Jesus portholes THE MORNING SHIFT & prepares for battle

[Jesus, head lowered, puffs on the Java. The cigar is nearly spent. Looks to be a fire hazard, that oily-smoke ash burning amidst all that every-which-way facial hair. Jesus combs his fingers through his hair and lifts his head. He tosses the HAMR to the desktop. From deep inside his filthy robe he pulls out the last cap] Believe it, Mr. Rorschalk. This cap has been examined and its been weighed and hands have been wrung and decisions have been made. Amazing, I know. See, my secret is being here but being not here, if you can follow that. The act of being elsewhere. Gets things done, wouldn't you say? Things like examinations, eh? Though little time has passed here, plenty of tiring, eye-squinting work has been accomplished over and under and inside the Otherhere.

[He stomps over to the Porthole, swings it open. Wind pushes through the mess of hair covering his head]

Sorry to say that Royal Shirée's The Morning Shift has met an ill fate.

[He tosses the cap out into the deluge]

It's been Portholed, folks.

[Jesus stands there. He plants his fists on his waist, looks around, puffing on the last of the Java, sweet oily smoke rising and wrapping around his head]

Pretty much does it for me this quarter. Except for the wee bit of business concerning...

[He drops into a boxing stance, bobbing side to side, balanced on the toes of the combat boots, fists raised to block any wayward jabs, the black glint of the sunglasses trained on Rorschalk]

...the laying on of hands.