28. SONNTAG
The little man sniffled and snuffled. It reminded Sonntag of nothing so much as a pig rooting around for truffles. But it was a man, of sorts. Smiling beatifically, Sonntag held out a box of tissues. They were the scratchy kind, but, heck, they were probably some of the last tissues in existence, so he should probably count himself lucky for the kindness.
“I...I...”
Sonntag nodded knowingly.
“Yes, go on,” he said.
“I am the, eh, president...”
Sonntag snapped his fingers. He had heard enough. Two Hippoan “altar boys” flung Duvalier against the broad, cross-barred entrance to the tabernacle. As the sacred Lazarenes within began to foment and froth and snap at the quivering politico, Sonntag turned to begin his ministry.
“Let us proclaim the mystery of death,” he sa
