Temptations of the Flush (Act VIII)

Act VIII – Abyss

* * *

Characters:

LUIGI - gravedigger.
CARDINAL PURVES - elderly incontinent.
LAZZARO - Pope Rightvinger’s acolyte, assassin.
POPE RIGHTVINGER - Pope Emeritus.
STAVROS - mortician
MARIA - cleaning lady

‘In breaking news; homicide at a Vatican-owned guesthouse. Police are appealing for witnesses who may have visited the Valle Giulia precinct of Rome at around 2 am yesterday. A notorious red-light district, the area has long been a focus for criminal activity. Experts have ruled out suicide, saying the crime bears the hallmarks of a ‘ritual killing’. A citywide murder hunt has now been launched. Unconfirmed reports suggest a masked ‘monk’ was seen fleeing the scene, leading to speculation of some sort of vigilante attack. Authorities have warned people not to approach the suspect and to report anything suspicious immediately. Although not yet formally identified, the victim is said to be a senior-ranking official within the Vatican. We will of course keep you up to date with this and other news as it develops. Now, on a lighter note, the extraordinary story of one woman’s claim to have found the rosary of Saint Francis…’

‘Bollocks.’ Luigi removed the headphones as his mind spun. He extended an arm from the hospital bed and picked up the vase resting on his bedside table. Although the single daffodil hadn’t fared well on its regime of surgical spirit, he suspected the draft would prove a tonic for human life. I must warn them, came a voice as the mental fog gave way to an agreeable alcoholic haze.

Due to a miscellany of weekend accidents, medical staff were too distracted to mark his egress. After a surprise encounter with Bertilloni, Luigi learned of the gala banquet at the palace. If Lazzaro struck there’d be carnage! And what if the rogue had accomplices…they could even be planning a mass culling…? A timely warning to the cardinals might bestow honours? Fame? But sod that, it could mean financial rewards…booze money? Fortified with liquor, Luigi shambled determinedly towards the Lateran Palace.

* * *

In the bustle of caterers bearing trays of coffees into the hall, Luigi noticed a familiar face hobbling along the corridor. He made a beeline towards Cardinal Purves who peered up at him quizzically.

‘Luigi my son…is that you?’ he croaked. ‘From the orphanage, am I correct?’

‘Yes,’ Luigi wheezed. ‘Listen, no time to explain…you must warn everyone. I believe there’s a plot…to um…’ Luigi’s voice trailed off as he felt a hostile stare. He glanced up and caught sight of Lazzaro loitering by a pillar. He froze as their eyes met.

‘A plot? Erm, erm…to what end?’ Purves pressed. ‘What must we beware of…?’

‘Backstabbers!’ Luigi blurted as Lazzaro smirked and then bounded towards him.

Purves stared agog as Luigi bolted, sidestepped a knot of waiters and then sped towards the exit. In blind panic, he tore up the dim stairwell. Rapid footfalls echoed from below as he vaulted up another flight, then another, his lungs searing. Gasping, he sprawled headlong through an exit and tumbled out into redolent night air. Dizzy, he slunk into the shadow of a lesser cupola, attempting to arrest his frantic gasps as the cityscape reeled. He took a lug from his flask and peered out towards the exit. Dominating the rooftop, the Dome of St Peter’s Basilica, swathing him in shadow. Tall stone saints perched on ledges, backs turned, and inert to the world they gazed upon.

The door clattered open and the pursuer sprang onto the asphalt roof. Luigi shrank back as Lazzaro crept along a row of statues, sword drawn, until he was obscured behind the vast cupola.

As his head pounded, Luigi realised there was but one fleeting opportunity of escape - the door he’d entered by. Other exits could be locked and any noise would betray him. He dithered, uncertain if his attacker may lurk in ambush.

Startlingly, shadow took form at the periphery of his vision. He quailed, stumbling sideways towards the precipice. He steadied himself against a statue, gasping, as Lazzaro emerged like a spectre and stalked towards him.

‘Here…keep the bleedin’ thing this time!’ Luigi wailed, throwing the gold bracelet at the killer. The blade flashed past his blurring sight. He swooned and slumped to his knees.

Lazzaro’s pale face contorted into a sneer. ‘Too late, gravedigger,’ he snickered. ‘Can you fly, ah? Like these things…?’ He gestured along the saintly effigies. ‘Or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking, ah?’

Luigi began to feel peculiarly detached and resigned to his doom. He mourned his daughter, his life and the sum of all his dashed hopes. ‘You remind me of myself. All that anger…that nihilism. Go on then, take your best shot mate. I care not for this world,’ he cried. ‘You think you can take something I haven’t already lost?’

Lazzaro pressed the sword to Luigi’s throat. ‘What the fuck would you know about me? Go on, get on the fucking ledge. It’ll look like an accident.’

Luigi complied. He swayed precariously, steadying himself against a marble limb. Distant traffic glimmered beneath him like fireflies as a balmy breeze ruffled his hair. ‘Let go of the anger son…or you’ll never find solace.’

Lazzaro swung the blade at him. ‘Anger?’ he yelled. ‘Oh I’m dealing with the anger alright…an eye for an eye, yeah? Or both eyes if necessary.’

‘What…what happened?’ Luigi stammered. ‘Tell me…let me understand…before I leave this sorry world.’

‘There’s nothing left to understand. And even if there was, it changes nothing. They stole my childhood. They tore my soul apart!’

‘Who did?’ Luigi pressed, ‘You mean those you’ve…slain?’

Lazzaro stepped from back into shadow and eyed the gravedigger somberly. ‘Yeah…Garibaldi and his cohorts…those wolves in shepherd’s clothing. I was twelve when those demons of hell set upon me. I thought the agony would never end, I…’ his voice trailed off and became choked by sobs. The sword wavered in his hand as he wiped his eyes with a sleeve. ‘After they’d finished with me Garibaldi taunted me…beat the shit out of me. Then left me for dead. And I wish, too, that I had died…because nothing survived that inferno but hate.’

Luigi looked down pitifully at the young man. He swigged his flask and then gazed into the churning chasm beneath his feet. ‘So this is your answer…what you’re doing…? This is this justice?’

‘Justice?’ the assassin sniffed with a bitter laugh. ‘It is not justice I seek, it’s retribution. ‘Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep’*…’ Oh yeah, I’ll see them all in hell my friend.’

‘It’s true they’re not fit to administer the sacraments,’ Luigi said, ‘those who’ve trespassed against you. By rights they should abase themselves at your feet…plead for clemency. But instead they close ranks, prevaricate…connive to evade justice. Believe me, son, I know.’

‘What can you possibly know, uh…a gravedigger, a drunkard…?’

Luigi sighed and tried to drown his melancholy in a long swig. ‘It happened to me too…at the orphanage,’ he confessed gloomily. ‘I lost my innocence before I lost my first tooth. Maybe revenge is the answer? I mean, do you take an eye for the eye or turn the other cheek? I could never quite decide. Anyways, this priest…this vampire of the soul…well, he died before I could find the courage to confront him.’

‘So you let him ruin other lives did you?’ Lazzaro sneered. ‘You’re such a fucking coward!’

‘Perhaps I am, son,’ Luigi conceded desolately. ‘Mind you, I did piss in his grave...during the reading of his eulogy. Then, well…I kind of drank my way out of it I s’pose.’ He lifted his flask in salute and then slurped at it heartily. ‘Cheers…here’s to this wonderful life!’ he spluttered over the rooftops, swaying precariously and belching. ‘‘Cus it don’t get much better than this, does it, ah?’

The question was met by the wail of distant sirens. A buffeting wind picked up causing the gravedigger to teeter at the brink.

‘Get down.’ Lazzaro ordered. ‘I don’t need to kill someone who’s already dead. You’re not even a threat, are you? Look at you; a joker, a derelict… a dead man condemned to life. No one listens to a word you say, do they?’

Luigi gave a hollow laugh. ‘No? Well what about you?’ he inquired of the saint that he clung on to. ‘Are you listening? You got a tongue in yer’ head? No?’ He remonstrated theatrically along the row of plinths. ‘Are any of you fuckers listening, uh? Come on, let’s hear you. What do you have to say for yourselves?’ He pocketed his flask and began to climb up the statue with a fearlessness that only drunkards know.

Lazzaro dropped his sword edged towards the gravedigger. ‘I said get down. I don’t want your blood on my conscience.’

‘Your conscience?’ Luigi laughed feverishly as he shimmied upwards and hauled himself, gasping, onto the shoulders of Saint Michael. ‘Look at it all,’ he wheezed, gesturing expansively. ‘Does any of this pomp and grandeur mean anything? Or is it all just a load of bollocks, uh? A sprawling folly for those chasing the immortality of gods? Is it really anything more than existential narcissism, uh…? Go on, answer me you impotent fucker!’ he bellowed, shaking a fist accusingly at the heavens. ‘Yeah…where are yer’ bleedin’ thunderbolts now, ah?’

Lazzaro began to scale the statue and made a grab for Luigi’s ankle.

‘Oi, get yer’ bleedin…’ Luigi squirmed free as Lazzaro tried to gain purchase on his leg. From somewhere below he heard a thunderous smash, and then strains of classical music. Is that…Ride of The Valkyries...? he pondered absently.

By now, Lazzaro had straddled the opposite arm and attempted to wrestle Luigi from his lofty perch. The music became louder, accompanied by an intermittent droning. As the pair continued to tussle something large and metallic hurtled past, slewing around the dome. They heard a snatch of maniacal laughter. Then, they gazed disbelievingly as the contraption rounded back at them, skimmed the asphalt roof, bounced and then cartwheeled towards them.

 ‘Achtung! Achtung!’ the occupant screamed.

Lazzaro made a lunge for the gravedigger’s arm and wrenched him sideways causing him to topple.

The Kriegvagon slammed into the statue with an almighty crash, knocking it plummeting into an inky abyss. As the flying machine nosedived into Saint Peter’s square there was a hiss as the driver jettisoned free and shot upwards. A clatter of shattering masonry was followed by a distant flare and the peel of an explosion.

As Luigi lay dazed and bruised on the ledge he saw a parachute open in the glowing firmament. Amongst the rubble strewn about him, jutting up, was the remains of the stone angel, sheared off at the ankles. ‘Ah bollocks,’ he muttered. His thoughts turned to Lazzaro. For some moments he considered following him into the void. But then he remembered he still had drink in his flask and shelved the plans.

Luigi watched idly as the parachute wended its way towards the apex of the basilica. As it settled there he discerned a distinct yowling cry. Sirens drew closer. He wanted to call out but giddiness overwhelmed him and his horizons went black.

* * *
 

‘Is he dead?’ came a familiar voice.

Stavros? Luigi’s eyes flickered open. A couple of paramedics were attending him.

‘No, he’s still with us,’ one of the medics said. ‘Nothing broken but he may have concussion.’

Stavros’s face loomed as he grinned down at his colleague. ‘Yet another lucky escape, hmm? So how are you feeling?’

‘Inebriated,’ Luigi slurred, wincing as he turned his head. ‘Lazzaro…dead…?’

‘Yes. So he was the serial killer, eh? Forensics confirmed it. You know it’s fortunate you weren’t diced like the others. Strange though…’

‘What?’ Luigi mumbled.

‘Well, I was there just before he died... before police arrived. I’d come looking for you after you absconded from the hospital. Anyway, he gasped out your name. Then he flung this bracelet at my feet. He wanted you to have it I think? He started blathering something about Saint Michael watching over lost sheep. And that was it…he died.’ Stavros handed Luigi the bracelet.

‘Thanks,’ Luigi muttered tearfully. ‘He saved me.’ He directed his gaze toward the cupola. ‘What about…?’

‘You mean the Emeritus?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, the paramedics won’t be able to move him yet. Apparently he’s kind of lodged on the spire. In fact they think he might be impaled on his rectum. So it looks like he’ll have to stay put for now. At least until they can locate a surgeon with a head for heights.’

‘He scored a bullseye uh? Oh well, at least it’ll serve to curtail his usual outpourings.’ Luigi commented with a wry grin.

‘Quite,’ Stavros remarked. ‘Ah well, he’s did always claim the moral high ground... In fact I don’t think the cardinals are too enamoured with him right now. I overheard one of them saying something about getting him to the nunnery…letting the sisters of the Magdalene Laundries ‘take care of him’.’

‘Ah. What about that explosion?’ Luigi asked.

‘Oh that? That must have been the wheelchair colliding with a kebab van. Ah well, maybe God’s a vegetarian, huh?’ Stavros winked mischievously.

Luigi was strapped into a stretcher, hoisted up and carried down the stairwell. As he was taken from the palace and bobbed along through a sea of flashing lights he noticed a police cordon around Lazzaro’s body that lay amongst the wreckage of the fallen idol. Looking down at the broken life, he felt overwhelmed with pathos. He was touched by an inexplicable kinship with a soul twisted by fury and riven by sorrow. To this pitiful state; the once fearful and enigmatic assassin. This monstrosity, this Caliban; worse than the defilers who’d fashioned him…

Criminal, victim…human being.

* * *

After a considerable media hullabaloo, Vatican affairs eventually returned to a semblance of normality. Bertilloni was arrested, further clerical scandals had the kibosh put on them and emollient words abounded. It was business as usual in the shady corridors of power.

Luigi was tasked with the sad duty of collecting the body of cardinal Purves, who’d passed away peacefully on the loo. As he scouted about the apartment for surplus supplies of alcohol, he bumped into Maria who’d been called in to give the place a quick spruce.

‘Ooh, darling, how are you?’ she gushed. ‘You recover from nearly drowning in da toilet, ah? You okay…?’

‘Yeah, mustn’t grumble,’ Luigi shrugged. ‘Oh, and thanks for rescuing me. I mean, my life very nearly went down the pan.’

‘Ooh don’t mention it,’ Maria crooned. ‘Speaking of toilets, y’know I had to help clear up that great big toilet they call the ‘banqueting hall’.’ She pulled a disdainful frown.

‘Really?’

‘Oooh, them dirty bastardos!’ Maria fumed. ‘Why can’t they shit in da lavatory like the rest of us, uh? Da poo-poo everywhere mate…on da carpet, da walls…’

‘Shocking,’ Luigi commiserated.

‘Oh-ho,’ she whinnied as she crossed herself, ‘I tell you they even shit on da bloody candelabra!’

‘Blimey, that must have been one hell of a bleedin’ party.’ Luigi remarked.

‘Yeah, I tell you mate. They must’ve been squirting it from da bloody chandeliers. But I don’t mind really…‘cause my sweetheart, His Holiness Franco, he give me Saint Francis rosary.’

‘I guess that must have been some consolation,’ the gravedigger humoured her.

‘Aw it was,’ Maria simpered. ‘So I tell him he should ‘come to mamma’ and I feed my baby some boobie,’. ‘He like-a-da ‘titanic titties’ y’know?’ the buxom cleaning lady explained whilst cupping an ample bosom.

‘Um….right.’ Luigi tittered, averting his gave somewhat.

‘Anyway, so after I change his dirty diaper and smack his naughty arse it’s bath time. So I scrub him down and then he beg mamma give him a soapy-tit-wank. But, y’know, he’s a true gentleman.’ Maria asserted with a knowing wink. ‘I mean, he never even made a grab for my piss-flaps.’

‘How very classy,’ Luigi slurred with a lopsided grin. ‘Right, well, I’d best cart off this bleedin’ stiff before my new governor starts whining.’

THE END

* Lucifer, Paradise Lost by John Milton.
 
© Edwin Black 2013

 

Liber Gomorrhianus Lima* (Act I)

DILECTIO FIDEI, ODIUM FIDEI…

Welcome back for another romp at Edwin’s blogosphere equivalent of a bawdy alehouse. Yes, the brewer of burlesque, vintner of vitriol and distiller of doggerel returns to slake that lust for lampoonery.

So permit me to proffer a couple of large jugs of your favourite tipple and be your buxom serving wench awhiles. Just look upon me as the thinking man’s Katie Price; flashing pertinent tips at you whilst offering cleavage into all things over-inflated and fake.

Today’s intoxicating elixir is an outpouring over ‘beatification’ and ‘canonisation’. For the uninitiated, these are the penultimate and final stages of the Holy See’s acknowledgement of sainthood.

In order to become eligible for beatification, the aspiring candidate is required to ‘fall off their perch’, i.e. gasp their final death-rattle and expire. A Bishop of The Roman Curia is then charged with the task of investigating the life and deeds of the would-be saint. Should the contender make the grade, their mortal vestige is dug up (or ‘exhumed’) for inspection. This somewhat gruesome procedure ensures there’s been no corpse-fiddling by souvenir hunters, members of Time Team or, heaven forbid, necrophiliacs. Cadavers that successfully evade such unpleasantness are declared ‘Non Cultus’.

The next stipulation is that the saintly-nominee must have embodied virtues such as justice, prudence, charity, etc., to an exemplary degree. Nevertheless, those who’ve shored up an arcane, highly secretive and unaccountable legal system, opposed sexual health measures and lorded it from the sprawling opulence of the Lateran Palace have still been credited with these ‘Venerable’ virtues. (Isn’t that rather like ascribing the virtue of temperance to your Edwin?)

The final prerequisite for the saint-in-waiting is that they’ve performed a messiah-impersonation on a poor soul (deemed to be medically untreatable) and affected a miracle cure. Evidence of this dubious parlour trick is in turn rubber-stamped by physicians (whom are required experts in evading charges of malpractice). The deceased illusionist is then elevated to the status of ‘Blessed’.

Prior to kicking the bucket, Pope John Paul II adopted a ‘Henry T. Ford’ approach to beatification by inaugurating something of a ‘saint-factory’. A staggering 1,340 beatifications took place during his six and a half year tenure. This represents a manufacturing rate of 0.56 saints per day - which almost exceeds the average unit output of British Leyland cars in the 1970s.

However, there are inherent snags with this particular production model. Newcomers to the heavenly realm now face an uphill struggle just to catch a glimpse of their Maker due to the thronging hubbub of unemployed faith-healers, incense-swingers and fawning sycophants. Coupled with hazardous slippery surfaces (due to a veritable oozing tide of spittle from relentless bootlicking), an increasing number of disaffected souls are actually tempted to join the ranks of the fallen.

Apparently, these ghoulish God-botherers (or saints) can act as intermediaries for those among the faithful who are too timid to approach the throne of the ole’ thunderbolt-wielding tyrant himself. The Roman Catholic hierarchy refers to this process of meddling as ‘intercession’.

Anyway, the cocktail hour fast approaches in my particular time-zone and I find myself horrifically sober. I’ll depart for the local watering hole presently and leave you with a heady little nightcap - Liber Gomorrhianus Lima*. It’s act one of three and is a story set in the not-too-distant future. All three acts have a common thread - the beatification of Cardinal Rightvinger. Although the name might sound vaguely familiar, I would like to point out to readers that it bears no relation to anyone living, dead, or indeed, somewhere in-between…

QUOTE OF THE DAY: ‘true religion is a matter of inward devotion rather than outward symbols of ceremony and ritual.’ Desiderius Erasmus, a 14th century Dutch Catholic priest and author.

*Latin for Book of Gomorrah - title of a book published by clergyman Peter Damian in 1051 AD. A blistering attack on abuses within the Roman Catholic Church, it goes as far as criticizing Pope Benedict IX who it describes as a ‘demon from hell in the disguise of a priest’. Pope Benedict IX was infamous for hosting orgies in the Lateran palace and is alleged to have been responsible for several murders. ‘Lima’, means ‘revisited’.

As a footnote, I would like to thank a recent correspondent who felt moved to inform me that I was a ‘nobody with literary pretentions’. Ah well, fair comment - but y’know I’m not trying to emulate Dostoyevsky here. In fact, I rather think of myself as a heretical revolutionary posing as a bumbling drunkard (or did I get that the wrong way around?).


Liber Gomorrhianus Lima

ACT I – GRAVE CONCERNS

(Please bear in mind that the following story really isn’t for the fainthearted and intended for ADULTS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS (in order of appearance.)
LUIGI - Senior Gravedigger at Vatican City.
PAULO - Apprentice Gravedigger.

CARDINAL RIGHTVINGER – non-speaking cameo.

STAVROS - Mortician.

* * * * * * * *

In the dead of night, Luigi and Paulo are on a mission at Vatican City... [Translated from Italian.]

‘Shit…the frigging lantern’s gone out again. Trust me to get lumbered with this bleedin’ job - y’know, carting off some festering hulk of worm food,’ Luigi griped. He glanced back at his apprentice who tailed him closely as they shambled and groped their way through a misty darkness. A sallow moon cast twisted shadows through foliage that beckoned like monstrous skeletal hands.

‘Is it…much further…to the um…place…?’ Paulo piped up.

‘Nah, just over there.’ Luigi gestured at a nearby hillock wreathed by rosebushes and crowned with the ghostly silhouette of a building. ‘And watch out for tree roots, son. We don’t want you falling arse over tit again, now do we?’

‘Okay boss,’ Paulo responded sullenly as he hoisted his crowbar onto his other shoulder. ‘But why must we do this undercover of darkness?’

‘Tradition is why. And it’s considered more ‘tasteful’,’ Luigi commented with a frown. ‘What all those Latin-mumbling stiffs find tasteful about grave robbing is beyond me. Besides, half of ‘em are more than ready for their own ‘wooden overcoat’. Bloody tradition.’

As the pair advanced to the foot of the hill, Luigi led his acolyte up a flight of stairs and fumbled with a set of keys. ‘Must be this one. It’s the skeleton key,’ he quipped darkly.

Paulo responded with a nervous gulp and peered apprehensively at a colossal door banded with the shadows of pillars that framed a gloomy atrium.

Luigi turned the lock with a clunk then barged the huge door with his shoulder. Rusted hinges protested shrilly. From within the musty blackness, wane moonbeams traced the outline of a marble pedestal at the icy heart of the mausoleum. He struck a match and proceeded to light arrays of candles that conjured up a glimmering patina across the walls. Exquisitely ornamented portraits eyed the intruders malignly. ‘You coming in to help me or what…?’ Luigi huffed.

Paulo crossed himself and offered prayers skyward as he broached the threshold. He stared, wide-eyed at the slab of marble and the black coffin that rested on it.

Noticing his trepidation, Luigi patted him on the shoulder and offered a wry smile. ‘You’ll be alright lad. It’s always a bit of a fright the first time. Let’s take a breather eh?’

The pair sat down on a bench and shared a cigarette.

Luigi exhaled a billowing plume and stared pensively at an interplay of light and shadow on the far wall. He passed the cigarette back to his junior. ‘I still remember my first job. Vividly. It was raining heavily that night. Not a star in sight. We had to exhume Saint Pius the Eleventh – y’know Benito Mussolini’s best mate. That was a grave of course. Not all of ‘em get their own well-appointed little charnel house or crypt. What a fithy bloody job that was…and the stench! Coor, fuck me, it was enough to make the dead retch. Anyways, after some hours of digging we discovered they’d kindly provided him with a cast iron coffin – probably for bomb-proofing or something. It was way too heavy to haul up of course. So my boss told me to smash the thing open and we’d drag the stiff up by hand. So after over an hour of banging away at the bloody hinges we finally managed to prise the thing open. And there was our saint laying in his mouldy old robes and stinking to high heaven. Then we had to get a good grip of each arm…he’s stiff as a board of course. So after a lot of straining and lifting we managed to prop him up diagonally. Head upright works best, otherwise the skirt ends up draped ‘round their head. Not a pretty sight. I mean, no one likes staring at a corpse in its draws, do they? Well…no one in their right mind, anyways...’

Paulo returned the cigarette to his counterpart. ‘So what did you do next boss?’ He asked with a peculiar mix of impatience and apprehension.

‘Call me Luigi, huh?’ Luigi said flashing a grin at his captive audience. ‘Well, as I say, the stench of this particular puss-bag was overwhelming. I tell yer’ it would have made a cesspit smell like a rose garden. The governor then scrambles out the grave so he can drag His Holiness up by the shoulders and I can push him up from below. So it was while I was shoving, trying not to gag and cursing my choice of profession that something slips out the old vestments and slaps me across the chops. Of course, I panicked and screamed blue murder. Now that freaks out the governor who starts screaming too. So we both lost our grip and poor old Pius somersaults over my shoulder and ends up neck-deep in muck.’

‘Oh my God…may the saints preserve us!’ Paulo exclaimed.

Luigi grinned at the young man, amused that his macabre tale had provoked such consternation. ‘Whatever, we had to grab a lantern each and grope around all the crap in order to find the offending item. Just my bloody luck to lay my hands on it. In the back of my mind I think I already knew it was the old bleeder’s prick.’

Paulo shot him a look of disgust. ‘Ah! That’s truly ghastly Luigi. You know I’m not sure if I’m really cut out for this job. Not if I have to deal with…’ His voice trailed off as his gaze strayed back to the coffin.

‘Believe me, you’ll get used to it son. I did. Anyway, look on the bright side. You don’t have to face rush hour traffic and the customers never complain about shoddy service neither.’

‘Er…I suppose so,’ Paulo said falteringly. ‘So did you get the body out of the pit in the end?’

‘Yeah, eventually. But what a bleedin’ palaver,’ Luigi chuckled. ‘The next problem was getting the body down the morgue. You see, the handcart was too cumbersome in the mud. So I came up with the idea of using the gardener’s wheelbarrow. It was more manoeuvrable, y’know, and we’d be able to weave along the narrow path no bother. So we hoisted Pius in and managed to persuade him to sit down comfortably by standing on him. Then I carted him off with the governor lighting the way. I s’pose it might not be a befitting way for a head of state to make their final journey, but at least the poor old bugger got to take in a bit of scenery.’

‘True,’ Paulo smiled tentatively. ‘Wow, that’s quite a story.’

Luigi stubbed out the cigarette on the wall and flicked it towards the doorway. ‘Well, I’m afraid there’s more. So the mortician lays Pious out on a slab in the bright lights and I get the job of hosing all the crap off. Then we encounter our next little conundrum. Because of the all the mud, we hadn’t noticed the hideously crooked leer on his face. It was enough to give someone an attack of the vapours. Absolutely shocking! I mean, a Gorgon would have attracted more votes in a beauty pageant. There was no way we could let the inspectors see him in that bloody state. Anyways, the mortician takes one look and straight away instructs me to fetch the leather softening fluid and forceps. I tell yer’ he was yanking and prodding at that face for over an hour. Apparently, a lot of the ex-Popes had suffered from facial contortion.’

‘Really?’ Paulo asked.

‘Yeah, absolutely. Anyways, the mortician finally obtained a beatific smile with the aid of a pair of pliers.’

‘I wonder why Pope Pious bore such a horrible death mask?’ Paulo pondered.

‘Pressure of the job, maybe? I mean, it must be a terrible strain always telling people they’ll end up in a fiery inferno if they stick their salami in the wrong ‘ole.’ Luigi speculated.

Paulo was grateful that the dim light concealed his blush. ‘It reminds me of a book that I read - by Oscar Wilde. The story tells of Dorian Gray. He led a very dissolute life but never suffered the consequences. His sins were borne by his portrait - which became a monstrosity. Finally, he confronts his portrait and glimpses how rotten his soul has become. As he lunges at the image he realises, too late, it is in fact himself that he has mortally wounded. He falls…’

‘Yeah, well if you’d have seen this bleedin’ face you’d think he’d taken a stroll through a whole bloody portrait gallery…ghastly, I tell yer’!’ Luigi remarked.

‘So what became of the…er…dislodged part…? Could it be re-attached…glued back on or something…?’ Paulo prompted.

‘Ah, the old dismembered member...’ Luigi recounted. ‘Yeah, well, I suggested the very same thing to my boss all those years ago. But he just said I should keep quiet about it. Besides, Saint Pius probably wouldn’t need it – not where he’s going anyways. So he insisted that I keep it as a memento. I would become a custodian of the sacred penis and it would remain in my family as an heirloom. Of course, looking back, I think he may have been taking the Episcopals. Nevertheless, I dutifully kept it in a cigar box for many years. I had the case engraved with old Pius’s name too. I even used to buff up His Holiness once in a while with a spot of boot polish.

‘You still have it?’ Paulo inquired.

‘Nope, not any more. We had a burglary see. Obviously, the thief recognised the value of this most precious relic and pocketed it. I imagine it ended up on the black market and was bought by some wealthy connoisseur of rare and wondrous objet d’art. (Y’know, blokes who collect all that sort of tat.) I even heard it rumoured that there was a cast made of it and they were selling Saint Pius XI dildos by mail-order. I s’pose it beats coitus interruptus, but still, people should show some respect for the dearly-departed. Coor dear, it’s shocking what some folks will do just for a fast buck,’ Luigi reflected.

‘It certainly is,’ Paulo agreed, lighting another cigarette.

‘I mean, the thing may not have seen much action in latter years but it certainly did the rounds posthumously.’ Luigi observed. ‘Whatever, at least ‘ole Pius came good in the end. The mortician did an amazing job on him…unbelievable. I mean, you’d have thought he was an entirely a different person the way he looked. No one would ever have suspected he’d been up to his neck in shit.’

‘That’s fortunate. Otherwise you might have been slapped with a disciplinary followed by the sack…?’ Paulo speculated.

Luigi pulled a befuddled expression. ‘Nah, thankfully those two bits stayed on. Anyways, me and my mates still laugh about the mishap to this day. Tease me something rotten, they do.’

Paulo dropped the cigarette butt and extinguished it with a muddy boot. He started as an owl hooted close by. ‘Hey…what was that? You reckon this place is haunted or something?’ he said with a shiver.

Luigi dusted himself off and got up. ‘That’s an evil omen, that is,’ he said with a lopsided grin, ‘…a portent of impending doom.’

‘You’re making fun of me,’ Paulo complained catching the irony.

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s just an owl. The only grave robbers they catch are rats. Come on, back to work now. I reckon we’re in for a long night. Here, take a lug o’ this my son,’ Luigi said, offering Paulo a silver flask.

Paulo took a swig and grimaced. ‘What is it?’ he spluttered, returning the flask.

Let’s just say it’s something to keep the jitters at bay,’ Luigi smirked. He took a couple of large gulps and belched noisily. ‘Now, I want you to fetch the handcart. It’s where I left it by the gardener’s shed – just to the right of the steps.’

‘Okay,’ came the lacklustre reply.

‘Now don’t you worry. This is character building stuff, this is. And while you do that, I’ll ‘ave a quick look in on our friend here and make sure he hasn’t done a runner.’

After some time, Paulo returned with the cart in tow, sweating profusely. He mopped his brow with a sleeve, teasing back a lustrous black fringe.

Luigi handed him the flask and lit a cigarette. ‘We have a bit of a dilemma it would seem,’ he frowned.

‘What is it?’ Paulo asked, looking more than a little spooked.

‘Well, they’ve only gone and screwed the coffin to the bleedin’ plinth, haven’t they? Probably worried someone might abduct him,’ Luigi grumbled. ‘Fuck me, I knew this was gonna be a tricky one.’ He took back the cigarette and plumped himself down at the base of the pedestal.

Paulo joined him, gratefully taking his turn on the smoke. ‘So what do we do next?’

‘It’s gonna ‘ave to be a hand job – if you’ll pardon the figure of speech,’ Luigi said.

‘You mean…?’

Luigi peered at Paulo with lugubrious eyes. ‘Yeah. We have to lift him. Anyways, I think another breather’s in order don’t you? I mean another one to follow swiftly on from this one.’

Paulo hastily agreed. ‘So what did they say about this Cardinal Rightvinger?’

‘What, old Wrist-swinger? Well, a bit of a philosopher by all accounts. Knew his Plato from his pilates. Mind you, I always thought he was an imperious tight-ass who’d lost touch with a common humanity, y’know?’

Paulo regarded his counterpart reproachfully. ‘How can you say that about this great man? He’s to become a saint. It’s irreverent…it’s…’

‘The truth?’ Luigi offered.

‘No…no,’ Paulo stuttered indignantly, ‘it’s you - you have no sense of wonderment…about miracles. Didn’t they say he performed a great and magical deed?’

‘And so he did…allegedly. According to the grapevine he cured a young woman of infertility. Apparently, he performed the divine act in his private chambers,’ Luigi chuckled. ‘Of course, the husband was delighted when she announced she was up the duff.’

‘Really?’ Paulo enthused.

‘Yeah really. Their house has now become a place of pilgrimage. And the old gal’s gone and renamed herself ‘Maria Imaculata’. Ah well, at least Rightvinger’s worked wonders for the tourist industry, if nothing else.’

Paulo discerned the clumsy attempt at sarcasm ‘Well I still believe he was a true miracle-worker,’ he asserted indignantly, ‘and the baby is proof of it.’

Luigi shrugged. ‘Believe what you want. Mind you, they say the baby’s a real ugly little sod,’ he confided. ‘Weasely-looking, y’know? Nothing like the husband...’

‘Well a miracle is a miracle,’ Paulo insisted, ‘and whatever you sceptics think, most of us revere him. In fact the masses love him do they not?’

‘Were the Bee Gees helium-abusers?’ Luigi retorted. ‘Coor dear, of course they love him. I don’t doubt it. Most of ‘em would happily use his shit for toothpaste.’

Paulo stared at the floor moodily.

Luigi flung the cigarette at a portrait and hauled himself upright. ‘Come on then lad. To work we go. Now, we’re gonna have to lift him onto the cart. I’ll let you handle the lower end alright?’

Paulo brushed off his jeans and watched as his boss casually discarded the coffin lid which clattered onto the floor jarringly. He looked tentatively at its occupant. ‘Gosh, he looks really peaceful,’ he reflected.

Luigi frowned. ‘Yeah, course he does. That’s Stavros’s work, that is. Best in the business. What a criminal waste that he got stuck in this game. It’s like Michael Angelo working in a kebab shop. I mean, no matter how hard you look you never see any bruising around the chops. Now there’s a miracle for you! Apparently this one had a supercilious sneer on one ‘alf of his gob and a vicious snarl on the other. The poor old chamber maid actually fainted when she discovered him. Oh well, onwards…’ Luigi glanced at his watch and nodded at his counterpart.

Without another word, the duo reached into the coffin in unison and manhandled the cadaver onto their shoulders.

Paulo felt the onset of panic, disgust and claustrophobia as robes draped around head. Abruptly the deadweight stirred to life with a cacophonous percolating trump (reminiscent of a drowning trombonist). In the grip of sheer terror, Paulo screamed.

‘For Christ’s sakes keep him steady!’ Luigi exclaimed, lurching as the extra weight bore down on him. ‘We all let one off once in a while don’t we…?’

Paulo began to stagger about the room. ‘Oh my God Luigi, that wasn’t a fart! There’s something running down my neck!’ he squealed.

As Paulo’s legs gave way, the corpse toppled off his shoulders, swung free of Luigi and sprawled heavily against the cart. Finally it slid off and thudded to the floor relinquishing a pair of dentures. As Luigi gasped to catch his breath, Paulo collapsed in a heap.

Shortly, Luigi lit a fag, passed Paulo his flask and stared beyond the doorway contemplatively. He gave a dry chuckle and patted his accomplice on the shoulder. ‘Shit happens,’ he joked.

Paulo barely looked up as he mopped his neck with a handkerchief. ‘Not funny Luigi,’ he snapped petulantly.

‘Cardinal Rightvinger…? Hmm, shouldn’t they ‘ave made him Poop?’ Luigi jested.

Still shaken, Paulo glared at him. ‘You think you’re funny?’ he yelled. ‘You think you have all the answers to life? Who are you, eh? You’re a nobody. In fact you’re less than a nobody!’

Luigi took another swig and regarded Paulo from a distance that defied their proximity. ‘Who am I indeed? Now there’s a question. Well, just a cynical old fart that tires of this bloody world that’s who. A world that stole everything. So what pretence do you wish me to uphold? ‘Cuz I became a nobody when all your saints, your prayers, your priests and your God sat on their fat arses while my daughter died of leukaemia. So fuck all of ‘em!’ He hurled the flask at a portrait and began to weep.

Paulo stared moodily at the floor, the heat of his rage dissipating into unease. ‘But you are too bitter Luigi. Is it for the love of a child that a person loses sight of God…?’

Luigi snorted derisively. ‘What would you know of such matters? Besides, my Sofia’s never left me. She remains my only faith, my only saint and the only light in my heavens.’

‘You are speaking blasphemy.’ Paulo chided. ‘If you disregard Faith then you are in grave peril, eh? God has blessed us with a divine gift of life. You should be thankful and contrite before his word.’

Luigi rummaged for a cigarette and lit it. ‘So what is this ‘divine gift of life’ eh?’ he said, gesturing expansively. ‘This…? ...The unceasing clamour of voices telling you what to eat, what to wear, who to vote for…who to love or hate…? Which god to worship…? On that unstoppable conveyor belt from womb to grave we’re hamstrung by market forces, imprisoned by convention, bound in ritual and enslaved by dogma. This ‘divine gift of life’ is little more than a human factory farm beguiled by a dream of some mythical utopia. You can keep your ‘divine gift’.’

‘You have no respect for tradition…or anything.’ Paulo retorted.

‘Tradition? What’s tradition when compared with the splendour of a single human experience…like being in love…or seeing your child’s first smile…? Ah tradition – it’s just the illusion of continuity. To hell with it!’

Time dragged on as the pair dwelt in a moody silence.

Finally, Paulo broke the disquiet. ‘What’s the next job then boss? I mean, after we’ve carted off this festering old stiff to the morgue?’ he said mustering a cheeky grin.

As Luigi eyed his apprentice a reluctant smile finally broke cover. ‘Unblocking drains lad. They’ve got bunged up with secret dossiers again. Christ, I mean, why those dinosaurs can’t buy a bloody paper shredder like most sane people is beyond me…?’

‘Tradition maybe?’ Paulo smirked.

© Edwin Black 2011