When I speak of God, I mean that god who prevented man from putting forth his hand and taking also of the fruit of the tree of life that he might live forever; of that god who multiplied the agonies of woman, increased the weary toil of man, and in his anger drowned a world—of that god whose altars reeked with human blood, who butchered babes, violated maidens, enslaved men and filled the earth with cruelty and crime; of that god who made heaven for the few, hell for the many, and who will gloat forever and ever upon the writhings of the lost and damned.

Please, help me. Young werewolves in love. I turned to walk into the house, moving carefully.I had never much believed in God. Well, that's not quite true. I believed that there was a God, or something close enough to it to warrant the name if there were demons, there had to be angels, right? If there was a Devil, somewhere, there had to be a God. But He & I had never really seen things in quite the same terms.All the same. I flashed a look up at the ceiling. I didn't say or think any words, but if God was listening, I hoped he got the message nonetheless. I didn't want of these children getting themselves killed.

For many years I have regarded the Pentateuch simply as a record of a barbarous people, in which are found a great number of the ceremonies of savagery, many absurd and unjust laws, and thousands of ideas inconsistent with known and demonstrated facts. To me it seemed almost a crime to teach that this record was written by inspired men; that slavery, polygamy, wars of conquest and extermination were right, and that there was a time when men could win the approbation of infinite Intelligence, Justice, and Mercy, by violating maidens and by butchering babes.

The Butcher’s ShopThe pigs are strung in rows, open-mouthed,dignified in martyrs’ deaths. They hangstiff as Sunday manners, their porky headsvoting Tory all their lives, their blue rosettesdiscarded now. The butcher smiles a meaty smile,white apron stained with who knows what,fingers fat as sausages. Smug, woolly cattleand snowy sheep prance on tiles, grazingon eternity, cute illustrations in a children’s book.What does the sheep say now?Tacky sawdust clogs your shoes.Little plastic hedges divide the trays of meat, playing farms. Playing farms. All the way homeyour cold and soggy paper parcel bleeds.

I would just have to find a hog, slaughter it, butcher it, cure the meat, then fry it up. Thinking about the bacon—the potential of bacon—gives me hope. Not all is lost if bacon isn't. Seriously.