Sunday 16 June 2013

Temptations of the Flush (Act VI)

Act VI – Underworld

* * *

Characters:

CARDINAL DOUGAL (DOUG) MACAVITY - Archbishop of Edinburgh
POPE RIGHTVINGER - Pope Emeritus.
BENITO - domestic servant and acolyte.
LAZZARO - domestic servant and acolyte.

Rightvinger descends from his apartments using a concealed elevator for a rendezvous with his acolytes...

‘Uh…? What…what’s the meaning of this? Hey…unhand me!’ Cardinal Doug Macavity remonstrated lamely.

‘Bind him.’ Rightvinger uttered icily.

Lazzaro and Benito manhandled the groggy Archbishop of Edinburgh onto a cross-shaped pedestal and shackled him.

‘What’s all this…? This…this is an outrage,’ Macavity moaned.

His protests reverberated around vaulted archways, fading to the babble of a subterranean river. Along ancient colonnades braziers flickered. In the shimmering interplay of shadow, robed sentinels looked on.

Rightvinger wheeled over to the slab. ‘You were slipped a soporific draft cardinal. You succumbed before you were able to perform fellatio on one of my disciples.’

‘What is this charade?’ the archbishop demanded as he regained his faculties.

‘We are the Order of Saint Michael,’ Rightvinger murmured. ‘What you might call a clandestine cabal. An ancient order that I reinstated.’

‘To what end?’ the trussed cardinal pressed.

‘To rid za church of filth like you!’ the Emeritus snarled, eyes aflame. He composed himself. ‘We’ve already dispatched a number of your vile clique. But your crimes were sufficiently heinous to warrant my personal attention.’

The archbishop tugged against his moorings. ‘I…I don’t know what you’re talking about…release me this this instant. This is a monstrous!’

‘You speak of monstrous, hmm?’ the Emeritus mused evenly. ‘After you bring ignominy upon za house of God? It is rather you and your kind who are monstrous. I know much about you cardinal. It seems you have something of za roving eye…that you’ve run amok in a frock.’

Perceiving threat, Macavity became indignant. ‘So what proof do you have, aye? This is abduction!’

‘Regrettably, we live in an age where little is unseen,’ Rightvinger remarked. ‘So indulge me if you will. Tell me, do the words ‘Porno Vaticana’ mean anything to you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about…this is ludicrous,’ the archbishop blustered.

‘Then I will remind you cardinal. Cast your mind back to your adult movie debut as ‘Cardinal O’Slurper’. Appearing in full ceremonial regalia, your grand opening co-stars a host of junior clergy who all get stuck in with their bit parts.’ Rightvinger held up a DVD box and began reading: ‘an audacious tour de force of erotica featuring an explosive climax at the ‘Sluteran Palace’. Winner of ‘best screenplay’ at the Las Vegas Porn Awards, 2007.’

‘It’s wasn’t me,’ Macavity blathered, eyeing the offending DVD rather sheepishly.

‘Au contraire, cardinal,’ Rightvinger hissed, ‘it’s clearly you. I’d recognise that beaky schnozzle anywhere! Besides, one of my disciples retrieved it from Bertilloni’s safe prior to his untimely auto de fe. You’re named on the dossier it was contained in. In fact it appears you’re one of many budding pornographers within my church.’

Macavity continued to tug against his restraints. ‘I was…erm…erm…maintaining ‘gay-lick’ traditions…?’ he blurted in sheer desperation.

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger spat, ‘which explains why you’re being blackmailed by a retinue of rent boys. Fritz von Vinkel alerted me to your payoffs from the IOR stretching back years. I note one of the little bastards is even threatening to auction footage of your intimacies on eBay! Have you any idea what all this could do to za Curia’s reputation…its moral authority?’

‘Okay, so I might have fallen beneath standards expected of me,’ the Archbishop conceded. ‘But why pick on me…aye? I mean, I’m hardy the only one. I’ve heard far worse on the ecclesiastical grapevine.’

‘Then you will consider me a simple, humble worker in the vineyard of za Lord. Sometimes, when a vine is diseased, one must snip it in order that the rot doesn’t spread.’ Rightvinger stated menacingly.

Macavity looked up apprehensively as Rightvinger began to circle him.

‘One might have excused an occasional furtive dalliance, Macavity. I mean, even I’ve been known to smear herring paste on my genitalia for Magdalene’s rough feline tongue. But you…? Your rapacious appetite and barefaced cheek is something one can barely countenance. You’ve descended to a level of debauchery that would make a whore blush! It has been my displeasure to witness hours of material showing how you’ve gobbled and slurped your way from John O’Groats to the Horn of Africa. But worse; you tried to steal my limelight. You became embroiled in scandal during my abdication. That, my dear cardinal, rather sticks in za craw…’ the Emeritus seethed. ‘I fear I take your actions rather personally.’

‘So what are you and your…your…henchmen planning aye? Excommunication? Is that it?’ Macavity questioned.

Rightvinger paused to eyeball his captive. ‘We will determine your fate in good time. But do not imagine you’ll be absolved simply by reciting a few hail Hitlers. Oh-ho no. Let me assure you, cardinal, your winsome charms will not work on me.’

‘But what of mercy?’ Macavity implored.

‘Mercy is for suckers like you,’ the Emeritus growled. ‘And indeed, according to my spies you are a prodigious sucker of za male organ. But what about za rotten old German pinkel, ah? The one with Bavarian Blue on za end…?’ he taunted, grasping at his crotch. ‘No, you prefer to savour them tender and juicy.’

‘Okay so I’ve been a touch lax…but I can reform,’ the archbishop simpered. ‘I mean, the laity of my diocese have a real soft spot for me.’

‘And you for them it seems,’ the Emeritus retorted furiously, ‘…soft and moist! I mean, is it not high time your buttocks were reunited after these long years apart?’

‘I…I…but…um...’ the archbishop blathered.

‘I assure you we will no longer tolerate your ‘cock-a-hoop’ approach.’ Rightvinger turned and addressed his acolytes: ‘Benito, bring za telephone if you will be so kind. Lazzaro, some music I think. The Nutcracker Suite would seem befitting…but I think Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen is more stirring.’

‘Yes your Holiness,’ they intoned in unison before slinking back into shadow. Shortly Wagner’s dark, bombastic chords boomed, resonating with Teutonic grandeur. Benito placed a vintage telephone on a nearby pedestal.

Macavity could but look on helplessly as Rightvinger glided over to it.

‘Ring-ring…ring-ring,’ the Emeritus murmered before lifting the receiver. ‘Hello?’ He paused, listening intently. ‘Yes mein führer…another one caught with his vestments down…that’s right. Oh?...that would seem a little harsh?....Hmm, but how about za ‘King Edward II special’ instead?…y’know…za red hot poker up za anus…no…?’

Realising the precariousness of his situation, Macavity heaved his plump body to and fro, sweating as fear inexorably crept upon him. To his horror, he noticed the telephone’s severed cable hanging limply. His mind spun into free fall. He’s insane?

Rightvinger drummed his fingers and stared pensively into the distance. ‘Yes…yes I see… emasculation ja? Well if it is your bidding. Yes…yes of course. I am after all your humble inquisitor…Okay, see you. Yes, hugs back. No…I can’t say that…we have company. Oh alright then…kiss-kiss my darling.’

The archbishop gazed up fearfully at Rightvinger who turned back to him.

‘That was God on za ‘phone,’ he mentioned casually. ‘I’m afraid he’s a shade upset with you.’

‘How can you conceivably justify all this?’ Macavity jabbered hysterically, ‘Are you not a religious man…a man of God?’

‘Yes, cardinal, I’m indeed a man of God. However, inclining towards the God of the Old Testament… y’know, the thunderbolt-wielding tyrant of wrath and retribution. In fact I rarely take my cue from that timid avatar of za gospels. I mean he’d hardly sanction an inquisition, now would he? No, he’d more likely fall victim to one.’

‘But what of our creed…and all things holy?’

Our religion, like most, is an agency of power rather than spirituality. We’re here to enforce laws rather than elevate the human soul. Were you not aware of this?’

‘Apostasy!’ the Archbishop shrieked, ‘…you’ll never get away with this!’

Contrapasso’ actually. It’s a kind of infernal poetic justice for those who revel in the deadly sins. Clearly, yours were pride, greed and lust. So your just deserts must reflect this. Oh and I’m afraid we’ll also have to have your balls on a silver platter.’

Rightvinger nodded to his dark monks who then edged inwards around a colossal angelic statue to form a close circle. They knelt, drew their swords and began to chant:

‘Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle; be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray: and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls…Amen.’

The figures arose, sheathed their weapons and turned to their leader.

Rightvinger addressed his prisoner. ‘Any last requests old boy?’

Macavity attempted to recover his reeling senses and decided to stall for time. ‘So how are you funding this operation, aye? If you’re opposed to corruption how can you justify dipping your paws into the coffers?’

Rightvinger grinned. ‘A good question. Observe.’ He stabbed at the Kriegvagon’s control panel. Flaps in the arms whirred open and a pair of cannons emerged. ‘I used my artillery to breach the wall to a hidden chamber. I found za Croatian Nazi gold that has been holed up here for seven decades. So believe me, funding really isn’t an obstacle.’

‘Obstacle to what?’ Macavity piped up.

‘To the implementation of my solution.’ Rightvinger responded. ‘A final solution. Indeed, this is why one relinquished office. But for za last phase I need Curia approval.’

‘You’re a bloody fruitcake!’ Macavity accused, ‘…nuttier than a squirrel turd!’

‘I assure you cardinal, I know exactly what I am doing and in full possession of my faculties,’ the Emeritus bristled. ‘But, like so many, you lack the vision to discern my brilliance. I am a man of towering wit and erudition.’

‘Megalomania don’t you mean…and despotism! You’re pure evil!’ Macavity retorted.

‘Those who wield power are often accused thus,’ the Emeritus mused. ‘However I refute your assertion that I’m ‘pure evil’…more a necessary evil I think. After all, it is not sweetness and light that governs the hearts of men, cardinal, it is fear.’

The archbishop shivered as Rightvinger resumed circling him.

‘Y’know, there’s more to me than my mildly draconian approach to shepherding souls,’ the Emeritus continued. ‘But the world never truly appreciated my comic genius. Like my outrageous philosophical joke claiming logos (reason) as a Christian ethos and proposing our church gave birth to the Enlightenment*. Of course this is a preposterous notion. Our dogmatic, a priori ontological system is the very antithesis of reason. I mean, look what we did to poor Galileo when he presented us with reason; he was charged with a heresy and put under house arrest. As for Sir Isaac Newton, trailblazer of the renaissance, he was a nontrinitarian. Had he declared his beliefs at the time he’d have been imprisoned for blasphemy. Alas, the faithful never appreciated the rich irony of my metaphysical witticisms,’ the Emeritus huffed with a shrug. ‘But enough of this procrastination…’

Rightvinger called Lazzaro to his side before returning a cold gaze to his prisoner. ‘You probably don’t remember Lazzaro. Although you should. You were one of za cardinals who violated him when he was a juvenile. I fear the unquenchable rage that you’ve ignited in him knows no bounds. I doubt whether even slaying you will quench it.’

‘Nooooo!’ Macavity yowled, convulsing violently.

Lazzaro promptly stifled his agonised screams with gimp mask. He unfurled a length of rubber tubing and connected the mask to the Kriegvagon’s silage tank.

Rightvinger grinned malevolently as he depressed a button. ‘Are you acquainted with the term ‘eat shit and die’ cardinal...?’ He inquired over the chug of the motor. ‘Now eat up, there’s a good fellow.’

The gurgling squeals became occluded by distant roars of adulation from above.

© Edwin Black 2013
 

* Reference to Cardinal Ratzinger, ‘Europe’s Crisis of Culture’, 2005: ‘…the Enlightenment is of Christian origin...It was and is the merit of the Enlightenment to have again proposed these original values of Christianity and of having given back to reason its own voice…’

Saturday 15 June 2013

Temptations of the Flush (Act V)

Act V - Guest House

* * *

Characters:

LUIGI - gravedigger.
STAVROS - mortician
POPE RIGHTVINGER - outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO - incoming pope.
MARIA - housemaid.

* * *

‘What’ll it be sir?’ the bar steward said smiling genially. ‘Oh and err…free drinks at the bar - compliments of the management.’

‘Yeah? Aww…well how about a surgical spirit on the rocks for starters - with a cheeky dash of embalming fluid, eh?’

‘Certainly sir. An excellent choice. And if you’ll pardon my boldness sir, it’s not often we’re graced by such esteemed company.’

‘Who me? Well…what can I say? I mean, one tries and confine one’s patronage to the more classy boutiques, y’know?’

‘I certainly do know sir,’ the bartender grinned. ‘May I say your reputation as the foremost curator of cadavers precedes you.’

‘Why thank you squire. Yeah…s’pose I do exude that certain ‘cachet’ innit?’

‘Indeed you do sir. Same again?’

‘Yeah, don’t mind if I do-oooh. Hang on…bit queasy. You got a–’

‘Spittoon? Naturally sir, allow me,’ the barman said, presenting a kidney dish.

‘Thank you-oooeeugh!’ The torrent that bleched from Luigi’s mouth flushed away the beatific vision revealing an ugly melee of swimming figures and abdominal cramp. ‘Ah Bollocks!’ he spluttered between regurgitations.

‘Hold his head,’ an ethereal female voice instructed.

Words detached from meaning and became a distant drone. He surrendered to darkness.

From the gloom a familiar face emerged. ‘Welcome back from the dead me’ old chum,’ Stavros said chirpily. ‘Well, technically you were only dead four minutes. I was actually working on your eulogy…’

Luigi heard the sound of crumpling paper. ‘Where…?’

‘You’re sampling the delights of Rome Memorial Hospital. Saved from going down the pan by Maria, the cleaning lady. She helped one of the domestic servants who was trying to haul you out the drink. Erm…and on the subject of drink, y’know you might want to mix a bit more tonic with it next time, hmm?’

‘Nah…it was-’

‘Past the cocktail hour? Yes I know. Nevertheless, a little early for a stupor don’t you think?’

‘Lazzaro…I…’

‘Yes, I suppose you are a bit of a ‘Lazarus’. Perhaps you have a guardian angel?’ Stavros mused with a wry grin. ‘Or maybe Bacchus looks fondly upon his adherents?’

Luigi mustered a wan grin before his mind drifted back along dark corridors.

* * *

The papal duo trundle to Domus Sanctæ Marthæ (the Vatican guest house)…

‘We’re somewhat relieved a Jesuit assumed office,’ Rightvinger remarked. ‘Had the Opus Dei candidate had got in it could have meant butt-spurs on the chairs.’

‘Most unseemly,’ Franco puffed as he scurried alongside the Kriegvagon.

‘Quite so. Did you say you hail from Argentina? You know, many of my childhood friends do their hailing there.’

‘Really?’ Franco wheezed.

The Emeritus came to a standstill over a drain. After some delicate manoeuvring, he pressed a flashing button. A telescopic funnel extended downwards from the base of the chair. After a series of glugging noises, a cruddy cascade slopped into the gutter.

Franco recoiled and dug out his trusty handkerchief. ‘Eeugh…how perfectly ghastly! Dear God, does this never end?’ he gasped, choking at the sulphurous stench.

A veritable blizzard of back-splashes caused the hem of the old pope’s vestments to become speckled with excreta, along with a large radius of the pavement. ‘With zis splendid contraption I can discreetly empty my chair during za papal crowd-pleasers.’ he announced. ‘Indeed, this is no bog-standard wheelchair you know?’

When the deluge finally subsided the wastepipe automatically retracted.

‘Have you quite finished?’ Franco scowled. ‘Or are you planning to manure the rose garden too?’

The Emeritus ignored him and lurched forward apace. ‘Oh the spirit is willing, but za bowels are weak.’ he called back.

The pair arrived at a flight of stairs leading to an ornate sunken garden. Franco laughed up his sleeve as his counterpart peered down from the precipice. However, much to his amazement, four buttress arms extended from the base of the Kriegvagon and a powerful compressor fired up causing a localised tempest. As the Emeritus twiddled a joystick the vehicle gradually levitated from the terrace. The squall whisked Franco’s zucchetto from his scalp and swept it into the shrubbery.

‘See you at za guest house,’ Rightvinger yelled over the maelstrom. He tilted forwards and swooped over the fountain, decapitating a stone cherub on his way.

* * *

After concluding state affairs, the pontifical pair slurp their respective beverages as a maid dusts the bijou parlour…

‘Yes, you’ll make an adequate understudy,’ Rightvinger surmised. ‘So, any questions?’

Franco’s brows knotted into a frown. ‘Yes. It’s your decree for the beatification Benito Mussolini. Do you really think it wise?’

‘But of course,’ Rightvinger said incredulously. ‘Did he not restore territory to the Curia under za Lateran Treaty? And he clearly perceived us for what we are; right-wing political lobbyists who happen to claim God as their patron. Okay, so he committed the odd delictum gravius along the way but, hell, nobody’s perfect, ah?’

‘Hmmff,’ Franco murmured. ‘Couldn’t we make Margaret Thatcher patron saint of harridans instead…?’ Sensing a battle lost, his attentions drifted to a rather buxom cleaning lady. ‘Err, you there! You’re supposed to sweep up the dirt, not rearrange it!’

The maid looked up. ‘Me know nothing,’ she cooed demurely.

‘Me know nothing your Holiness,’ Franco corrected, casting a licentious gaze over shapely calves.

‘It him,’ the cleaner pouted, motioning at Rightvinger. ‘He tell us it’s Vaticana practice to ‘sweep everything under da carpet’. True.’

‘Foolish fräulein,’ Rightvinger admonished, ‘I was speaking figuratively. Anyway, why is there a woman on Vatican territory? Perchance, did someone order za spare rib…ah?…ah?’ he hooted.

‘Spare rib? Oooh, but what a magnificent rack, eh? ’Franco drooled, leering at a diving neckline and ample bosom. ‘Phooaar…hubba-hubba! Come feed me mamma.’

‘I’m given to understand she avails herself in exchange for sacramentals,’ Rightvinger intimated with a knowing wink, ‘…‘tit-for-tat’, as it were.’

‘Oh-ho really?’ Franco chortled with a rakish cock of an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’d gladly lavish a few beads around that neck…’

In a scene worthy of a Cinderella pantomime, a pair of grotesque transvestites cackled wickedly as a maid blushed.

‘Right, well, that’s quite enough levity for one day,’ the Emeritus pronounced. He leaked a whimpering fart which went some way to restore a more dolorous atmosphere. ‘Och…this wretched ousia will be za death of me. Right, I must prepare my address for za farewell feast. And of course you must greet your adoring multitude my dear fellow.’

‘Quite so.’ Franco snuffled disdainfully as rancid odours wafted in his direction. ‘Yes, my St Peter’s Square blessing.’

‘Good,’ the Emeritus concluded, lowering his seat. Upon touchdown he squelched forcibly and jettisoned a mini-torpedo. ‘I return to my quarters. I must set about tying up a few loose ends…very loose ends I suspect…’

© Edwin Black 2013