The Óglaigh Abstentionists convene Wednesdays and Fridays in the basement of the Church of the Blessed Sinner. Not sure what to do with the hymnal he slid it back in the hidey-hole and crossed himself three times. Unaccustomed as he was to paying attention to braggarts he sat quietly in the pews tallying numbers in his head. A stitch in time is worth nine. All square roots lead to one. Logroño de Pisón and Armando Ejércitos, mathematicians held in the highest regard by árbitros and sabios, say that all square roots lead back unto themselves; and any and all other posits are nothing more than schoolboy nonsense. ‘nonsense!’ shouted the Witness, ‘all square roots lead unto God’. ‘rabble-rouser’ hissed the man in the hat. ‘always trying to make a fish out of a loaf of bread’. He sat quietly with his hands folded on his lap, the oniony smell of incense assailing his thoughts. As the priest besieged the congregants with sin, turning the Ten Commandments into a sideshow heist, he watched as the rector’s assistant made faces at a young boy sitting at the front, his curly mane drooping in front of his eyes. ‘the things that go through peoples’ heads’ thought the man in the hat to himself, ‘all square roots lead unto God… shameful, scandalous… a vile corruption’. Drumming his fingers against the pew in front of him he thought of ways to knock the Witness off his Christian horse. ‘damn nonsense I say!’ He stared at the Witness like a dog on a bone, the tendons in his jaw grinding. ‘look at him… a man on the abyss of ignorance yet he holds on still. Blessed be the sinner for he know’th his sin’. Taking the balled up paper out of his jacket pocket he began to read, his lips moving ever so slightly as if a gale were blowing from above.