In Gout we trust...

Deacon pushes on the heavy oak doors of the church, on the back swing of the first try the door nearly knocks him off his feet, he sinks his healthy ankle in as best he can, secures a firm shoulder on the door and muscles past it's weight. His foot is throbbing now beyond bare, he reaches into his pocket and produces a small bottle of Ibuprofen, his best friend as of late. He shakes the bottle, an old habit, the few remaining pills clamoring around in the container sound eerily similar to that of a child's rattle, perhaps that's why we do it, he ponders, the sound... it's the same and it's just as comforting, an adult and his rattle... he tries to laugh but a an electric shock of pain from his toe to his brain stifles that notion. He pours about five or six pills into his palm and gimps over to the baptismal font. He thinks "If the pills don't kill me, the holy water should". He places the pills in his mouth and cups his hand and scoops out some the Holy water to wash them down. He chokes a bit, the water is what you can imagine, warm, stagnant, the stench of an old lady's palm lingers on his lips. Can't complain now, he must find a place to sit down. First row, right side pew, it's as good as anything else. With the help of Angels, he makes it to the pew, throws his body on the bench, swings himself in such a manner that he is on his back with his foot elevated on a bunch of bibles. "Give me two hours God, and I'll be gone before you know it." Deacon's eyes begin to close, the throbbing is slowly becoming manageable, his heart is slowing, and he begins to drift off to sleep. The last questions of the night fill his brain, "why must it be like this?" "Where did I go wrong?" "This can't be it... is it?" A moment of peace washes over him and he nods off... only to be awoken moments later by a priest sitting next to him. The priest asks, "why are you here my son?" Deacon sighs, looks at his foot... responds
"Gout".