Once every few months a cleft opens up in the Catskills landscape whereby so much occult strangeness has seeped into the lives of the Brothers Tickler, there simply isn't space for a third kneeler at their communion. On these occasions - usually after enforced separation - the last two remaining Bovina Trappists don cassock and surplice, jimmy the locks off the tabernacle and go at the sacraments like Elvis at an all-you-can-eat peanut butter banana and bacon buffet. Tiptoe into the cathedral, take a pew at the back as Frère Steve chants a tender Dies irae to his father and reflects upon the existential vertigo to which we acquiesce, when we agree to ride the Wall of Death.
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