the world is not enough

Chatting with Padre Baines ar cursai cogaidh is con (about this and that).
I'm waxing poetical in re the apocalypse.
"Could this virus be a sign of the end?" I wonder rhetorically. "What happens if the currencies lose functionality? Could the Jihad and Putin and abortion culture in the West be indicators that evil is out of control and that the Deity is about to step in? Do people give evil power when they turn their back on God?"
The Padre looks a bit jaded.
My light hearted supernatural speculations seem to weary him a tad.
"Who do you think will win the American election in November?" he ventures by way of distracting me from my end of days maunderings.
"Well I don't think Donald Trump will win," sez me.
"Care to make it interesting?" quoth the Padre.

A curious quasi mystical gleam enters my piercing blue eyes.
"I would Padre, I would care to make it interesting," sez me.
Not just my eyes but my ears and indeed general demeanour have pricked up like those of my Jack Russell Pancho when someone says Biscuits.
"I'm an addicted gambler," I explain haltingly.
"What does that mean exactly?" says the priest in a brusque tone.
"It means I like gambling but I'm really bad at it." says me soul baringly.
"So what's it to be, ten Euro, twenty?" asks the holy man.
"Oh come on, give me an amount I'll notice," sez me.
"Fifty Euro?" pronounces he.
"Why do you hate me, what did I do on you, why are you trying to bore me to death?" sez I.
"Well what amount have you in mind," enquires the Padre.
"Make it the even hundred and we have a bet," sez I.
"A hundred it is," says the Padre.
"You're backing Mr Trump and I'm saying he won't win," clarifieth I.
"Amen," prounces the Padre.
"If we made it the thousand it would be more fun as an anecdote," proposes I addictive gamblingly.
"A hundred is enough," says the Padre with an air of finality.
"Okay," says me.
I could almost small that thousand quid.