“We were supposed to be on the road three hours ago!” Mr. McLaughlin’s fiancé Gretchen screamed, holding the last of her bags to be packed in the car. Her ceaseless browbeating prompted McLaughlin to call in the big man.
“Saint Anthony, look around, something is lost and can not be found.” He muttered under his breath. “I’m begging you, please, help me find these fucking keys before I kill her.”
“Here we go again.” Anthony said before shouting across the void of space to his heavenly buddy Christopher, the patron saint of safe travels. “Can you believe this shit? What say we grab a couple beers in St. Moritz? They’re not going anywhere without those keys.”
“St. Anthony has never let me down before.” McLaughlin noted. “I usually find the keys in the clothes I wore the day before. Hey wait a minute … I should check those.”
Sure enough, the keys were found in yesterday’s cargo shorts, but by the time Saint Anthony made it back to Zimbabwe, the 12-year old malarial boy he had been keeping alive had perished.
“Nice work, McLaughlin.” Anthony said sarcastically. “I was going to save him, too.”
