Temptations of the Flush (Act VII)

Act VII – Banqueting Hall

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

Temptations of the Flush (Act IV)

Act IV – Private Quarters

* * *

Characters:

POPE RIGHTVINGER - outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO - incoming pope.
BENITO - domestic servant.
LAZZARO - domestic servant.
LUIGI - gravedigger.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI - senior administrator, Vatican City.
SIGNORE GARIBALDI - mafioso boss.

* * *

Popes old and new take tea and discuss future directions for Curia policy…

‘That thing should be defrocked,’ Pope Franco fumed. ‘He’s clearly a raving homosexual!’

Rightvinger eyed his successor imperiously as he fingered a white cat. ‘Hmm, but I suspect he would enjoy being ‘divested’ ah?’ He raised his Kriegvagon seat slightly causing the feline to twitch.

Franco frowned and tried to discern his counterpart’s inscrutable expression. ‘Well I’ve never been so insulted in my life!’ he raged. ‘The indignity…absolutely diabolical!’

‘Dire-bollock-pull, you say?’ Rightvinger responded with a feint smirk. ‘But shouldn’t one ‘turn the other cheek’…?’

Franco glared ferociously at him. ‘You find this amusing?’

Rightvinger cackled and slapped his knee. ‘Moderately so, ja.’ The cat started and peered up from his lap. ‘But you have to admire Cardinal Felatittio’s enthusiasm - I mean, he was practically champing at the bit.’

‘How dare you!’ The new pope snapped.

‘Or perhaps you found it pleasurable my dear fellow…when he, y’know, offered his succour…?’ The Emeritus winked.

‘I beg your pardon, Franco puffed, ‘you…’

‘And we grant you our pardon,’ Rightvinger deigned. ‘But enough of this loquaciousness; to business I think. We are, after all, here to discuss your future plans are we not?’

Franco sipped sulkily at his tea.

The Pope Emeritus pressed a button on his wheelchair. Shortly, two besuited domestic servants padded into the opulent drawing room. ‘Benito, we will take more tea please. Lazzaro, if you would be kind enough to fetch my aide memoire? Oh, and call maintenance about za blocked lavatory, yes?’

The pair nodded deferentially.

‘Coffee!’ Franco snapped. ‘I prefer coffee…and thank you for asking. Truly, one is overwhelmed by such gracious hospitality.’

The Emeritus ignored him and exchanged a glance with Benito who then disappeared into an adjacent kitchenette. The sound of a coffee grinder broke a stilted silence. The cat mewed and stared down disdainfully at Franco.

‘Manners maketh man,’ Rightvinger commented absently whilst petting his furry friend. ‘Puss, puss, puss, puss,’ he crooned; pursing his lips in a fashion evocative of a grossly distended sphincter. The feline looked up, watching intently as her master fished a tidbit from a silver tray. It promptly wolfed down the morsel from his fingers. ‘Aw, you love za lange-schwein don’t you, ah? Oo-ooh...you little slut! Oo-ooh...you little harlot...ah?...ah?’

The feline purred wildly as it was boisterously fondled and pawed.

The Emeritus returned to his successor. ‘You like cats?’

‘I’m allergic to the brutes,’ Franco sniffed. ‘So I’ll thank you to keep that mangy moggy away from me.’

‘Hmm, we take exception to that, don’t we Magdalene?’ Rightvinger’s maw puckered again and lowered to the cat’s head, planting a slobbering kiss. ‘Don’t listen to that nasty cardinal. We should tell her to put her claws away shouldn’t we, hmm?’ As the feline sniffed adoringly at Rightvinger’s drooling grimace, his dentures slithered from his mouth and crowned her with a toothy-tiara. The cat shook its head and mewed forlornly as her owner retrieved the itinerant mandibles and blew at them.

‘Dis-gusting,’ Franco sneered. ‘I’m surprised such cankerous creatures are permitted here,’ he continued haughtily, ‘left to roam hither and thither…leaving their calling cards on the upholstery…’

‘Nonsense my dear chap,’ Rightvinger countered. ‘My Magdalene is fully potty-trained. Furthermore, she’s a devoted ‘roam-and-cat-lick’. Aren’t you my diddy-pusskin?’ he chortled through slightly furry teeth. The cat stretched up on its haunches and began prancing coquettishly about her master’s lap before presenting him with a quivering rump. ‘Who’s a little Jezebel then? Who’s my strudel-strumpet, ah? Oo-ooh, you vant me to tickle that pretty pink rosebud again don’t you, ah…ah…?’

‘Eeugh...how utterly repugnant,’ Franco muttered.

Shortly, Lazzaro crept in. ‘Your Holiness,’ he said reverentially, handing a leather-bound journal to the Pope Emeritus.

‘Ah thank you Lazzaro, most kind,’ Rightvinger said with a nod. ‘I trust your paw’s healing satisfactorily?’

The tall young man looked down sullenly at his bandaged hand. ‘Yes, your Holiness. Most agreeably.’

‘Good. Now, you will attend to our maintenance concern if you will. Please escort the tradesman straight here and ensure he doesn’t stray.’

‘Yes, your Holiness.’ The servant bowed low and departed.

‘And the coffee…?’ Franco huffed, staring pointedly at his wristwatch.

‘Patience, my discourteous friend, is a virtue,’ Rightvinger scolded. As he shifted awkwardly a gurgling noise emanated from his Kriegvagon. ‘Ooouf, oh dear. I fear my effluvia’s proving a touch bothersome today.’

‘Pfffffft,’ [sic] came a gusty expulsion from his nether regions.

The cat bristled, pricking up its ears with alarm.

All of a sudden, the genteel ambiance was punctured by a thundering cannonade: ‘Brrr-ummphhh!…pitta-pitta-pitta…flumph-phuff…thrump…parp!…phhhlutt…pit-pit…’

The feline wailed, scrambled to floor and promptly hightailed it to the sanctuary of the chaise lounge. It gazed back looking most aggrieved.

‘Puss, puss, puss,’ Rightvinger called after his skulking pet. A flushing sound emanated from his wheelchair followed by the urgent thrumming of a motor and a whooshing sound. ‘Oooh…I love zat bracing air wafting around meine pinkel,’ he chuckled.

‘Phorrrp!...pwit-pwit...fumphhhhhhh…’ rumbled a decidedly damp squib. Sloshing, slurping noises began to swill around within the Kriegvagon’s bowels.

‘Will you desist from your foul percolations!’ Franco bellowed, wrinkling up his nose in disgust.

‘You do not vant za coffee?’ Rightvinger inquired mildly. ‘Hmm, there is no pleasing some people.’

The new pope duly produced a dainty handkerchief as he felt himself gag.

Benito strode into the room wearing a plumber’s mask and bearing a tray. He placed it down before the retching guest and opened the terrace window. Before beating a hasty retreat he coughed politely and discharged a discreet blast of air freshener.

Meanwhile Rightvinger perused his notes. ‘Hmm, let us see what we have in za pipeline. Hmm, I note you’re proposing some reforms? Tell me, what is wrong with preserving centuries of intransigence, ah?’ He paused to gaze at a portrait of Benito Mussolini. ‘You know, if I were you I… Ah…but za vicissitudes of men are no longer my concern…’ As if to underscore his existential angst the Emeritus evacuated a whining fart.

Franco glared up at his predecessor. ‘Well, mercifully, you are not me. What our church - and indeed what I desperately need - is a breath of fresh air. I envision our onward course as a mélange of old and new.’

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger sniffed, cocking a haughty eyebrow.

‘As everyone knows by now,’ Franco went on, ‘I’m a humble man of modest needs…’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ his counterpart butted in. ‘So you will take za guest house and I keep my palace. I’m pleased we’re in accord.’ Dripping, trickling sounds issued from beneath him rising to a crescendo of rapid plopping noises, culminating in an explosive splatter.

Franco brought his handkerchief to his nostrils and eyed him up and down severely. ‘Good God man, are you not well?’

‘I fear I’ve been stricken with an ague of late,’ Rightvinger responded with a dismissive wave. ‘Continue.’

Franco’s began to gasp for air, his eyes streaming. ‘You will… [cough] …excuse me…a moment…’ He felt himself begin to swoon.

‘I must say, you’re looking a little peaky cardinal,’ the Emeritus observed.

‘Whoa …uh-oh…ooh…’ Franco panted, ‘…attack…o’ the vapours...I feel like…the Oracle of Delphi…y’know…seeing stars.’

‘Oh dear,’ Rightvinger said gazing down critically. ‘Well I sincerely hope you have the capacity to fill my shoes satisfactorily. Certainly, I filled my shoes on a regular basis until I acquired this most commodious throne. My very own ‘poopmobile’.’

The new pope gulped at his coffee and began to feel somewhat bolstered by a light breeze. He gathered his wits and addressed his host. ‘The…erm…first point…is the matter of sollicitationis; you know; clergymen who spend more time preying than praying…?’

‘Ah yes. It seems despite my worldwide edict enforcing the concealment of sexual abuse cases, there’s been seepage.’

‘Seepage? Listen, those shyster lawyers are bleeding us dry over this! Our church must act forthwith or face bankruptcy. So I suggest we discreetly petition the European Parliament. Have them lower the legal age of consent to five-years old.’

‘Hmm, an interesting strategy,’ Rightvinger cogitated.

‘As for the existing legions of libertines you’ve been shuffling around the globe, I propose immediate excommunication; leave them to face the jurisdiction of the civil authorities.’

‘Nein! We continue to handle these matters internally and in strictest secrecy. Guarding our reputation trumps any concerns of so-called ‘civic justice’. This is a matter of principle. As supreme representatives of God, do you think we’re answerable to the paltry laws of men? Of course not; we transcend such fripperies. Besides, I’ve an alternative strategy. I’m fully aware of these clergy and za catamites with whom they consort. And I’ve come to za conclusion that cure is better than prevention.You will leave this with me.’

‘I see. Well we might at least implement the second-phase of my scheme; the introduction of Fleshlight™ and Kleenex to all confession cubicles. That way, should a priest experience… [ahem]…‘amorous inclinations’ during confession he might, as it were, contain the matter discreetly.’

‘I will consider this,’ Rightvinger commented nonchalantly.

‘Fine. But I trust this won’t become a sticking point,’ Franco went on, ‘because quite frankly matters have come to a head. Do you know I actually discovered a glory-hole in my local confession box? I was there as a penitent. Initially I assumed the priest was offering home-cooked sausage to the destitute. Dear God…I mean the degeneracy!’

‘Quite,’ Rightvinger murmured. ‘It would seem piety, not patriotism, is the last bastion of za scoundrel.’

‘Well, it is high time we clamped down on this sort of behaviour in our ministries. So I’m advocating the imposition of chastity belts. Furthermore, I’ll insist upon a daily dose of bromide for all clergy. And, for those more ‘wayward’ clerics, we provide child-sized inflatable dolls. I feel confident that, in concerto, these measures will reign in those vile and libidinous urges that have cost us so dearly.’

‘Ah-ha, excellent,’ Rightvinger crowed approvingly (popping a celebratory squeaker). ‘I must concede you have devised a competent damage-limitation strategy.’ A red light began to flash on the Kriegvagon’s control panel. ‘Ah shizer! Not again surely?’ he grumbled. ‘Za sludge tank is almost full. You will be succinct. I have no desire to baste in my own juices again.’

‘Then I will speak of my majestic vision - visited upon me by God himself: ‘Popeworld’. Good wholesome family entertainment with a healthy dose of proselytizing. I received inspiration after reading about Walt Digby – y’know, the McCarthyite racist who hated trade unions and enjoyed fairy stories?’

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger reflected, ‘I’ve heard of him. I understand he shared many of our political affinities.’

‘Doubtless. Anyway, his muse led me to a shining revelation; St Peter’s Square festooned with carousels, rollercoasters, burger stands...  I see a carnival of characters from our illustrious history like Pope Julius II and Tomás de Torquemada.’

‘Ah-ha,’ Rightvinger slapped his knee approvingly, ‘yes, a useful diversion.’

‘Quite. Not only would it entice more sightseers, but it would also restore funds to our impoverished coffers. We might even utilize our pool of amateur musicians, thespians and clowns.’

‘A splendid notion. In fact I have myself progressed from the pianola to za violin. I might offer the occasional performance as za ‘kiddie-fiddler’ yes?’

‘Hmm, well…a possibility…’ Franco humored him doubtfully. ‘But just think of the vast revenue from corporate sponsorship. There’s also the merchandising potential. Picture it: Jesus Juice, Pope-a-Cola, Heretic Burgers, Papal Peenie-Pads…Pope John Paul II dildos… The possibilities are endless. Further, we commission the IOR to print Popeworld Dollars. Then, at the end of a two-week vacation package, we massively devalue them and claw them back at huge profit.’

‘It seems I’ve underestimated you my dear fellow. You are, like your namesake, General Francisco Franco, a man of uncommon vision. Alright, we will review other matters in due course. There are more pressing matters to attend to before decrepitude overtakes me. Good.’ The Emeritus lowered his seat and stood to pour himself another tea.

Franco quailed as he was confronted by a pair of blotchy, sloughing buttocks through a circular vent in the rear of Rightvinger’s vestments. The Emeritus stooped as his cat scampered up to him, providing a more intimate portrait and one normally reserved for proctologists.

‘By all the saints!’ Franco exclaimed, ‘I’ll never eat a pastrami bagel again.’

‘My main concern, naturally, is we maintain the dignity of za church,’ Rightvinger asserted as he caressed his pet. ‘Oo-ooh what a fluesy, ah? Oo-ooh you’d make a lovely pair of gloves, hmm?’ he cackled raffishly. Feeling a slight updraft he settled back into his chair.

Magdalene wailed and darted towards the visitor.

‘Shoo!’ Franco yelled. ‘Keep that caterwauling quadruped away from me!’ He began sneezing.

There was a rap at the door.

‘Come,’ Rightvinger called out.

Lazzaro stole in accompanied by a disheveled, shambling, wreck-of-a-man in overalls and brandishing a sink plunger.

‘Evenin’ yer’ ‘oliness, I understand you got a problem with yer plumbing?’ Luigi slurred.

‘How dare you!’ Rightvinger spat. ‘Impudent swine!’

‘Ah…err…now…hmm,’ Luigi gabbled, swaying somewhat. ‘Um…I’ve come about the...um...clogged up lav, yeah? The governor mentioned you got a logjam or something?’

Rightvinger ignored him and addressed Lazzaro. ‘Please, will you show this cretin to the restroom. And keep an eye on him, yes? I think it is inebriated. Oh, and the other matter; you are to bring this one to me, ja? Integra et incolumi…understood?’

Lazzaro nodded soberly and led Luigi to the bathroom.

Luigi winced as he dropped his tool bag and regarded his bandaged hand. He peered into the toilet bowl. A solitary kernel of sweet corn sailed a rather stagnant sea. As Lazzaro watched over him from the doorway he quaffed a long draft of liquor and placed a refuse bag by the pedestal. He began to struggle with a pair of long rubber gloves. ‘Ere, give us a hand will yer’?’ he called back to the servant.

‘Sure,’ Lazzaro said, closing the door behind him. ‘But I only have one hand to offer.’

Luigi noticed the servant’s bandage as the pair wrestled with the gloves. ‘Snap,’ he grinned, feeling a certain camaraderie with a fellow sufferer. ‘Right, well, I’d best get this sorted…I left the gas oven on, see?’

With gloves finally secured the gravedigger began groping around the u-bend. ‘Papers,’ he huffed, trying to keep his chin from the bowl. ‘Coor dear, you wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve ‘ad to fish documents out o’ blocked lavvies.’

‘I see,’ Lazzaro murmured.

Luigi yanked a dripping, sodden mass from the depths and plopped them into the sack. ‘Bleedin’ ‘orrible,’ he shuddered. ‘Reckon there’s bit more up there too.’ He returned his hand to the putrid pool. ‘Y’know, I’m not actually qualified in the maintenance of bogs?’

‘No, you’re a gravedigger…and a fucking thief,’ Lazzaro hissed.

‘Now…um…‘ere…’ Alarm bells rang loud in Luigi’s head. So loud, in fact, that even he could hear them over the dull throb of his hangover. ‘Omar-gawd…you…?’

‘Me.’ Lazzaro grinned maliciously as he stalked towards the prone workman. ‘What’s wrong?’ he snickered, seizing Luigi’s head and thrusting it brutally into the pan, ‘…feeling a little flushed?’

* * *

Bertilloni dialled his cell phone and drummed his fingers to the dialling tone. ‘Answer goddamit.’

‘What already?’ Garibaldi spat.

‘Another fatality. Wiener…Stanislaw Wiener. And he’ll be missed. He was the Archbishop of Warsaw,’ the cardinal said perfunctorily.

‘Oh yeah, he was a regular…paid well…liked ‘em young,’ Garibaldi said with a horse laugh. ‘So he fell off his perch, ah?’

‘Not exactly. He was decapitated… dismembered. My source informs me the walls were adorned with profanities written in his own blood.’

There was a long pause. ‘Mother-fucker. Hey, I only sent my guy ‘round there yesterday. Y’know, the Ganymede Guesthouse. Anyways, he had a sniff around. One of my little boys mentioned this masked monk he saw; tearing down the stairwell. So he followed this freak to the basement. But then the guy just fuckin’ vanished. The kid said he ‘melted into darkness like a phantom, like il Diavolo himself’.

‘Of course…the catacombs!’ Bertilloni exclaimed. ‘There’s a network of rat-runs extending way beyond Vatican state boundaries. Hmm, it seems our assassin’s privy to this. But how? I mean it’s hardy common knowledge…?’

‘Obviously he’s connected. So he has a rendezvous with our bishop then dices him. Y’know, this ain’t good for business,’ Garibaldi murmured gruffly. ‘So I been thinkin’…why don’t I move operations to São Paulo?’

‘But we’re in this together aren’t we? Surely it’s imperative that we find this cutthroat? I mean, what if he knows of us…?’

‘Hey that’s your lookout pal. I’m shippin’ out. I mean, we may be morally bankrupt but at least we’ve stayed financially buoyant all these years. But things ain’t lookin’ too bright now. Y’know that friendly police commandant? Well, he just told me about some other stiff. Monsignor Giuseppe Carrioni, Bishop of Verona - ‘Sloppy Giuseppe’ to his friends. Anyways, the polizia just pulled him out the fuckin’ Tiber. He looked like he’d been fuckin’ crucified. Oh, and he’d had his balls sliced off.’

‘What?’ Bertilloni gasped. ‘Jesus! Of course we must act on this. You must send your men into the catacombs hunt for this killer. I mean if I go down, well…what of your fate?’ the cardinal insinuated.

‘You threatening me - smug little cunt? Garibaldi hissed menacingly. ‘Hey, Listen, forget the inferno, I’ll throw you down the deepest fuckin’ pit there is. I told you, I’m out. Latin America’s where the action is. People-trafficking, drugs…you name it. And thanks to you guys prohibiting condoms they can’t stop having bambinos. So there’s always fresh meat for the whorehouses. So when your cardinals finish spouting their sanctimonious bullshit from the pulpit they can enjoy some R&R in the Favelas they’ve helped create. It’s perfect. Plus the kids can’t afford no fuckin’ lawyers and nobody asks questions when they go missin’.’

‘I think you’re forgetting about the documents in my safe my friend,’ Bertilloni hissed. ‘Many of which might prove, shall we say, embarrassing - even for you. After all, you’re not above sampling your own delectable wares on occasion, are you? Oh, and don’t forget I have you on candid camera.’

Yeah-yeah, whatever. We’re through pal.’

‘We’re not through, damn it!’

He was anwered with the dialling tone.

Bertilloni assumed a faraway look. He gazed from his townhouse window to the infernal embers of Rome’s metropolis. Was it over…all the power, the influence…the wealth…?  Up in flames like the apocalyptic pyre of the cityscape? Perhaps it was time to retire…enjoy all the wealth in sunnier climes…?

Bertilloni’s craggy features took on a wistful expression. But then he noticed smoke wafting around the doorframe. Paint blistered on the door. What the hell? As he stepped over and flung it open, flames consumed him.

© Edwin Black 2013