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responsibility for their religion?"
     
                  "Maybe someday. But if we were to refuse employment based on being a member of a bigoted religion, we'd hardly have anyone working here. In this college. In this country."
     
                  "So you think Eric picked on Muslims in particular?"
     
                  "It was conservatism masquerading as liberalism. A wolf in shee p’ s clothing."
     
                  "Do you think in 100 years time there will be two people sitting where we are now discussing the same issue? I t’ s just that then they'll be condemning this world we live in. This world of the past. But they'll be saying we should have discriminated against Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, whatever. The fact that they belonged to religions of prejudice should have been held against them. Just like you said to me now. To hell with the world you grew up with. Take responsibility for your own opinions. Ignorance isn't an excuse for bigotry. And these religions are clearly wrong. As wrong as the slave-owners of the past."
     
                  Dom didn't miss a beat, I suspect he'd had this conversation a number of times before: "No. There's a difference between having an opinion and being a member of a religion. Most slave-owners and slaves were members of the same church, in that they were Christian. Religion transcends these things. The religions can sometimes be wrong. But noone is a member of these religions because of their stand on gays. They're members to avoid going to hell."
     
                  "Yes indeed, and they seem determined that it be one big San Francisco down there." The line worked again. Dom laughed heartily. The tension was broken. But the reality of what I'd just said hit me square in the face. Between the murderers and drug pushers and other slime, the gays would still be in the majority down there. In hell. What made us different to everyone else was that the others could repent. Over eternity surely they'll realise their actions were wrong. But we could never accept what we were doing was wrong. Because it wasn't.
     
                  On parting Dom, I decided not to forget this conversation. I'd eventually get a chance to relate it to my long distant cousin James Buchanan when we met up on the other side. Down there.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    24. That night I was to meet Jake in the Station. There we'd get a little high and a little drunk. We'd then head into Coxx, the gay bar in the next town over. It was a small scene in these parts. After two months I was already acquainted with the regulars and most of the occasional frequenters. The bar staff called me Irish, so did the clientele. In fact everyone at that stage had taken to calling me Irish.
     
                  "Irish," Jake declared, hugging me as I arrived. He must have been a little high already. "How did that go? Are you descended from one of the most evil of the white devils?"
     
                  "I'm a regular genetic contradiction," I chimed. "I have the genes of the bigoted Irish and the gays all battling inside me looking for attention."
     
                  "Well hopefully you can spare some of your attention for me." He said this earnestly, wide eyed. So yes, he was definitely high. "We're about to go. Zach's driving."
     
                  So the three of us headed off to Coxx. Zach didn't drink. Though, unlike with Jake, it was almost impossible to tell when he was or wasn't high. It seemed the only way to know was if he agreed to drive. At least I hoped that was the case. With the two of us sitting in the backseat I filled Jake in on my conversation with Dom.
     
                  Jake was not impressed. "Was that the extent of his advice? Ignore bigots? Don't let them talk? I t’ s very difficult to ignore someone who's kicking your skull in because he saw you checking him