Conversation · Church Doors

... in the heart of the city.

You enter the church.

[Leave.]

"If you really think we should get in there, we need to find some other way..."

"I'm actually not that interested in the church right now."

"It does seem rather irrelevant to our case." The lieutenant nods.

"Where do you think we should start?"

"Can you hear the pulsing bass underneath the east wind?" He raises his hand to his ear. "A sure sign of junior delinquency."

Take a closer look at the padlock.

Inspect the carpentry.

The carving on the door is blocklike and angular, like the church itself. Two large beams shoot downwards, sinking into the wood before they reach the threshold.

Back up and look at the door.

Run your hand over a beam.

The surface is smooth from the wind, but moist to the touch.

Feels exceptional. Three hundred tons of pine wood fit together seamlessly. It's old too, cut and carved many centuries ago.

Look at the sticker.

You see a yellow circle with two X's and a big curve below them that looks like a mouth. You're pretty sure you haven't seen it before, but what the symbol depicts is clear enough: a smiling dead guy. The curve makes it smile and the X's make it dead.

There is something blindingly modern about this symbol. Its modernness puts to shame everything you've seen before.

"Have you seen this symbol before?" (Point to it.)

He takes off his glasses and uses a blue handkerchief to thoroughly wipe them clean before inspecting the sticker. Then he looks up, pauses, and replies...

"No."

"What does it look like to you?"

"Looks like a dead man smiling. Suggests... junior delinquency."

"What is suggestive of junior delinquency here?"

"I haven't seen that sticker before. And I am not a youth."

"I agree -- it's very modern. But does the cheery guy not know he's dead, or does the dead guy not care that he is? What is the source of the irony here?"

"That level of conceptual thinking is not part of my skill set."

Padlock, padlock, padlock!

Thus, it must be made by youths.

"Okay, what is junior delinquency?"

"For Revachol ZoC, the Moralintern defines junior delinquents as minors between the ages of 10 and 16 who have committed an act in violation of the law..."

"These acts aren't called crimes as they would be for adults. Crimes committed by minors are called 'delinquent acts'. This was part of your officer's exams." He puts the handkerchief in his coat pocket.

He feels sorry for you. For him as a lieutenant it would be demeaning to have someone recite terms from the officer's exam.

What makes it so modern?

It's the contrast between the cheery, chemical yellow and the rigor mortis. As if the cheery guy didn't know he was dead or the dead guy didn't care that he was. Either way, you get the sense the forces of future are at work here.

These forces of future have chosen to depict something that reminds you of... you.

Take another look at the padlock.

Apply some official force on the padlock.

You jam the prybar between the lock and the staple and apply force -- your biceps bulge from the strain. The metal creaks and squeals...

The pathetic old wood, rusty screws (and one nail) stand no chance against the forces of leverage. From deep within, a bellow rips...

"Welcome to Revachol, lock!"

Suddenly, the prybar snaps. Metal shavings fly everywhere. The upper half, between the lock and the staple, falls to the ground with a thunk.

"The fuck? How is this even possible?"

"Tools break, officer. Try to control yourself."

For example, see how calm I am, although you broke my favourite prybar.

Your muscles do not know. This shouldn't happen. You're sure the wood looked weak.

Look at the broken tool in your hand.

The broken edge of the snapped prybar is smooth. Took the tip right off...

A bad omen. Beware of this church.

"I broke the prybar. Where do I get a new one?" (Proceed.)

"I don't know... you don't? Or maybe we'll find a new one. I don't carry more than one prybar with me..." He looks up at the bell-tower.

"I thought this was a lousy way to enter a place of worship that's already in disrepair. I guess the church agreed."

This was surely just a freak accident.

The church does not reply. The wood now seems less rotten, the screws (and one nail) almost shimmer with perseverance.

"RAAARRRRRG!"

Nice try, son, but this is not something you should be attempting to do with your bare hands.

A minute or so of mauling away at the lock has led to no success. The prybar in your hand has given you... zero mechanical advantage.

Admit defeat and leave the lock alone.

"You could give me a hand, you know?"

"I'm not as sturdy as you are. I have even less leverage." He doesn't even try to sound convincing.