[color=MediumPurple][center][h3]Father Coughlin[/h3][/center][/color]

Giving an appreciative nod to Angela, Coughlin shuffled through some meaningless aisles, not wanting to seem so eager to get into the alcohol. Grabbing first a loaf of bread, then grabbing a few packages of assorted candies for the orphanage - a prized commodity among the children - Coughlin walked with a false sense of casual grace as he made his way over to the hard liquors. After a quick decision, he snatched up a bottle of vodka, hopefully non-descript enough to not warrant too much attention.

With his items in tow, he began to walk towards the counter, although he was stopped by the peculiar stares of the Sheriff. It was not every day you saw someone stare at a ceiling.

[color=MediumPurple]"There some sort of critter up there? Raccoons love to terrorize ME at least..."[/color]

At that point, Coughlin noticed the haphazard nature of the aisle and quieted down, a little less sure than he should be joking. Awkwardly, he shifted some of the items in his arms, suddenly aware that his precious vodka could be seen a little too prominently. He silently hoped that the good Sheriff and Angela were too busy to pay much heed.

[@Wick][@The Dow Dragon]