The Crucifixion of Antonio Sombrero

"I don't want to make excuses for myself," Paul thought, "but can you blame me for thinking that there is no paradise greater than paradise?" It wasn't like he was expecting everything to be a celebration; on the contrary he had his eyes on tranquility, a state of being in which one feels at home. None of the men he was investigating, however, were doing anything but chasing their tails, and if, at times, they felt bad, then that was becasue they, at some other point, had been happy at the expense of others, if, that is, a bad person's mood can be considered happy. "Am I prepared to kill again?" Paul asked himself, and, for all intents and purposes, he needed to be. Meth heads, for whatever reasons, respond to guns and white people, and Paul, who, as a veteran cop in North Georgia, knew this better than anyone, wasn't taking any chances. Barring a fascist dictator and a racist zeitgeist, a meth head might imagine himself on side with the savior. That white man, on the other hand, might just as well be an enemy to humanity that, perhaps, isn't real in the first place.