In the first tale of my religious zeal, I made a near-fatal error.

And yet I have returned to my usual manner, with zero explanation needed—a good thing too, because none will be given.

In the months since my last entry, I have enlisted the help of a sidekick of sorts—the Robin to my Batman (except not heathen), if you will. His alter-ego is Choir Boy, which is ironic, as that is his actual profession.

Not the best name, but we are not particularly creative—we are only here to do God’s will, after all.

In our first mission together, I was informed by God that there was a festival in which certain sinners used modern instruments to praise God—blasphemy.

I stood atop the spire of my church—bedecked in the garb of a true priest—with Choir Boy by my side.

“There are some blasphemers on Flanders Street. We must—“

“Holy mackerel, Priest-Man! What should we do?"

“First,” I began sternly, “one must not use the term ‘holy’ in any context other than that of our Lord in the highest Jesus Christ (amen), child. Second, we shall split up, and head to the festival independently. I shall see you there. Godspeed.”

I swooped down from the spire, and dressed myself in a white suit and tie.

When I arrived at the festival, I noticed something truly shocking. Choir Boy was… the lead singer for the so-called “Christian” band.

God himself spoke in my mind: “Hunt down the traitor, and bring them back to me alive.”

I assumed He meant to bring my little Judas to the church.

And so I sat, and planned.