The Fall and Rise.

[Reverend Del]

Eighteen months ago.

Greg sat in the gutter, his clothes sodden. Drunk again, and feeling more than a little sad for himself. He was reminded of the saying he had emblazoned on a placard. Probably somewhere in a box at Whitehall. "We are all lying in the gutter, only some of us are staring at the stars." It was never properly attributed, and he was most certainly not looking at stars right now. He retched, vomiting into the gutter. "Great," he thought, "now I stink of vomit too."

Standing up proved difficult. Very much so, in fact, taking three attempts, one of which resulted in vomit being all over his trousers. He checked his neuralnet account. Flat broke again, and unable to access his vast funds he knew he'd put somewhere. He just couldn't remember where. The password would likely be written on the back of a cereal box somewhere, one he'd no doubt thrown out years ago. "Typical," he thought, just before a fresh wave of vomit forced him to retch again.

He stumbled along, walking into poles and posts alike, before finding his way to his run down apartment building. Searching for the key to the door, he realised he'd lost it. "Well, bugger," he thought, before passing out in his own doorway.

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Saint Del is considered a holy healer of diseases of children, but also as a protector of cattle.