Particular care had been lavished by the artist on Dewey’s scrotum. Penis, testes, and pubic hair had been carved beautifully to mold in miniature a pious replica of Dewey’s face. There is about it, and him, a mischievous ambivalence, half saint, half satyr, his image forming neither but suggesting both, in that attitude of supplication. But whether he’s beseeching God or a local girl is difficult to determine.

Now, in the swelter of my cell, “Abide in light,” he mumbles behind the thicket of his beard. “What can I do to ease your burden?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“First of all, I want you to know that I forgive you for having been so snotty with me. So please don’t let it gnaw at you. And second,” he settles down for a nice juicy chat, “I hope you’re not wasting what little time you have with creepy thoughts of repentance. All that can do is give you pain.”

“I thought pain was purifying.”

“Perhaps, if you can outlive it. But in your case…” he coughs delicately. “Anyway, only pleasure is purifying.”

“Most of your colleagues would disagree with you.”

He nods sadly. “Too many of my brethren seem to be of the opinion that pleasure, particularly sexual pleasure, is a perversion. It took me a long time to realize that man’s only perversion is celibacy. What I’m here to discuss…” He pauses, as if to make sure his deep sermonic voice has my unwavering attention; then: “What kind of funeral would you like?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“You should,” he says, “but don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. You want flowers? Those wildflowers we’re allowed to pluck?”

“No.”

“Would you prefer I take up a collection? A gift in your name for a favorite charity?”

“I don’t have one.”

He shrugs, running out of patience. “It’s your funeral,” he reminds me. “You’d do well to give it some thought.”

A fat green fly buzzes loudly, beating its iridescent wings in the shadows, swooping and soaring in swift, eccentric circles. Lipgloss swipes at it, and the thing, sensing danger, takes sanctuary in the unassailable fortress of his beard, looking for a nice place to lay a few million eggs.

Undaunted by either the bug’s persistence or my resistance, Lipgloss presses on. “What about the eulogy? I’ll say a few words, touching on whatever you deem appropriate. You know the problem with eulogies—the person most concerned is never consulted. What would you like said?”

“I really don’t care.”

“Well, frankly, I care. After all, I’ll be conducting the service.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Would that be asking too much?”

“If I don’t,” he looks hurt, “what’s there for me to do?”

“Well, frankly, I’d like to avoid a funeral altogether.”

“How do you intend to do that?”