The New Adventures of Allen Ruskin, Servant of Man

Pip followed Allen Ruskin, the former felonious philanderer, as he strode down the Royal Road, joyfully recounting all the good deeds they had done that day.

"We have joyfully done many good deeds today, Pip, it is good to recount them" said the beatific, beaming barrister. "I especially loved to watch the orphans as they suckled happily on the sweetmeats we brought them."

Pip mumbled something unintelligible, and readjusted the pile of empty sacks on his shoulder, which had once held a charitable cornucopia of childish chattels.

"What did you say, my good man Pip?"

"I said I didn't realize you were serious."

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Ruskin, stooping by the side of the road to set a robin's nest to rights.

"Well, you used to be different."

"What are you getting at?"

"We used to tramp through the snow to the orphanage for other reasons."

"Dammit, you blackguard! What do you mean? Spit it out!"

Pip sighed. "Oh, how I miss hearing you say that."

"If you are not careful, I shall spank you."

"I wish."

Ruskin leaned against a stonewall and looked out over the snowy fields. He breathed in the cold and air, which calmed and warmed his new heart, which felt ready to burst with charity and good works, as if it were an angelic tick filling itself with goodness, knowing it will eventually explode and spray blessed blood from its ruptured rear as its tick head keeps dumbly sucking and sucking and sucking more and more goodness until there is an infection of goodness that infects the entire world with the pleasant pus of pulchritude. "Are you unhappy, Pip?" asked Ruskin.

Pip dropped the sacks and wrapped his arms around his belly. "We've been doing this for weeks. When you said we were to become men of God, I thought you meant something different. I thought we might masturbate a monk."

"Well, I didn't."

"Bugger a bishop?"

"No."

"Poke a prioress?"

"No."

"Noodle a nun?"

"No."

"Ream a right reverend?"

"No."

"Penetrate a pope?"

"Good lord, no! Pip, I am beginning to realize something," said Ruskin.

"What?"

"Perhaps it is time we part ways," answered Ruskin, watching the snow that started to gather around them in piles of ice like a mass grave for the uncollected corpses of winter faeries. "Perhaps I am meant to be alone."

**** What's next for the reformed wrecker? Did the tiger really change his proverbial spots?