Act VII – Banqueting Hall
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Characters:
CARDINAL SODOMIA - financial advisor and gossip.
CARDINAL FELATITTIO - screaming queen.
POPE RIGHTVINGER - Pope Emeritus.
POPE FRANCO – incoming pope.
CARDINAL PURVES - another incontinent.
BENITO - domestic servant, acolyte.
SHADOWY FIGURE - a mysterious interloper.
A curmudgeonly convention of cardinals congregate in the banqueting hall for a farewell feast…
‘Service à la française…haute cuisine…I must say, this is most convivial,’ Cardinal Sodomio commented before cramming another petit four and masticating heartily. He proceeded to carve a thick slice of black pudding.
Cardinal Felatittio snatched up a dainty sausage roll. ‘Oo-ooh, these look scrumptious,’ he piped up.
Sodomio regarded his camp counterpart. ‘Yes, delectable.’
‘Hmm, one end looks strangely bulbous though...like a set of glands…?’ Felatittio giggled shrilly. ‘Reminds me of a dinky little willy or something,’ he cheeped before champing at it with gusto.
‘German cuisine, I believe.’ Sodomio intimated. ‘I hear the Emeritus had a patisserie chef flown in from Germany.’
‘Fabulous,’ Felatittio enthused, helping himself to another pastry. ‘I mean, I feel like a famine victim dear.’
Sodomio looked askance at his counterpart’s gross form, noting elephantine buttocks spilling beyond the seat like a pair of overstuffed saddlebags.
From across the head table, Cardinal Purves, a rheumy eyed octogenarian, gazed over at the pair. ‘Now…um…gentlemen, would one of you care to pass the…um…oh…? Blast! Not again surely?’ He croaked. After excusing himself, he arose totteringly and then scuttled, knock-kneed, towards a side exit.
‘Why invite her?’ Felatittio sniped as he got wind of a putrid pong.
‘She…I mean he’s probably here to bolster numbers,’ Sodomio murmured. ‘Either that or our collective are avoiding yet another stultifying monologue.’ He continued to speculate at the proliferation of empty places about the hall. There were rumours of skulduggery afoot…disturbing rumours. Moreover, where the hell was Bertilloni?
Belatedly, the main doors parted and the papal entourage swept in. Felatittio began preening himself at their approach.
‘Continue gentlemen,’ the Emeritus announced as he wheeled to the head of the table flanked by his two servants. ‘In nomine patris…etcetera, etcetera…’
Closely following, Franco strutted to the table and gently eased himself into a throne beside Cardinal Felatittio, flinching somewhat as he sat. He proceeded to pick at the culinary offerings, casting a sidelong glance at his gurning neighbour.
‘Apologies for our tardiness, cardinals,’ Rightvinger announced to the hall. ‘I was advising my chef. He’s the finest strudel maker in za whole of Rotenburg don’t you know? So, how is za grub gentlemen?’
There was a general rumble of approval from about the hall.
‘Absolutely delizioso, your Holiness,’ Felatittio simpered. He then gazed, dewy-eyed, at Pope Franco. ‘How are yoo-ou?’ he mouthed exaggeratedly.
Franco ignored him and leaned over to the Emeritus. ‘Why the hell is that thing sitting in the adjacent chair, hmm?’ he hissed furiously. ‘I have no desire to acquaint myself with that rampant sodomite, d’you hear me? I must insist…’ All of a sudden he baulked as he felt stroking at his inner thigh.
‘Hello big boy,’ Felatittio winked as he shifted his bulk nearer the new pontiff.
‘Kindly remove your paw this instant,’ Franco spat.
Somewhat crestfallen, Felatittio withdrew. ‘Well it won’t suck itself you know…?’ he whispered coquettishly as he patted Franco’s knee. ‘But we can save it…for later.’
‘Did you just call me a fellator…?’ Franco demanded. ‘How dare you address me–’
Abruptly, Rightvinger produced a bilious, buttock-flapping barrage, casting a further damper on proceedings. The Kriegvagon’s motor chugged into life.
Franco rounded on him. ‘My God, this is insufferable!’ he flared. ‘Can you at least spare us these detestable distillations whilst we’re eating, hmm…hmm…?’
Rightvinger ignored the remark. ‘So how did za rabble-rouser go cardinal?’ he enquired airily.
‘Yes, well, naturally they adore me.’ Franco muttered sulkily. ‘I was met by rapturous applause. Are you familiar with the concept?’
‘I do not pursue popularity cardinal,’ Rightvinger responded curtly, ‘that would be vanity.’
‘And I suppose your natural humility precludes such earthly rewards does it?’ Franco scoffed. He glanced around the hall. ‘Um…I notice we have a few vacant chairs? I think I’m going to have to clamp down on absenteeism around here.’
‘Quite,’ Rightvinger commented with a feint smirk. ‘I imagine heads will roll. Now, would you care for some tender groin cardinal?’
‘Tenderloin?’ Franco queried. ‘Yes alright, don’t mind if I do.’ He extracted a morsel from the platter. ‘I wonder, could you tell me what those are?’ he asked, pointing at a pair of meaty mounds in gravy.
‘Braised rump my dear fellow,’ Rightvinger pointed out. ‘A true Bavarian delicacy.’
‘Ah,’ Franco commented. ‘And I presume that’s some sort of onion ring lodged between them?’
‘Of a fashion,’ Rightvinger murmured slyly. ‘Here, try za sautéed sweetbreads gentlemen,’ he said indicating slices of grey matter.
‘The filo pastry nibbles are quite eccellente, your Holiness,’ Felatittio enthused.
‘Actually, I believe they’re ‘pouf’ pastry cardinal,’ the Emeritus explained wryly. ‘Za famous pinkel-en-croute. You may’ve sampled one before, yes?’
‘Not that I recall, Holiness. Though they’re quite yummy,’ Felatittio purred, lobbing another one into his churning cement-mixer of a gob.
‘You may also enjoy za finger cardinal?’ Rightvinger smirked. ‘Za fricassée finger is a speciality of my homeland.’
‘Ooh…really,’ Felatittio trilled between mouthfuls. ‘And what are those…those ball thingies on a bed of rice?’
‘Um…um…scallops,’ the Emeritus muttered shiftily. ‘Scottish ones.’
The cardinals continued to gorge themselves wholeheartedly.
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As coffee was served, the Emeritus wended his way to a dais and parked centre stage. He elevated his seat. A rather phallic telescopic microphone shot upwards from between his legs and promptly prodded his nose. ‘Oouff,’ he muttered crossly, ‘…damn thing just poked me up za hooter!’ He proceeded to adjust it manually and then eyed the assembly impassively.
‘Welcome, my dear cardinals. Thank you for joining me at this, my farewell banquet. The hour is finally at hand when I must hang up my crozier. It is time for me to embark upon a new mission to rejuvenate our holy church. In order to do this I must, once again, call upon your support.’
A smattering of the audience were already snoring.
‘As you are no doubt aware, we endure in a secular age rife with scepticism. We face za scourge of moral relativism (and I’m not just talking about the Curia here either). Indeed, this tyrannical tide of freethinking has led people to question our monopoly on za truth. Our infallible, objective truth (subject to change but only on my say so) is besieged. We must halt this insidious advance of relativism (or ‘heresy’ as it used to be known). Already we’ve seen its effects; the European faithful dwindle and our political influence wanes. Europe-wide, the so-called ‘rights’ of the individual are now placed above za proclamations of the Curia. Ergo we must evolve or face extinction.’
The Emeritus leaned forward and fired off a feisty fusillade of flatulence, stirring some of the more lethargic spectators.
‘We must reinvigorate mankind’s covenant with our church. But we can no more rely solely upon traditional methods to propagate our creed. It’s no longer sufficient to browbeat children with our truth before they’ve developed a critical faculty. No, because our Bismarck of belief is floundering. So we must deploy za big guns. In times past our church catechized by means of torture which, undeniably, proved most efficient. Regrettably though, you vetoed my recent papal bull sanctioning waterboarding…’
A murmur of discontent stirred among the ranks. ‘Quite so!’ came a solitary voice from the periphery.
‘And did I not accept this?’ Rightvinger retorted. ‘Okay, I confess it was a disappointment, true, but it got me thinking. I reflected upon za words of Petronius: ‘Primus in orbe deos fecit timor’, meaning ‘fear first made gods in za world’. Undeniably, fear was the genesis of our own God. And so it is fear that will bring him back. Now, you will allow me to introduce my compatriot, Fritz von Vinkel. He will elucidate further upon my proposal.’
All eyes turned to an immaculately suited man who mounted the nearby pulpit and then acknowledged his compatriot.
‘Thank you, your um…your Grace,’ he boomed. ‘And good evening to you all. Now, through advances in brain-mapping, my research team has learned how to reprogram the part of the brain that triggers fear; the amygdala. By generating powerful electromagnetic pulses, we’ve discovered the means to induce a bioelectrical pattern that stimulates acute fear. Most interestingly this pattern, or ‘God Particle’ as we call it, has the added effect of deadening the neocortex - the rational part of the brain. Effectively we can disable reason.’
In field trials, subjects seeded with our new brain pattern became fiercely superstitious and wholly susceptible to irrational suggestion. They also suffered a significant loss of cognitive function. Longer term exposure renders the effects irreversible. In further trials we succeeded in encoding, transmitting and amplifying our God Particle through mobile devices. What we have here, gentlemen, is the greatest scientific breakthrough of our epoch: the means to control thought…’
The assembly gazed back at Vinkel incredulously, silently, as if he’d announced the discovery of the Holy Grail.
‘Any questions?’ he said, scanning over a thunderstruck congress.
Finally, Cardinal Purves shuffled in from the sidelines and broke ranks. ‘But what of free will? I mean, surely you’re not suggesting brainwashing at mass..?’
‘An interesting point,’ Vinkel considered. ‘personally, I feel–’
‘Free will?’ Rightvinger butted in, eyeballing the dissident ferociously. ‘May I remind you cardinal of our magisterial decree, obsequium religiosum (Canon Law 752). It demands the faithful submit both intellect and will to our supreme authority. We are not, nor ever have been interested in the petty foibles of free will.’
‘So…so you would seek to deny all men liberty of conscience…of thought?’ Purves countered hesitantly, already withering under the fearsome glare.
‘Do not bandy ethical considerations with me,’ the Emeritus flared. ‘Hypocritical old fool! Do you not see it’s liberty of thought that’s bringing about our decline? The hour is at hand when we must marshal our forces. We must form the vanguard of a glorious crusade; a Blitzkrieg for our age. Do not have the wit to see this? For the first time in our illustrious history we can achieve what we’ve always striven for. There will be only one truth in the world - ours!’ He promptly threw down the metaphorical gauntlet with a rumbustious trump.
‘Um…far be it from me to be disparaging your Holiness,’ Cardinal Sodomio chipped in, ‘but is there evidence this will work beyond controlled conditions? I mean, has it been tested on a non-Catholic for instance?’
The Emeritus turned to him. ‘I’m delighted you asked,’ he enthused. ‘Indeed it has. We used it on that idiot David Cameron. He was instructed to blurt out my rallying cry of ‘aggressive secularism’. It was also employed on Baroness Warsi who was diverted from her hajj and visited me instead. I confess that I found this extremely amusing,’ he snickered. ‘Just imagine…the power to convert even the Mussulman.’
‘Ooo-ooh, I’m imagining, dearie, I’m imagining,’ Cardinal Felatittio purred. ‘I like ‘em big ‘n’ beefy too.’
Rightvinger pointedly ignored him. ‘I have calculated that we will achieve world domination by 2033. They’ll be no more Islam, Judaism or Anglicanism. As for relativism, it will be utterly exterminated. We will be za master race of Roman Catholics commanding legions of unquestioning simpletons. All of whom will submit to God’s will (with which I am intimately acquainted.)
‘But this is grotesque!’ Pope Franco exclaimed. ‘I think I speak on behalf of the Curia when I say we’ll never accept this! You go too far. I only pray you’ll have the good grace to concede defeat with this harebrained scheme.’
‘Here, here,’ followed a general rumble.
Rightvinger shot him a searing gaze that might have turned Medusa to stone. His pallor rouged as he forcibly evacuated a shrill, petulant fart that echoed ominously about the grand hall. ‘You..? You Judas!’ he snarled with the wag of a gnarled finger. ‘My followers stand poised to unleash the God Particle around za globe and you would undermine me…uh…uh?’
Franco stared back defiantly. ‘You sir, are a memetical maniac! And I intend to ensure you never get away with your dastardly plans for world conquest.’
‘Luddites, cowards and toadies…the lot of you!’ Rightvinger shrieked. ‘We could have shared in za glory of a thousand-year Reichstag. And yet you allow pig ignorance to blind you. You’re a disgrace to za Vatican Fatherland!’
The ensuing cacophony of cawing, squawking and flapping called to mind of a colony of disgruntled vultures.
‘I hear ringing,’ Rightvinger shouted as he looked around for Lazzaro. Unable to spot him he addressed his other servant. ‘Benito, please, my telephone if you will? And bring my Palatine Tiara. Please hurry.’
The servant returned with the disconnected ‘phone and placed it before his personal demagogue. He then performed an impromptu coronation.
The Emeritus snatched the receiver and held it to his ear. ‘Yes, yes I see. And then extermination you say? Well, alright, if that is your will my sugarplum.’ He flicked a switch on his Kriegvagon. The compressor roared into life as metal beams extended outwards. He began to rise from the stage, hovering above the congregation who gazed up in disbelief.
‘Pathetic!’ Rightvinger yelled. ‘Look at you all!’
‘Dear god! I think he’s finally gone gaga.’ Sodomio said nervously before ducking under the table.
‘Come down from there!’ Franco barked up at Rightvinger. I mean for God’s sake man, get a grip!’
The Emeritus continued to ascend to the upper reaches of hall and began circling. ‘At last, witness meine apotheosis!’ he bawled hysterically. ‘This time I do my own Vatileak. Oh yes, cardinals…after a lifetime of spreading The Word it is time to spread za turd. I baptize you all in the name of the farter, the bum and the faecal pellet!’
With that, a funnel extended from the base of his chair and the enraged Emeritus dive-bombed the dinner guests. There were cries of panic as the Kriegvagon swooped, firing a broadside over the cardinals and bespattering them with excrement. They ducked and cowered, slipping in the sludge. Rightvinger wheeled about mid-air, then whooshed overhead again, splattering the cardinals with a second volley. Chairs were upturned, plates scattered and the fallen trampled over.
‘Cop a load of my ‘delictum gravy-arse’ you snivelling traitors!’ Rightvinger cackled. ‘Oooh yes, and za Almighty sayeth; ‘let there be shite!’
Pandemonium ensued as the magnum opus of a shit opera continued. Cardinals skidded and slipped up in sewage as they fell over each other to escape. Others slid under tables, cowering and vomiting as the torrent of turds splattered about them.
In the fringes a solitary cloaked silhouette now stood, watching the aerial bombardment. The figure raised a pistol and fired. The shot ricochet off a nearby pillar.
Rightvinger slowed to a hover and faced his assailant. Flaps whirred open in the arms of his chair and large guns emerged. ‘Who dares threaten me…?’ he screeched. ‘Identify yourself!’
An horrifically burned Bertilloni emerged from the shadows. ‘Sorry to knock you off your piss-pot-pedestal, Holiness,’ he croaked. ‘I speak figuratively of course since you’re clearly still perched on it.’
‘Bertilloni…? You fucking snake in za grass! I thought I’d disposed of you!’ The Emeritus bellowed. ‘But it will be my greatest pleasure to finish you off once and for all!’
Another gunshot rang out. As it struck the Kriegvagon with a clang, the vehicle lurched sideways, nearly dislodging its passenger. It banked dramatically, crashed against a column and then careened towards a large window. An almighty crash sent shards scattering as the stricken poopmobile and its occupant veered and spun off into the night.
‘You’ve shot him!’ Sodomio called out, peering up from under the table.
‘Yes,’ Bertilloni rasped, ‘well, nobody likes a party pooper.’
© Edwin Black 2013.
