Postmodernist came by, heard Mr. K moan, and gave him another kicking.
Evangelical came by and left Mr. K an autographed copy of a Red-Letter Bible.
Roman Catholic came by and left Mr. K a get-well card with a picture of Our Lady of Lourdes on it.
Anglican came by and left Mr. K a glass of sherry.
Progressive came by and left Mr. K a skinny latte.
Jehovah’s Witness came by – correction: two Jehovah’s Witnesses came by – talked to the unconscious Mr. K about End-Time signs for twenty minutes, and left a tract.
Orthodox came by and made the sign of the cross.
Baptist came by and didn’t make the sign of the cross.
Presbyterian came by and looked cross.
Charismatic came by and garrulously shouted at Mr. K.
Quaker came by and kept contemplatively shtum before Mr. K.
Methodist came by and sang a hymn to Mr. K. Then three more.
Prosperity Gospel came by and stole Mr. K’s wallet.
Humanist came by and left some flowers.
New Atheist came by and drank the sherry. Then came back for the flowers.
Finally, a man with ostentatiously coiffured hair the colour of the orange juice he was drinking came by in his chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce Phantom. The man told his chauffeur to slow down, rolled down his window, thought “Loser!”, then told the chauffeur to step on it. Startled into consciousness by the acrid smell of the man’s cologne, Mr. K survived. Indeed, he prospered. In his prayers he always thanked God for that Good Samaritan who stopped with (what he thought were) the smelling salts, and he told anyone who would listen, “He’s just the kind of caring man we need for President.”
And so it came to pass. Of course, Mr. K was never able to put a face, let alone a name, to the bearer of the aroma of ammonia he never forgot. And sad, sad, sad to say, in October 2016 he lost his shirt at a casino in New Jersey and cursed the day he was born.