That O'Hare woman invaded my dreams last night wearing that same awful print dress she seemed to be wearing in every interview I ever saw her in. She always appeared to me like the mother of one of my grade school chums only Mrs. V wasn't nearly so venomous.
Contempt flowed off her in waves. Even in death she appeared angry. What could bother the dead? I considered leaving her alone but was struck with my own contranarian urges.
"So is there a God?" I asked.
"Don't you know?" she sneered.
I feigned indifference and circled around her considerable bulk.