[Day Four - Early Evening] A Hard Day's Work

[Imogen Baker]

"Hours of it? Wow. It's probably amusing at a glance but I don't think it's worth putting up with hours of it. I really hope the pizza was worthwhile," she said with a shake of her head. "It has nothing to do with pasta, actually. More with it being copied and pasted throughout the internet to make it seem more credible. Some people actually believe some of the stuff on there. At the very least, it gets noticed and becomes a modern urban legend made viral."

"Awesome? Sure. I think cat videos have gotten me through a day more than a lot of things in life, to be honest," she said on a very non-sarcastic note. "It's enough for me to consider owning a cat...and not at the same time. I wouldn't rely on the internet too much for opinions. Everyone pretty much knows the comments section is perhaps the modern equivalent of where the Roman plebians gather and yell at each other. It's where you lose faith on the Internet and humanity. Other than my work, I stay out of social media for part of that reason."

[Jean Wellspeak]

"It's not up to me to prove that God wasn't involved. It's up to you to prove that he was. It's called the null hypothesis. In other words, one cannot prove a negative statement. For instance, can you prove to me that there is not an invisible kitten on my head right now silently singing La Marseillaise? Of course not. I would have to prove to you that there is - and since I can't do that, it is assumed that there is no invisible kitten. Hopefully you can see the parallels to proving God's involvement in anything."

Tiffani closed her eyes, absently pulling one of her spiral locks until it straightens - then she would let it go, allowing it to bounce back into a curl. "I used to go to London every other weekend," she finally said after Jean lambasted cities. "What is sin and depravity in your own eyes, Jean? Keep in mind that this is their time, not yours. If people today choose not to go to church, then that is their right. One of the big problems I've had with Christianity since the beginning was its preoccupation with sex. Oh, it's okay for the Catholics to commit genocide against the Cathars, but having sex with the wrong person and you burn in hell forever. Genocide? Acceptable. Fornication? You burn. It's the same way today. I found it - reprehensible that Christians blamed the Black Death on low necklines and lascivious dancing - because that's what makes God angry. However, according to them, God was perfectly fine with having a society that tortured, imprisoned, and murdered innocent people accused of being a witch with absolutely no proof. So again we have a religion whose God only cares about showing too much cleavage but couldn't care less about torture and murder. So I ask again - what to you is sin and depravity? Because in my eyes, your religion has lost the plot. And it lost it a very long time ago. "

She holds that stare just long enough to let her point sink in, then she looks downward, a conciliatory expression on her face. "Anyway, Jean ... I'm really sorry about what happened to you." Her voice is much softer now; Jean can hear profound sadness in her words. "Nothing I say can make it better - or make the pain go away." She reached out then and put a reassuring hand on Jean's arm just above his wrist. "But if I could do that - I would." She gave his arm a few gentle pats, then she withdrew her hand before Jean got the wrong idea - she knew that simple touch could be misinterpreted in a dozen different ways.

"I don't need to prove, I know." Jean replied, confident. "How else would have everything worked out? Are you so proud that you think you could manage without the divine?" He was waving his hands in desperation, trying to grasp just how heretical she was. "And I have no idea what your invisible puss has to do with this." Never having been the sharpest knife of the drawer, missed the the point entirely. "God is God, he is everywhere." he added, his resolve unshaken. "There cannot be a world without God? He made the whole thing, trees, corn, us all."

"If that is their right, then it is their right to chose an eternal damnation." he shook his head. "Sin is everywhere, plastered on the wall, in the songs. People idolize... violence and uh... debauchery. Just have a look at the image box. You have all these shows with men and women in scant clothing. Sometimes kissing or worse! And everyone can see that. Screbleu." He swore. "This time is not my time, that is sure. This time is mired in sin." he huffed. "You live as you live, hell waits for you." Jean shrugged, having given up. "Though, that is up to God Almighty and not me. Also, Tiffani. You speak way too much. Maybe, maybe for once, you should listen." he looked at her, sounding all serious. "I understand half of what you say. I have no idea who Cat-Hairs are. You act as if today people do not get imprisoned or worse without proof. There was news the other day that a sheriff had shot a man just because he was a moor. Sounds really fair, doesn't it. I mean, we did kill Englishmen for them being Englishmen, but we were at war. There is no war in this country." he glanced around. "I hope. Yet the sheriffs kill people all the time."

"I survived, I got out. I don't know how, but I did." he shook his head, pulling his hand away from her. "Now it's more painful to be here. Never see my family or friends again." Jean brightened, smiling. "But with God on my side, I shall surely manage." There was no better refuge from depression than a simple mind. "I will redeem myself, one way or another." The former knight was brimming with determination, his tone full of conviction. "I may have sinned, gone to hell and returned. But I will use this chance to spread His word so He might take mercy on me when I am next judged."

"is this Crep-Pasta you are talking about something edible?" Jean asked both Imogen and Tiffani, sounding a little bit curious. He had missed most of what had been said, the words alien to him. The Imogen had mentioned pizza, the delicious papal state bread with cheese and fruits on top. He had had some back in Montreal.

[Tiffani Noelle]

Tiffani simply drops her head into her arms on the table, her mass of curls covering her face and even part of the table. She stays that way for awhile, frustrated, exasperated, flabbergasted, gobsmacked, and at her wit's end. What more could she do ... or say? She tried, really tried to show some empathy for this man - to make him see that there's more to life than religion. But when he pulled his hand away as he did, well ... she knew the day would come when God and his faith wouldn't be enough for him. She even felt pity for Jean - Tiffani just couldn't imagine having her brain so clouded with ancient myths, superstition, and these ridiculous ideas concerning human intimacy. Even most Christians often say that the main reason they go to church is because of the fellowship. What's truly heart-breaking in Tiffani's mind is that the Lost were already so very much alone ... and Jean would end up being the loneliest of them all.

Eventually she picked her head back up and gave a little shake of her head to get the hair out of her face - except one stubborn curl that she removed with a puff of her breath. Now that she wasn't in the bar, she reached into the large pack sitting on the bench next to her and fished out the same cigarette she had lit in the bar and lights it. This is the second time in three days that Jean had driven her to smoke. The last time she smoked was when John Tillman took Jennifer Willstead to the prom instead of her.

"So which is it, then?" Tiffani said in a tired-sounding tone. "Do I sit here and listen? Or do I answer your questions - like the one you just asked about creepypasta? You can't have it both ways."

She inhales deeply, coughs slightly, and blows out a steady stream of smoke. "In any event, I would much rather live with the horrors of people kissing and the occasional shooting than the horrors of your time. After all, you weren't at war when you burned thousands of innocent women at the stake for witchcraft - or murdered people like Giordano Bruno for simply daring to suggest that the stars were other worlds like our own. A time when the vast majority of people lived in abject poverty while the royalty lived in opulant luxury. A time when a mosquito bite could easily mean death and plagues routinely ravaged entire civilizations because there was no sewage - meaning human shit often got into the water supply. No, you can keep your supposed "moral" era when half the population lived just one bad winter away from starvation, no one knew how to read, and warfare was a way of life. The trouble with you, Jean, is that you have absolutely no idea how good you have it right now."

Then Tiffani fell silent, puffing away on her cigarette. After a minute or two, she pulled out a wire-bound notebook and a pen. She tapped the pen on the table a few times, then began writing. She said nothing more. TIme goes by. Tick tock. Tick tock. She jotted down a few lines in her notebook, looked up at Jean expectantly, then returned her attention back to her notebook. She repeated this half a dozen times before finally looking back at Jean.

"Well? I'm listening. I've been listening for awhile now. What am I supposed to be listening to? Oh wait, maybe this ..." From her pack, she pulled out a genuine first issue Sony Walkman complete with an actual cassette which she checked before shoving it back into the tape door and closing it. She smiled sweetly at Jean as she dropped the earphones over her ears.

"We're never going to agree on religious issues, Jean - and we're light years away from agreeing upon the definition of a moral compass. I cannot abide a culture where a low neckline constitutes a grievous sin while endless slaughter, bloodshed, genocide, and murder are accepted as normal - which is a far cry from a sheriff shooting a moor. I mean, how can you even make that comparison after the Vatican launched how many Crusades against the moors, slaughtering them by the hundreds of thousands? The hypocrisy is so thick even your sword can't cut through it now."

"But the real tragedy is that I can't connect with you - at all - in any way whatsoever. Because you won't let me. You don't care about people at all. Just your God."

She slid the earphones down around her neck, tapped her pen on the table again, and continued writing. "You can ask Imogen about creepypasta. I'm just going to sit here and .... listen. Just don't expect me to answer any more of your questions. I can't do both at the same time."

[Imogen Baker]

She did watch Tiffani drink earlier and then now smoke, wondering how many things she was doing and getting away in public at her apparent age.

"Eh, what's that?" She said momentarily after a long beat after Tiffani's words, remembering to acknowledge Jean. Admittedly she had started to tune out during the debate of God. It was something that was something of a necessity when it came to being American, considering the large amount of evangelicalism that was present in the country. You had to either be awed and fall in line or consider it white noise at some point. "No, nothing edible. Just stories that people tell and share with each other. They are usually horror stories and very silly ones at that, sometimes told by a scene kid with too much time on their hands. They sometimes stray to silly government conspiracies or that an idea that reality isn't as it seems."

Now that she thought about it, some of those tales of sudden abductions almost seemed like they were recounted by the Lost, only made more comprehensible for mortals.

[Tiffani Noelle]

"Have you ever noticed that that the stories are almost always told by a disenfranchised 20-something character who was totally broke, didn't or barely graduated high school and who had a dead-end minimum wage job, a knackered flat in a bad neighborhood, and parents that kicked him out of the house? In most cases, listening to them describe their pathetic lives was more horrifying than the monster." She giggles, though she does give a sureptitious glance at Jean once or twice.

Determined not to talk about religion anymore, Tiffani continues her line of thought to Imogen. "Hey, maybe it's called 'creepypasta' because most of the characters are so broke that they have to eat Ramen noodles every night. Better yet, maybe we're all living our own creepypasta right now and someday somone will read our story on a YouTube video." She smirked slightly at that thought and finished the last of her beer. She thought about finding another bottle somewhere since - fake IDs were a wonderful thing.

[Imogen Baker]

Imogen couldn't help but consider Tiffani's words for a moment and just looked on afterwards. It didn't describe her entirely and only half the traits were true but she wondered if she would end up as a character in these stories. Then again, she was also the monster. She chuckled afterwards, "Well, I think you have to hit an edginess quota with your stories or they don't see publication. I'm pretty sure that it's policy, in fact. I'm pretty sure we could give some writers a run for their money if deep web fame is something you actually want."