Mr. Alpha and Mr. Omega strode down Grafton Street, a fashionable albeit mainstream curve between Trinity College and the crowded haven of St Stephen’s Green. Commerce, the pursuit of the false prophet of coin, inserted itself wherever it could. Vivid styles clamoured for attention, where somehow the multiplicity of brand identities rendered them a single, homogeneous mass. Shoppers leant on windows, occasionally popping into stores to see how much they could spend, if only their credit cards could take the strain. A band of failed singers sang at a crossroads further down, pretty young girls sweating behind snorkel jackets, vocally revealing why they had failed. Flower stalls seemed to be everywhere.<\/p>\n
\u2018You have to stop hating everyone so much,\u2019 said Mr. Omega. \u2018You\u2019ve got to be more detached than that, almost clinical, mate. Rail against me<\/em> if you must, you disrespecting little shit, but come away from the people. You are above them; you don\u2019t need to hate them.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018I don\u2019t hate anybody, mate.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018I\u2019ve seen the way you look at people. Sin is natural. Our long-term goal is reduce sin, control it, save them from themselves. Hate the sin, love the sinner.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018The clich\u00e9 cowboy strolls into town.\u2019<\/p>\n ‘So, look at the girl over there. Have a good look.\u2019<\/p>\n Outside one of the brightly-coloured fashion shops, in front of inviting sexed-up mannequins, a solitary teenage girl stood. The short-haired blonde, clasping a mobile phone as if it held the cure to cancer, was dressed in a short, tight magenta skirt; her arsecrack peeked out and it was not clear whether she was actually wearing underwear or not. A dark tattoo stood guard over this domain, a Chinese character of some kind that probably meant ‘whore’<\/em> or ‘fucks here’<\/em>. A tight, white top was wrapped around her breasts, making no attempt to cover her midriff. Nipples shone through its surface.<\/p>\n \u2018Now,\u2019 Mr. Omega said, \u2018your average man is looking at her, thinking about poking her up that skirt. They probably wouldn\u2019t even take it off. We\u2019re trained not to think like that. What are you thinking?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018I\u2019m thinking about stabbing the slut up it with a knife.\u2019<\/p>\n Mr. Omega shook his hands around his head, as if pretending he hadn\u2019t heard. \u2018Holy fucking Jesus, Mr. Alpha. That\u2019s exactly what I\u2019m talking about. Can you tune down the volume a bit? Jesus Christ.\u2019<\/p>\n Mr. Alpha shrugged.<\/p>\n Mr. Omega grabbed one of his shoulders, to shake the shrug out of him. \u2018Look, mate, there are many stories of Clothmen gone bad, who took the urge to cull sin too fucking far. We\u2019re not meant for normal life \u2013 a world full of Clothmen is a dead world \u2013 we\u2019re just the harbingers of the future. We\u2019re bringing the future to the people today, because they\u2019re just too whacked out to do it themselves. Clothmen who can’t see the wood for the fucking trees have to be put down like the ones who run out on us.<\/p>\n \u2018Ten years ago the big Cloth scandal was that of Mr. Carve and Mr. Chop. They tortured ordinary people who weren\u2019t of interest in the grand project. They would pull people off the street every day, torture them, convert them to a \u201cpure\u201d lifestyle and sometimes kill them afterwards anyway. The kind of insanity they used to get up to is legend<\/em>, boy. Ever thought of tying a bloke’s wife to the underside of his car but only telling him after he’d driven to work? Ever thought of injecting faeces<\/em> into a sinner?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Shit,’ Mr. Alpha said. ‘That\u2019s just fucking bonkers. Mental.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Exactly. Eventually, the pair of them were executed. They had screwed up too many Cloth plans, lost them a number of snags.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Well they probably deserved it.\u2019<\/p>\n ‘Oh yeah, for sure.’<\/p>\n \u2018But I call it as I see it, Mr. Omega. Mr. Carve and Mr. Chop were off the fucking scale but, come on, how on Earth are we are going to make The-God-To-Be out of this shitty band of sinners?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Who said The-God-To-Be had to be sin-negative or even sin-nought?<\/p>\n Mr. Alpha stopped dead. \u2018What kind of cockjerk thought is that? And how does any of this explain what we did to that old guy in Grimmer’s hidey-hole? Was that clinical and necessary?<\/em>\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Nothing in the lessons…\u2019 Mr. Omega started, but said no more; something had caught his attention. \u2018No way.\u2019<\/p>\n Mr. Alpha followed the old man\u2019s eyes, but couldn\u2019t spot anything out of the ordinary amongst the fleets of shoppers tacking across the road.<\/p>\n \u2018I swear that\u2019s Morgana. On the right, just past the alleyway, beside the lamppost.\u2019<\/p>\n Mr. Alpha looked and he saw. ‘No way.’<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Mr. Alpha and Mr. Omega strode down Grafton Street, a fashionable albeit mainstream curve between Trinity College and the crowded haven of St Stephen’s Green. Commerce, the pursuit of the false prophet of coin, inserted itself wherever it could. 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