Sputnik."Y-You are drunk again, Herr Dreher."
There it was again. This was the third time he’d heard that this week as he sat in his chair stewing in the fire in his belly that threatened to burst forth from his mouth.
He had set himself in his chair, the bottle clutched tightly in his hand as he stared blankly at the TV in front of him. The man on the news was blathering on and on about things he did not care about. The Americans did this, the Russians did that, French having money troubles again, Adenauer fucking up his country and trying to round up straggler Nazis: the usual doom that people liked to complain about.
"I ain’t drunk!" The old priest said as his free hand played with the straps on his prosthetic legs. When he was home he never wore them, although it might have been better to do so because one leg was gone above the knee the other below. He was seventy something years old: while other his age would complain about arthritis in their kne