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Theology had never really been his strong suit, but he was reasonably sure the Saviour had talked a lot about mercy.
He squinted at Alex as if someone had told him the turd he’d just watched squeezed from a goat’s arse was actually a gold nugget.
You have to treat people like oranges, Gal the Purse always said. Squeeze what you can from the bastards, then waste no regrets when you toss away their wrung-out skins. You have to treat people like stepping stones. Like rungs on your ladder. Or you’ll wake up one day with nothing but a set of bootprints on your own back.
He had never had much patience for religion. What was it, really, but superstition with money?
He was quite the kiss-arse, but that’s monks for you. Pay a man to grovel to God three times a day and he’ll soon be grovelling to everyone.
“Steal some bastard’s purse you’re a thief,” breathed Alex. “Steal a whole town you’re a hero.”
None of the locals go to church. Unless it’s to filch from the collection plate.” “What could be nobler than to cut out the middleman, and convey the funds directly to the needy?”
