FOLLIS BRITANNIA**
Welcome from Edwin – court jester to the disreputable houses of Europe and scoundrel to whatever remains. May I extend warm greetings from riotous Great Britain – that grandiose bastion of eavesdropping hacks, looters and more CCTV cameras per capita than the world’s most paranoid theocracies. Could it be that rather than ruling the waves, Britannia’s become a snooping, neurotic landlubber who’s having her metaphorical t*ts sucked dry thanks to a recent baby boom? (I’m curious about the rationale to expand the population whilst human activity compels our planet towards ecological catastrophe?)
…Is it patriotism that stirs in me or an attack of biliousness?
Enough of this brooding existentialism! Let me leave you with Act II of Liber Gomorrhianus Lima. So kick off those high heels, pour yourself a glass and enjoy…
*Latin for Book of Gomorrah (see Act I for details). ‘Lima
**Latin meaning (literally) ‘wind-bag’. Follis forms the root of the word ‘fool’ – another word for jester. ‘Fool Britainia’ is a notional word play on ‘Rule Britainia’, arguably the most grossly jingoistic anthem known to man.
**Latin meaning (literally) ‘wind-bag’. Follis forms the root of the word ‘fool’ – another word for jester. ‘Fool Britainia’ is a notional word play on ‘Rule Britainia’, arguably the most grossly jingoistic anthem known to man.
Liber Gomorrhianus Lima
ACT II – MANNA FROM HEAVEN
(The following story is intended for ADULTS ONLY.)
CHARACTERS (in order of appearance).
MOTHER LUCRETIA - Mother Superior of the Divine Sisters of Mammon.
SISTER CRAVEN - Bride of Christ and general lackey.
SIGNORE CORLEONE - Dealer in rare antiquities, holy relics and upmarket tat.
HIS HOLINESS POPE CHIPOLATA II – Head honcho of The Roman Curia.
SISTER DIABOLIS - Bride of Frankenstein and hideous old crone.
SISTER DIABOLIS - Bride of Frankenstein and hideous old crone.
* * *
Deep within the catacombs beneath Vatican City
‘Now did Luigi bring those personal effects for signore Corleone to handle?’ Mother Lucretia enquired haughtily while drumming podgy fingers on a leather topped desk.
Sister Craven glanced up sheepishly from her kneeled position, unable to meet the fearsome gaze of her Mother Superior. ‘Yes ma’am, I have them here,’ she said, offering up a gold collection plate with trembling hands.
Her superior inspected the proffered tray with beady magpie eyes. ‘Is this all there is?’ she snapped. She hauled up her corpulent form and lumbered ponderously towards her minion.
‘Yes ma-’ Sister Craven cowered as the plate was snatched from her clasp and flung onto the desk with a clatter. She felt the customary searing glare directed at her crouched form.
‘Whatever, all ill-gotten-gains help the coffers,’ Mother Lucretia purred. She smirked coquettishly at her subordinate. ‘Now, a little dickie-bird told me you’ve been having impure thoughts Sister Craven…that you’ve been idling in your room and concerning yourself with the visceral rather than spiritual…hmm?’
Sister Craven’s cheeks flushed. ‘Oh no Mother Lucretia…no,’ she bleated, ‘I’d never think about Sean…I mean…Father O’Leering in that way. I just wouldn’t…I-’
‘Father O’Leering is it?’ The Mother Superior cut in with a triumphal sneer. ‘I suspected as much! Is that ye’ dirty little game eh? Jezebel!’ she shrieked. She yanked at a stray lock of her sister-inferior’s hair.
‘Ouch!’ Sister Craven yelped. ‘Oh…thank you Mother Lucretia, thank you.’
‘Filius meretricis…ye’ daughter of a harlot, you!’ Mother Lucretia flared. She wiped away a bead of drool that had begun to irrigate the stubble of her triple-chin.
Sister Craven looked up tearfully. ‘But I didn’t…I’m not-’
‘Not what, hmm? Not virgo intactus? Is that ye’ confession Sister Craven…?’ The Mother Superior bristled. ‘Tell me! I demand to know what you’ve been stuffing into ye’ snatch?’ Without waiting for a reply she took a swipe at the cowering form, producing a startled squeak.
‘I might…perhaps…have touched it accidentally…when I was bathing,’ Sister Craven blubbed piteously.
‘I knew it,’ the Mother Superior hissed, ‘I just knew it…indulging in bestial carnality in this most holy of cities. It’s apostasy! I bet you’ve spent all night dreaming about huge throbbing heathen phalluses didn’t ye’…eh…eh…?’
Again, the quivering form squeaked unintelligibly.
‘Answer me when I interrogate you!’ Mother Lucretia commanded. She raked her fingernails along the subordinate’s flanks, pausing briefly to grapple and pinch at the prone pair of buttocks. ‘Oh, but what a brazen little slattern you are - what are ye’…?’
Sister Craven glanced up woefully, ‘a brazen little slattern ma’am.’
‘To bloody right you are!’ the enraged disciplinarian snapped. ‘Do you know what torments await indolent sluts like you in that infernal abyss, Sister Craven? Ravening demons force you to read Jackie Collins while they stuff pickled chillies up ye’ jacksy and whip up ye’ fanny-batter with an egg whisk! Imagine suffering that for the rest of eternity! But it’s nothing compared with what I’ll do to ye’!’ she screeched.
‘Oh forgive me Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven pleaded through her tears, ‘I didn’t intend to commit a deadly sin. It was such a terrible moment of weakness.’
‘This cannot go unpunished Sister. You’ll have to be severely admonished. And if you imagine you can oink and squeal your way out of this one then you’re sorely mistaken. Be at my chambers at eight-thirty tonight…or there’ll be hell to pay…’
‘Yes m’um,’ Sister Craven sobbed.
Oh for those halcyon days of proselytising with the aid of thumbscrews and red hot pokers… Mother Lucretia mused wistfully. She waddled backwards, perching a gargantuan pair of buttocks on the edge of a creaking desk. She hitched up her habit and took a moment to fondle her inflamed sex then dabbed it with her handkerchief.
Presently, she cast covetous eyes back over Cardinal Rightvinger’s belongings. Not a bad little haul… she speculated …the fact that proceeds end up in the pockets of defence attorneys is fecking scandalous. Oh those poor priests… unwitting victims of the most malicious and outlandish allegations. How dare those fantasists, philanderers and fornicators accuse those under the aegis of God’s sacred institution? Was that not the real act of defilement?
Momentarily her gaze strayed onto the tufts of ginger pubic hair that remained wedged in a set of Rightvinger’s false teeth. It called to mind a flaming-haired alter boy, Marcos, who’d loyally served the Vatican
Shaking herself from her reverie, Mother Lucretia noticed that her charge was still crying. ‘Now, come dear, you mustn’t wail so. You’re simply making a spectacle of yourself. It’s most unsightly.’
‘But I’m unworthy of the solemn vows I took, Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven wept. ‘Oh! my mind is so riddled with uncertainty.’
The Mother Superior extended a chubby palm and stroked the trembling cowled head. ‘Of course you’re worthy my delicate little rosebud. Oh dear, perhaps I was a tad harsh on you? I didn’t mean to seem uncharitable. It’s just that you’re such a jaw-droppingly repulsive old troglodyte, aren’t you dear? It’s so difficult to overlook sometimes. But you really shouldn’t blame yourself. Naturally, you will remain with the Divine Sisters of Mammon. We welcome all devout souls no matter how pig-ugly they might be.’
‘Yes ma’am…thank you ma’am,’ the Sister said, attempting a feeble smile.
‘That’s better.’ The dominatrix handed the Sister her frowsy handkerchief to dry her eyes. ‘But just try not to roll those hurt little piggy eyes at me okay? Otherwise, (and I mean this with the utmost kindness) you’ll be sanctified with another slap. Understood?’
There was a sudden knock at the door.
Immediately, Mother Lucretia straightened her robes and ushered her subordinate to the corner of the room. ‘Please enter,’ she said curtly.
A tall, immaculately suited man strode into the room and parked himself on a chair unbidden. His gaze fixed upon the tray of trinkets speculatively. ‘So ‘dis is what you have for me most holy Mother?’ he said, receiving Mother Lucretia’s hand and planting a slobbering kiss.
‘Indeed signore Corleone,’ Mother Lucretia simpered. ‘…and though our church shuns pecuniary concerns and the filthy luca, earthly blessings sometimes fall like manna from heaven. Especially, I might say, in matters of rare and wondrous objet d’art.’
‘Ah yes, I pay ‘da usual prices. But let me see…’ Signore Corleone grinned, plucking an eye glass from his pocket and examining a small specimen jar. ‘And ‘dis is…?’
‘Oh signore, a most prized artefact!’ the Mother Superior
Signor Corleone shot the Mother Superior a quizzical look. ‘Signora…?’
‘Sir, it is the sacred anal wart. It was appropriated from our most revered Cardinal Rightvinger just before his ascension on that heavenly stair lift,’ the matriarch elaborated. ‘But look, there so are many saintly relics that might also be of interest. We have the sacred undergarments - sanctus pantaloons…and the sanctus pubic saeta.
‘Sanctus what…?’ Signore Corleone enquired.
‘Ah, I’m most happy that you ask!’ The Mother Superior gushed. ‘They are the divine follicles - gathered after Cardinal Rightvinger’s short-crack-and-sides waxing session.’
A telephone began to ring. Mother Lucretia directed her minion to answer it with a withering glare.
‘It’s those researchers from
‘Certainly not!’ Mother Lucretia squawked. ‘Tell them we will never grant permission again. Tell them we refuse!’
Signor Corleone raised an eyebrow. ‘I confess that I’m curious about this ‘skid vestigium’. Would you care to elaborate most eminent mother?’
Sister Lucretia clasped her hands together and took a moment to compose herself. ‘Signore Corleone…it is hard to find words to convey the sacramental nature of this cherished relic. You see, our Saint Rightvinger left a stain on a hotel bed sheet during a visit to Turin
Signor Corleone glanced at his watch. ‘That is all very interesting signora, but I need to discuss a matter of the most delicate nature.’
Mother Lucretia pricked up an ear and pursed her lips. ‘Of course signore.’ She scratched idly between a roll of fat that had acquired a healthy crop of mildew.
‘As you are aware, I am but a simple man,’ Signore Corleone explained, ‘…a humble patron of our church and very much lesser mortal.’
‘Indeed, and we are most grateful for your continued generosity,’ the Mother Superior urged.
‘So my request may at first, seem…unorthodox… Although I assure you it derives from the most steadfast and noble of motives.’ Signore Corleone felt encouraged by his counterpart’s approving nod. ‘I simply propose to take a mould from Saint Rightvinger’s most holy edifice and preserve this great man for posterity.’
‘Edifice?’ Mother Lucretia queried.
‘Yes signora, ‘da sacred manhood,’ her counterpart confided. ‘Then hey presto, admirers might enjoy Rightvinger’s blessings ‘til Kingdong™ come. You must agree to this request, signora, I beg you.’
The Mother Superior needed no encouragement in any profitable venture but feigned an expression of mild disapproval.
‘Perhaps you might think of it,’ Signor Corleone continued, ‘as your saint conducting a different kind of service for parishioners. Allow me to elaborate. Imagine if pilgrims to this most holy of theme parks could take with them a memento of their religious experience…a prized souvenir that might stimulate their faith for years to come…’
‘I’m not sure I understand…’ Mother Lucretia fibbed nonchalantly.
‘Madame I refer, of course, to ‘da Saint Rightvinger marital aid; lovingly crafted in polyurethane in order to preserve the dignity and sensibility of our holy institution. It would also come with a presentation gift box picturing our dear Saint at his most alluring. Furthermore, it could play a selection of his most poignant addresses at St. Peter’s square that would be motion-activated. It might even recite a few post-coital Hail Mary’s to assuage any residual guilt. Surely it would become a prized possession for the faithful and elevate their heavenly rapture to its climax. Let me assure you, Mother Lucretia, it would represent the epitome of good taste.’
The Mother Superior flashed a demure smile. ‘Well, I’m really not sure that would be appropriate given that-’
‘Oh please signora,’ Signore Corleone cut in, ‘will you at least consider my proposal? Naturally, I would make a wildly extravagant donation for your troubles. It is a most equitable arrangement, I think you’ll agree?’
The Mother Superior directed a stern look at her subordinate. ‘Sister Craven, if you’ve quite finished scratching your bearded clam maybe you’ll leave us to conclude business in private hmm?’ she taunted. ‘Go on ye’ repugnant little Caliban…scoot!’
As Sister Craven burst into tears and fled. The sex toy manufacturer raised an eyebrow.
‘She’s such a dear little soul but so terribly capricious,’ the senior nun apologised. ‘Heaven knows how we might help that poor tormented child… Anyway, as you were saying signore…?’
The businessman flashed an easy smile. ‘Signora, let me tell you a little story if you’ll indulge me. You see, a few years ago a holy relic came into my possession. A manhood of the most august pedigree. Indeed, it was the earthly appendage of a Saint. Being as I am a purveyor of only the finest merchandise, I had a cast made which proved an overnight success among those seeking earthly solace. It became obvious to me that there was a yawning hole in the market. So I create ‘da ‘Fred Phelps Fag’s Finger Butt-Bung™’. It also proved an instant hit so I expand operations to America. It was there that I devise the ‘Scott Lively Pink Squat-Tickler™’ and the ‘Terry James Muff-Mecca™’. I cannot tell you, madam, how those good people of the U.S. clamour for ‘da goods. It was then that I set up production in Uganda with ‘da ‘Martin Ssempa Sludge-Funnel, Mask & Scat Blanket™’. And for those who enjoy a sluice-with-a-da-juice, I make the ‘Giles Muhame Gutter-Bib & Slops Tray™’. (Mr Muhame, of course, was prone to spew out the most seminal ejaculations.)
‘I must confess signore; I find this assortment of erm…bedroom adornments a trifle disconcerting,’ Mother Lucretia admitted, ‘…if not a touch base.’
Signore Corleone patted her hand with a clammy palm. ‘Oh no, not ‘base’ signora. I concede that my approach may seem cavalier, but I’m merely providing sermons from a different kind of mount.’
‘I suppose I can see where you’re coming from,’ the Mother Superior conceded.
‘Signora, you are an immensely gracious lady and I heartily thank you for it,’ the businessman crooned, oozing subum and charisma in almost equal proportions. He gazed appreciatively at the near walrus-sized woman slouching before him. After rifling through an attaché case, he presented the object of his desires with an elegantly wrapped box. ‘Perhaps I you might accept a small token of my devotion Madame. It’s a prototype. It is my heartfelt wish for you to be the first...’
‘Why, thank you kind sir,’ Sister Lucretia giggled, unceremoniously grabbing the gift, ‘but what, pray tell, can it be?’
‘You are actually holding ‘da ‘Osama Bin Laden Vulvic-Volcano™’. It spouts ‘Allah be praised’ at the point of climax.’
* * *
‘Mother Lucretia, may I humbly request your counsel? I need to speak with you on a matter of utmost urgency,’ Sister Craven said anxiously.
‘Just remain in my chambers - as ordered. Impudent child! And don’t forget the egg whisk this time or else!’ Mother Lucretia snapped. She resumed her counting of the large bundles of Euro notes piled on her escritoire.
Sister Craven lapsed into melancholy contemplation. The gloomy bowels of the Vatican had served to intensify a suffocating sense of confinement that went beyond mere physicality. She sighed inwardly.
There was a sharp rap at the door. Sister Craven took delivery of a parchment and handed it deferentially to her senior. There was a wax seal bearing the impression of the Pope’s ring. It read:
“It is decried tthat hiss most holey eminence, Cardinal Rat Rimmer be sanctified at too thirty to daye. By order of his hole-in-arse Pope Chipolata II.”
Mother Lucretia scowled at the spidery lettering. ‘That good-for-nothing boss-eyed scrivener!’ She cursed. Jesus, wasn’t it about time they carted the old fart off the fecking glue factory?
* * *
As implied previously, the clandestine rite of beatification was presided over by His Holiness Pope Chipolata II.
Christened ‘Fedele Chipolata’, the would-be pope had been raised in Las Vegas. He was one of six little darlings brought over to the States by impoverished Italian emigrants. A singularly precocious child, he’d been widely disliked by his peers thanks to a preoccupation with snitching over the pettiest infractions of authority. Fedele’s weasely adherence to convention had inevitably drawn him towards the more pious mindset. At the tender age of fifteen he’d experienced his first epiphany and had been ‘born again’. This transformation heralded a meteoric rise in his fortunes. By seventeen, he’d assumed the guise of an evangelical lay-preacher-cum-faith-healer.
After two decades of fabulous affluence (and indeed effluence), Pastor Chipolata opted to return to mother church and mother country. Remarkably, this second ‘Damascus road’ moment coincided with a criminal investigation into his mentoring sessions with a deeply troubled young parishioner (who just happened to be an underage rent boy). In Rome, the Holy See were quick to recognise the talents of their newly acquired turncoat. Consequently, Fedele climbed through the ranks faster a gravity-defying martyr on Ascension Day. On the advent of Pope Rightvinger’s tragic demise, Cardinal Chipolata seemed the obvious successor. His diabolical fusion of sophistry, egomania and sanctimony had already all but bewitched a whole new generation of unquestioning automatons.
Pope Chipolata II eyed Mother Lucretia gravely. ‘I believe we’re ready to begin,’ he informed her haughtily.
‘Certainly, your Grace.’ Mother Lucretia intoned. She proceeded to throw open large set of doors revealing a lavishly adorned baronial hall festooned with flickering candles. The centrepiece was a shrouded coffin on a low marble plinth.
The pair strutted stiffly into the room like a pair of haemorrhoid victims. Mother Lucretia turned. ‘Right, come now youse disgusting little sin-pigs. Get yer fecking arses in ‘ere or, so help me God, I’ll make bacon rashers of the lot of youse. A disorderly herd of nuns clambered and crawled on all fours into the room and congregated about the stage.
‘Right my porcine princesses you know the procedure!’ Lucretia barked. She promptly peeled back the shroud revealing the withered naked body of Saint Rightvinger who’d mysteriously acquired a beatific smile (expression no. 49 of the Mortician’s Guild catalogue).
‘You may begin.’ Chipolata commanded. ‘Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. We are gathered here to slaver the cadaver...’ he droned. When the interminable solioquy was finally over, he regarded Mother Lucretia rather pointedly.
Mother Lucretia unfastened a bullwhip from her belt and sidled over to her minions. With one sharp crack of her whip the jostling, fawning herd began eagerly licking at the suppurating carcass. Amongst the chorus of slurping and sucking noises were gleeful little oinks and snorts.
Abruptly, Mother Lucretia unleashed a stinging hail of lashes upon her cowering underlings. ‘Repent! Atone yourselves damn you, Repent!’ She shrieked, lashing out indiscriminately and mercilessly. ‘Indolent, ungodly swines!’
Pope Chipolata II looked on imperiously from his throne. He grimaced somewhat as he noticed one of the more enthusiastic brides of Christ burying her face in Saint Rightvinger’s leathery groin. ‘Mother Lucretia! Will you get her to stop muzzling his private parts?’
Mother Lucretia’s face fell. ‘With the greatest respect your grace I think she’s rooting for truffles. Ah, will ye’ look at ‘em – happy as swines at a slop trough. They’ll soon have him beatified your grace.’ She looked approvingly as the elderly Sister Diabolis began sucking at the furry papal earlobes. ‘That’s my good little piglet; one should never forget to wash behind the ears.’
After covering almost the entire cadaver with copious sputum, Mother Lucretia instructed her ‘snivelling piglets’ to turn the body over.
‘You don’t find this form of spiritual ablution a little…ah…vulgar?’ Chipolata queried. (Being relatively new to the post, he’d not been privy the beatification ritual.)
‘Ach no, I find it to be the height of sophistication, so I do. It’s a good crack too.’ Mother Lucretia observed, noticing that one of her charges was rimming the recumbent form adoringly. Following another savage round of whipping, she promptly disrobed.
Pope Chipolata II gazed on in disdain as Mother Lucretia emerged from her vestments like a huge, over-brimming blancmange. She wobbled precariously into the fray, clad in only a PVC basque, matching chaps and nine inch stilettos. As she got on all fours, her enormous pendulous cleavage swung apart, drooped and smacked together again as if offering a polite round of applause. ‘Now come here my good little piglets. Mother sow has a special reward for youse. Come and get your teat treat my little suckling porkers.’
As the congregation jostled to take their turn amongst the rolls of fat, Mother Lucretia snorted contentedly and released a long hissing fart.
Pope Chipolata II gazed down imperiously. ‘Mother Superior, I fear you’re charges seem to be labouring under a misapprehension?’
* * *
It was some hours later that Mother Lucretia shambled back to her private quarters. Sister Craven was perched on the chaise lounge and glanced up timidly. ‘Mother, I’ve been thinking about leaving the order. You see I-’
‘Sister, I don’t have the patience for your puerile whining!’ Her superior snapped. ‘Besides, if it wasn’t for your gluttonous self-adoration you wouldn’t even have these misgivings. May I remind you, Sister, you’ve taken solemn vows. To break them is sacrilegious.’
‘But it’s not just the vows Mother. It’s the teachings…it’s the tainting of young minds…of innocents, with notions of guilt, sin and unworthiness…Is that not a betrayal of the human spirit…a desecration of that inner-Eden we call our ‘soul’?’
The Mother Superior glared at her, eyes ablaze. ‘What the hell are you prattling on about ye’ she-devil? ‘Y’know, I think I’ve had just about enough of your obstreperous attitude!’ The Mother Superior fumed and began fingering her whip. ‘Besides, you should never underestimate human folly sister.’
Sister Craven stared tearfully at the floor. ‘But I have irreconcilable doubts Mother Lucretia. Despite your disciplines, there’s no means to substantiate the existence or non-existence of God. Such things are unfathomable and unknowable. Without certainty, all these rules, these rituals…all this guilt, stricture and moral absolutism disintegrates into vain absurdity. It is but a house of cards; hinged on conjecture and propped up with the complicity of sovereigns, knaves and fools. Beyond this toppling wonderland, I aspire for those finer sentiments of human nature and accept its innate diversity. A multiplicity that defines us, our world and the dreams that garland our heavens.’
Mother Lucretia rounded on her. ‘You’ve been guzzling communion wine, haven’t ye’?’ She screamed as she advanced towards her prey. ‘…no-good drunken trollop of a halfwit troll. How dare you defy me! I’ll make pork cutlets of ye’!’
‘Leave me alone, you monster!’ Sister Craven shrieked.
Whether it was her bloated, overfed body, her unduly agitated state of simply an act of God was indeterminate. Whatever, without warning, Sonia Lucretia O’Brien’s carotid artery imploded sending her sprawling to the floor in agony. Sister Craven could only gaze on in horror as her superior plunged into a dark and irredeemable oblivion.
© Edwin Black 2011
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