Page 2 of Sinful Games

I attended the church's mass, taking a seat in the last row of the musty, dimly lit church. Overhead, a massive sculpture of Mary and baby Jesus gazed down at me, their eyes seeming to follow my every move.

Father Pasha entered, dressed in classic black and white church attire, a prominent cross hanging from his neck, and glasses perched on his nose. His rosy cheeks and nose hinted at a likely encounter with alcohol, and I would have bet my life it was vodka.

About ten of us were seated in front of him.

A family huddled together, consisting of three kids, likelyaged between ten and five, and their parents, dressed in dark clothing. The mother wore a headscarf, and they all seemed to carry an air of poverty, sadness, and despair.

Three elderly women, probably in their late seventies, sat side by side, holding hands, while another man in his late forties slouched with his head down, hands resting in his lap.

As Father Pasha began the service, he spoke with a slightly slurred tone, revealing the effects of alcohol. His words were heavy with irony given his state.

"The end is close, my children, come back to God," he declared, his words marked by an unmistakable hiccup. "Satan is here," he pointed to where I was seated, and the entire congregation turned to look at me. "He will soon walk through these doors and snatch you all away from the truth of our Lord."

Father Pasha's drunken proclamation sent shivers down my spine as his words hung heavily in church. It felt as though he had singled me out, and I couldn't help but wonder how my ominous mission was being revealed in this twisted sermon.

The bastard must be a fucking psychic.

The hour passed swiftly as he urged us to stand up and sing a few words of gratitude. I bided my time, waiting for the room to empty so I could approach the front where the priest stood, a Bible clutched in his hands.

I gulped nervously. "I suppose the Lord has guided me to you."

He scrutinized me slowly, from head to toe, my clothes still bearing traces of mud, and then turned his head to the side. "Or Satan."

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

I breathed, "Or Satan."

He turned around and gestured for me to follow, leading me down a narrow corridor to a small, dimly lit room. The only furnishings were a plain wooden table and two chairs, with a sizable painting of Jesus on the cross dominating one wall.

"Please, have a seat."

I obeyed, my hands trembling as I took my place at the table.

"What does Igor want this time?" Father Pasha asked, his gaze probing.

I looked down, avoiding his intense eyes.

How did he know Igor had sent me?

"I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered, my voice unsteady.

He scoffed, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You must be wondering what a simple priest like me could have done to draw the attention of a man like Igor."

Father Pasha then took a seat across from me and removed the cross from around his neck. Next, he reached down to his feet and retrieved a small steel bottle hidden around his ankle, taking a swig.

He extended the bottle to me, and too nervous to refuse, I took a big gulp, the fiery liquid causing me to cough and sputter in discomfort.

Vodka. I fucking knew it.

“What did you do?”

"Would you like to hazard a guess, my son?" Father Pasha responded, an enigmatic smile on his face.

I shrugged, taking another swig of vodka. "You stole money?"

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