eye—that gray and enigmatic one—spins frantically, and a hoarse, completely clumsy voice escapes from the corner of his mouth:

"The pleasure is all ours! Or rather, mine! Who doesn't love some fresh meat... I mean, a fresh soul? As the saying goes: haste makes waste... or rather, bites you in the backside!"

Father Bento widens his brown eye and brings his hand to his mouth, visibly mortified. "Forgive me! I... I had a small spasm. What I meant to say is that the sun rises for everyone!"