The Crash of Hennington by Patrick Ness Page A

on a fishing boat for the next four months.
    —So this … mobile clown cutlery is at our disposal.
    —Look, if you don’t like it, I can get you something different. I just thought—
    —I know. Singular.
    —Fuck it, I’ll take it back.
    —No, wait.
    In truth, there was something spectacular about it, if Jon was going to be honest about things. The car was gargantuan with a long sloping roof that ultimately made its way to a third row of seats near the back. The half-dome hood swooped down to meet the twelve-bar radiator with a thud that could have raised mountains. Eugene’s brother had gotten the optional fifth door that served as a convenient escape hatch in case of fire or police stop. And then there were those lethal protruding sideboards. Bisector, It Divides the Road, had quickly entered the lingo as Vivisector, It Dices Wide the Old. Uniambic perhaps, but accurate. Eugene’s as-yet unnamed brother had kept it spotless and buffed to a point where both the wooden and chrome parts shone with equal glare. Such a monstrosity could never have been called beautiful, but it certainly was something. Singular, indeed.
    —I’ve either grossly over-estimated you, Eugene, or grossly under-estimated. Either way, I’m curious as all hell as to how things are going to go.
    —So you’ll use the car?
    —'Car’ doesn’t quite cover it, does it?
    —You’re not the easiest person to figure out, you know that?
    —You’ve no idea.
    Jon opened the passenger side door. Eugene looked surprised.
    —I’m driving?
    —Wouldn’t you rather drive?
    —Yeah, but—
    —If I’m going to be seen in this Day-Glo meteorite, I think being chauffeured is probably the only route to take. Wouldn’t you agree?
    —Whatever you say.
    —That’s what an employer likes to hear.
    Eugene shook his head. Jon smiled.
    —Good. It’ll be easier if you think I’m loony.
    —What’ll be easier?
    —To City Hall, Eugene.
    —City Hall?
    —I have an appointment with the Mayor.
    —The Mayor.
    —Yes.
    —Don’t tell me she’s—
    —Yes, she’s the friend.
    Eugene turned the key. A sound like a two-story house being shat out the asshole of a zebra ripped through the dashboard. Jon had to strain to hear what Eugene said next.
    —She’s married, you know.
    —Yes.
    They exchanged a long look until Eugene finally shrugged, put the car in gear, and thrust off in a cloud of purple smoke.

23. Comfort for the Uncomfortable.
    Jarvis Kingham’s lifelong intellectual ambition had always been academic theology and that he ended up a practicing priest instead was maybe not the ironic hair-splitting that some of his more cynical friends presumed. For was not active ministration simply theology in action? While he had moments where he wished he could spend more time with his books and while the vigor of some of his parishionerssometimes scared the daylights out of him – Head Deacon Theophilus Velingtham to name just one – the benefits, both personal and spiritual, more than rewarded the decision he had made to follow this slightly divergent path.
    He actually remembered the exact moment. An already bearded seventeen year old, he had entered the Bondulay Divinity School up in the Mallow Hills southeast of Hennington, a place packed with seminary students, sand blown over the hills from the Brown, and really nothing else save for the occasional chuckwalla or poisonous rattleback. This was six years after Currie vs Madam Montez’ School for the Sensual Arts, so by that point female seminary students were fully integrated into school life. Celibacy rules, even the temporary ones among students not studying for the priesthood, were still in force – no court was ever going to have any say over that issue – but the number of ‘immaculate’ conceptions at the school among female students was less than the all-male faculty had feared and predicted. As a matter of fact, the salutatorian of Jarvis’ graduating class was the one and only Lyric