ritual

As a murderer, Kovi didn't get out much. He'd lodge his head in the frame of his window, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the park where the high school girls would come out to play pétanque. The distance was far enough to slim them all down to seventeen year old perfection, yet close enough so he could make out the tight black shorts that were the apparent fashion.

The fat little gym teacher must be in on it with the warden. Why else would he bring them here? Cruel and unusual. Where is it that those whining gypsy's had gone?

No. Instead he throws himself on the field, lying flat as the girls instinctively encircle. The fat teacher lifts his cigarette upwards to the height of his eyes, waves it forward toward Kovi, then brings it back to his side. He repeats the motion, then calls out: Shorts! (In unison they come off, held high for 6 seconds, then...) Throw! Shirts! (same) Bra! (same) Panties! (same).

And once they're all naked and Kovi's buried in a heap of sweaty lycra, their priest, receiving a signal from the warden-pope, let's out a deep and solemn TAKE HIM! and the silent and naked girls let fly their barrage of Boules, their hard young breasts barely jiggling as they unleash, with Kovi receiving their offering and welcoming the punishment he knows he deserves, like the other priest had told him that day when he first learned he was a sinner.

Strasbourg. That's it.

Like a damn gypsy.