The sleek black Mercedes came to a screeching halt at the edge of a cliff.
A gruff, faceless voice cried, "Get out!". I felt the cold steel muzzle of a revolver pressed against my temple and did exactly what he instructed.
In the darkness below, I heard the sound of waves gnashing against the rocks and sensed my impending doom.
Then, without warning, a harsh blow struck the back of my head and my brain exploded like thousands of small kaleidoscopes breaking into sharp fragments of coloured glass.
In my confusion, the horrific image of an evil spirit appeared, pointing an accusing finger, then came the beatific vision of a saint, shining in all his glory.
But as it grew nearer, I finally saw it ...it was the icon ...it was that damned icon!