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 II)

Act II - Hollow Throne

Characters:

CARDINAL BERTILLONI – senior administrator, Vatican City.
CARDINAL SODOMIA – financial advisör and chinwagger.
POPE RIGHTVINGER – outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO – incoming pope.
CARDINAL FELATITTIO – screaming queen.
SIGNORE GARIBALDI – mafioso boss and utter cad.

* * *

In a sumptuous anteroom within St Peter’s Basilica, a coterie of cardinals thronged about a dais endowed with a peculiar throne…

‘It’s most improper I say,’ Cardinal Sodomio lisped agitatedly to his counterpart amid a general hubbub of gossiping and conniving. As if to emphasise his point he wobbled his clammy jowls disapprovingly. ‘I mean, this hasn’t been part of Curia protocol since the Middle Ages. It’s outrageous.’

‘Indubitably,’ Cardinal Bertilloni concurred noncommittally, ‘a travesty even by his standards.’

‘I mean really, who’s going to hide something like that under their bushel anyway?’ Sodomia grumbled. ‘And besides which, why in God’s name are we still waiting, hmm?’ He attempted to elevate a hefty, squat frame onto tiptoe and peer over a polka-dot pimpling of zucchettos.

‘God knows’. Bertilloni elongated a hoary neck and reconnoitred the entrance. ‘Still no sign of them,’ he reported back, glancing at the time again.

‘Well, I suspect it’s the Emeritus holding things up – Rightvinger,’ His rubicund associate muttered conspiratorially behind a sleeve. ‘In fact, I have it on good authority he’s awaiting delivery of some state-of-the-art wheelchair…complements of Fritz von Vinkel no less.’

‘Oh really?’ Bertilloni shot his accomplice a quizzical look. ‘You mean the new holier-than-thou dickwad heading up the IOR*?’

‘Oh, so you’ve met him?’ Sodomio responded with a rhetorical air.

‘Met him? Oh I’ve met him alright.’ Bertilloni sneered. ‘But he’s evidently not acquainted himself with us. He hasn’t stopped bellyaching about möney laundering for the Garibaldi fämily and payoffs to all those bum-boy blackmailers since he arrived. And now he’s whining about donations to far-right terror groups. Last I heard he was poking around the catacombs trying to locate that shipment of Nazi gold from Croatia. Honestly, one wonders why the prick even took the job if he had scruples.’

‘Ah well, perhaps he’ll find a suitable bridge to dangle himself from like the other guy, hmm? Well, with a little helping hand from Signore Garibaldi, naturally.’

‘We’d best give him enough rope then.’ Bertilloni muttered scathingly. He glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time. ‘So what’s all this about a wheelchäir?’

Sodomia cast his eyes askance then sidled closer to his associate. ‘Well, Vinkel’s previous employer used to build battleships for the Nazis. But they were also involved in covert wartime research. Vinkel got wind of this and managed to lay his hands on blueprints for the ‘Kriegvagon’. It’s combat-ready wheelchair. Turns out the Third Reich planned to station homicidal heaven-dodgers on the Western Front. Anyway, I hear Rightvinger’s expecting delivery of a prototype.’

‘God help us all,’ Bertilloni groaned.

‘Quite,’ Sodomia commented. ‘So what do you think of our new heavenly-harbinger?’ he quizzed, scratching listlessly at a heavily perspiring arse-cleft.

‘Pope Franco? Not much. I mean the only reason that bastard got in was down to the spoiler-effect on my own candidacy,’ Bertilloni seethed. ‘I was deliberately scuppered from the outset.’

‘Why am I not surprised? I mean, if the swines can’t build their own little empires they gang up and put their weight behind the weakest candidate. That way they can wheedle more grace and favour,’ Sodomia reflected. ‘But then pettiness and pharisaism are among the few causes that actually unite us.’

‘True,’ his counterpart murmured, staring impassively into the middle distance.

‘But what of God’s choice, I wonder?’ Sodomia ventured with more than a trace of irony.

‘Who..?’ Bertilloni said distractedly, ‘…oh, him. Frankly, I think he favours a laissez-faire approach don’t you? …Prefers to leave it to his temporal agents to wade into those stygian depths of politics and human folly.’

His counterpart nodded in agreement and glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Well this is intolerable,’ he hissed. ‘Where the hell is he?’

Belated but on cue, the doors swung outwards. Pope Emeritus trundled grandly into the hall in full ceremonial finery and on an enormous whining, whirring contraption - evocative of a lunar landing vehicle. He caused some of the cardinals to start as he cut a meandering swathe towards the platform. Following him, an entourage led by his strutting successor clad in a simple white smock.

Hydraulics hissed as Rightvinger awkwardly wheeled about face to his audience. With the flick of a switch his seat elevated until he was nigh on pulpit-level.  ‘Welcome, my…ah…ah…esteemed cardinals,’ he announced in a warbling German accent. ‘We must be succinct for once, since our new pope-elect here, Pope Franco, wishes to conclude matters swiftly. So without further ado, we wish to inform za Curia that we have reinstated the sedia stercoraria - as you will observe.’ He motioned towards the hollow-bottomed wooden seat.

‘As you are no doubt aware,’ he went on, ‘those plotting revolutionaries among za fräulein species will stop at nothing to infiltrate our ranks. After due cogitation, we decided to safeguard against the possibility of a lady-bottom ever contaminating the seat of Saint Peter. Of course, we must never permit zis effrontery. Accordingly we have made provision, henceforth, for all appointees to undergo za test. A test that, without wishing to seem vulgar, will ensure nature has endowed the candidate elect with the prerequisite (if redundant) trappings of office.’

There was a hussed titter amongst the assembly. A hand shakily arose from the ranks.

’Yes? ’ The outgoing pope called out, inclining his head down towards the inquirer.

‘Um…what, precisely… does that mean your Holiness?’ A doddery, rheumy-eyed cardinal piped up.

Momentarily, the Rightvinger became introspective. ‘Err…what it means, is zat the investiture will observe with tradition; graced below waist and yet bereft of a cleft.’

‘But I don’t….’ the rather befuddled questioner began to splutter and attempted to hawk up some phlegm. ‘I don’t… (ahem-ahem) …understand…?’ he gurgled.

Rightvinger glared at him. ‘Good God man is it not obvious? Our pope must demonstrate he’s enhanced with a lance…adorned with a horn… y’know…a wrinkler with a sprinkler? Is it so hard to grasp? I mean, should we now question God’s divine misogyny? Certainly not! Zis is why his temporal representative must be replete with a meat and have za knob for the job.’ His expression pacified somewhat as his gaze flitted to a canvas of the Virgin Mary. ‘In short my good cardinals, we wish to guarantee that those who ‘amen-us’ are packing za penis.’

‘Ah…hmm…I think…I understand,’ the muddled prelate burbled as look of relief finally ranged across his features. ‘So we uphold the testicles in our vestibules and keep the testes in our vestries. And I suppose, similarly, one might maintain a throbbing-gristle to preach the epistle?’

Rightvinger glowered at him but before he had a chance to vent his spleen he was forestalled.

‘Oh!’ the cardinal exclaimed, ‘oh dear…if you will kindly excuse me gentlemen…I think I need to power my nose.’ With that, he lurched and shambled towards the exit awkwardly. The gathering afforded him a wide berth.

‘If we may proceed?’ Rightvinger growled, scowling at a muddy discolouration that had mysteriously appeared on the rich Persian carpet. He twiddled a joystick and turned himself to his victorious successor. ‘Now, if you will be good enough to mount za chair, yes?’ As he fidgeted a muffled trump emanated from the base of his Kriegvagon, swiftly followed by a sluicing sound and then the whoosh of air. ‘You will of course excuse us, gentlemen,’ he muttered nonchalantly, ‘it was merely a little effluvia.’

In stark contrast to his self-effacing public performances, a cocksure Pope Franco mounted the platform and with all the imperious bearing of an emperor. He and hitched up the back of his smock as far as modesty would allow and lowered himself into a reclining position. ‘We are ready,’ he stated simply as he shifted uncomfortably.

Rightvinger turned to the assembly. ‘Now, we require a candidate to undertake an inspection of za ‘hanging fruit’. Do we have a volunteer…anyone?’

A tall, gaunt figure began willowing towards the front ‘Ooh, ‘scuse me dear… can I just squeeze by… I believe this is where my services are required…’

As he sidled up to the front row he was unceremoniously barged aside by a rival of vastly superior girth who then bulldozed his way to the fore.

‘Oh no you don’t dear! I’m ‘aving some o’ that,’ the man-mountain spat viciously at his rival. ‘Coming through!’  He announced, lolloping up to the dais.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen…there’s no need to fight,’ Rightvinger admonished. He eyed the forerunner severely. ‘Hmm, Cardinal Felatittio - what a surprise,’ he muttered sardonically. ‘Good. I think we are ready. Cardinal, if you would be so good as to-’

‘Just tell me how you like it your Holiness,’ Felatittio butted in as he rubbed plump hands together gleefully.

‘Just get on with it!’ the reclining pope bawled angrily.

‘Ooh yes your holiness. With pleasure your holiness,’ the corpulent prelate gushed and simpered. ‘I believe I know what I’m doing here.’ He lowered himself clumsily onto a supplicant knee and promptly slid a fat arm upwards between his prey’s legs. In moments he began to grapple at something fleshy.

‘Oouff!’ Pope Franco howled. ‘That’s my fuh…haark…king haemorrhoid you bumbling imbecile!’

‘Oops, sorry dear,’ the grovelling cardinal apologised. He abased himself further in an attempt to peer up the skirt. After a series of ungainly pulsating motions, reminiscent of a floundering dungong, he finally caught sight of his quarry. ‘Oo-ooh! It’s a big one too!’ He announced shrilly from under the smock.

There was a subdued ripple of applause among the audience.

Meanwhile, Cardinal Felatittio inched further in, hoping to give the holy sceptre a worshipful gobble on the sly.

However his plan was thwarted by the eagle-eyed Rightvinger. ‘Will you desist from your wanton bootlicking!’ he thundered from on high. ‘Halt I say, we command you!’

The beached-walrus-of-a-cardinal peered out from under the smock whilst cupping the pope’s testicles lovingly. ‘Sorry your Holiness, but I wanted to be unequivocal, y’know dearie…I mean your Holiness…?’

‘Get your hands off me you abominable wretch!’ Pope Franco bellowed. He extricated himself from the unwelcome tryst and hoisted himself up. He then glared up at Rightvinger. ‘He just tried to play dingdong with my bell-end!’

‘Well there’s not much chance of that flaccid thing chiming is there sweetheart…?’ Cardinal Felatittio bitched as he clambered to his feet and waddled back to join the onlookers.

‘Good. Matters are concluded.’ Rightvinger announced. ‘Thank you gentlemen. I’m sure we all wish my successor well in his enthronement upon the holy seat of Saint Peter. May Almighty God shower him with his blessings. In nomine Patris et fillii…yada-yada.’ He lowered his chair and bade his successor follow him to his private quarters.

As the congregation dispersed and formed into gossiping enclaves, Bertilloni slunk off and passed through the Sistine Chapel. Momentarily he gazed up at Archangel Michael reading from the book of the damned. Saint Michael…the cardinal mused…who thrust into hell those who prowl the world seeking the ruin of souls...wielder of the sword of God, herald of judgement… He slunk into an alcove and withdrew a cell phone.

‘What is it?’ A gruff voice growled at him.

‘We have a problem,’ he murmured, ‘there’s been another ‘mishap’…an archbishop, no less.’ There was a long pause. The cardinal stared into the gloom with icy, deadpan eyes.

‘So what do you want me to do about it…ah? You handle operations. I supply the boys and girls, you supply the premises…remember?’

A conflagration of anger engulfed Bertilloni. He struggled against an impulse to deface a nearby depiction of the Resurrection. ‘Did you order the hit?’

‘Who’s asking? Who is that? You asking me?’ came the menacing retort. ‘You asking me who I choose to waste and who I choose to don’t waste? Hey you must be out of your fuckin’ mind buddy! Listen, I don’t give a shit about them pious perverts who patronise your whorehouses. This is strictly business, ah? So long as they gimme the dough, I don’t give a fuck if they’re banging the maggots outta’ their own dead grandmother.’

Bertilloni took his crucifix and stabbed at the mural. Fragments of plaster fell as he gouged at the eyes of the Creator.

‘Hey, you there? Where d’you go…?’

Bertilloni became placid. ‘It would appear we have an assassin in our midst. And he’s receiving help.’

‘So what? You think I got some hidden agenda or somethin’? You think I wanna wind up operations now, while all the dough’s rolling in? Hey, now that would be goddamn sacrilegious right?’

‘The point is someone’s onto us!’ Bertilloni snarled. ‘Two cardinals executed in the same place is hardly an act of God!’ He exhaled slowly in an attempt to curtail his rage. ‘I think it’s Fritz von Vinkel. He’s too interested in those bank transactions.’

‘Well maybe he’ll find himself hanging under Blackfriars Bridge like that other prick, Calvino, ah? Oh yeah, I’m sure you appreciated the irony of our choice of bridge given your Dominican business ventures, eh cardinal? Anyway, he was about blab to that bitch reporter he was banging so we had to waste him fast.’

‘Listen Garibaldi, the spotlight of the world is on Rome right now. I’m not sure if I can pull the veil over another ‘accident’.’

‘I told you not to use my motherfuckin’ name Bertilloni! Are you fuckin’ nuts? Okay, tell you what; let’s say I get one o’ my crew to sniff around…check out a few places…ah?’

‘I need this sorted.’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hey, I said I’d look into it, right? Period.’

The phöne went dead.

The cardinal’s searing gaze fell upon a scroll adorning the defaced fresco it read: ‘Deus videt omnia’; God sees everything. He drew out a marker and scrawled furiously over it: ‘Deus est forsit manu temptans’;

- God is probably short-sighted.

* Institute for the Works of Religion (Vatican Bank).

© Edwin Black 2013

Temptations of the Flush (Act I)

Herewith, the first part of my tale. EB x

Act 1 - Bordello

 

* * *

 

Characters:

 

LUIGI - gravedigger, Vatican City.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI - senior administrator, Vatican City.
FRIAR FARQUHARSON - proprietor of a disreputable guesthouse.

CARDINAL HERMANN GOËBLER - Austrian bishop (deceased).

 

* * *

Somewhere in the dank bowels of the Vatican catacombs…

‘Let me get this straight…you want me to lug some rotten old bug-buffet all the way back from Piazza Vittorio to the morgue? I didn’t see no docket for this…? Nah, it’s more than my bleedin’ job’s worth mate,’ Luigi griped. He juggled the receiver awkwardly, flicking ash into the mouth of an unwitting corpse that just happened to be gawping in his direction.

‘Now you listen here you cretinous drunk, I’ve had just about enough of your impudence!’ Cardinal Bertilloni erupted. ‘Either you attend to this unfortunate incident or you’ll find yourself back on the streets with the rest of the winos.’

‘Alright, alright, keep yer’ bleedin’ skullcap on… Jesus. It just don’t sound legit, that’s all gov’. I mean, what led him to open a maggot-motel anyway?’

‘That, you bacchanalian brute, is hardly your concern.’ Bertilloni snapped haughtily. ‘Now, I must attend to more pressing matters. In case it escaped your leaden wits, there’s a papal conclave in session.’

‘Oh I see… it’s like that is it? Usual story - I do all the spadework while you swan off and then take all the credit,’ Luigi grumbled sullenly.

‘Whatever,’ the cardinal responded dismissively, ‘all I care about is that you handle this matter with the utmost delicacy. Do I make myself clear? Otherwise, who knows, you may receive Saint Peter’s summons sooner than you think…?’

Luigi blanched somewhat, cognizant of the cardinal’s great influence over hearts and minds - some of those minds being of a distinctly criminal bent. He hastily lifted his hipflask and took a long draft. ‘Ah, well… erm… if you put it like that, your eminence,’ he stammered, ‘I s’pose I’d best take a note of the address then.’

Shortly, Luigi refilled his flask with surgical spirit (plus the usual dash of embalming fluid for ‘fortification’). He grabbed the scrawled note, overcoat and keys to the stätion wagon.

The hypnotic sound of pelting rain eased his disquiet somewhat as he drove towards Rome’s red light precinct. He was all too familiar with the shadier parts of town having endured childhood in one of Rome’s orphanages. His escape to a better life had been fleeting. Following his daughter’s death, and freefall into älcoholism, his life had unraveled. Cardinal Bertilloni had gathered up those threads; offered him work and lodgings. But at what price? For what had at first seemed an act of mercy was merely an expediency. Luigi had come to discern his true purpose as a vassal of the church; compelled to do its biddìng and dependent upon its grace. This wasn’t the first time he’d helped to pull the shroud over an ‘indiscretion’.

‘Why do I always get lumbered? Why me, eh?’ Luigi griped as he steered into a backstreet and crawled along a dingy alleyway. The vehicle juddered to a halt. The unremarkable block was one of many guesthouses maintained by the Papal state. He gathered his accoutrements from the trunk and stabbed at a door buzzer, drizzle blurring his sight.

‘Come, get in, get in.’ A middle-aged Dominican Friar all but yanked Luigi over the threshold. The gravedigger was then unceremoniously ushered up four flìghts of stairs. He paused, gasping for breath and peered along a gloomy corridor.

The Black Friar regarded him severely. ‘Come, we must attend to this poor unfortunate soul immediately.’

Luigi dropped his bag and took a swig of his cocktail. ‘Listen, let me explain how this works. I ain’t doing no grafting ‘til I catch my breath - comprendes?’ he wheezed.

‘Ah, but of course. Yes, His Eminence warned me of your sloppiness,’ The Dominican remarked curtly.

‘Sloppiness?’ Luigi protested. ‘Well I’m not the one who let some poor bleeder snuff it under their roof am I? So don’t come the high and mighty with me, alright?’

The friar regarded the pathetic puffing figure speculatively. ‘Forgive me brother Luigi. I was simply trying to impress upon you the dire urgency of the task in hand. In four hours dawn will be upon us and could betray our best intentions.’

‘Alright, point taken,’ Luigi huffed.

‘I should introduce myself,’ the Dominican went on. ‘I’m Friar Georgio Farquharson - ‘Friar Farq’ to my brethren. The knots in my cincture signify poverty, obedience and chastity. In fact, the cardinal regularly reminds us all to ‘get knotted’. Oh, but I fear that last knot has been known to slip rather in this particular establishment…’

‘Eh?’ Luigi responded, attempting to untangle the allusion. ‘Well anyhow, you’d better lead the way mate.’

The Dominican fiddled with a bunch of keys. He turned the lock and bade Luigi follow him inside. He flicked the light on and immediately locked the door behind them. Promptly he strode over to the balcony doors and flung them open. In spite of the chill waft of air, an all-too-familiar stench pervaded the room.

Luigi fought back his nausea. His gaze drifted to the bed. As his mind struggled to comprehend the visual melee, he pondered the possibility that the embalming fluid had finally marinated his brain. ‘What the…? Coor dear… well… I’ve bleedin’ seen it all now mate … I mean, how the ‘ell did that get up there…?’

The pair remained transfixed by a bloated, trussed-up corpse slumped face down on the bed. It appeared to be wearing a gimp mask and was clad in a hirsute costume cut away at the buttocks. Wedged firmly between them was, what looked like, the mottled tip of a medium sized marrow.

‘Um, it was of course causas naturales.’ The Dominican intimated with an uneasy wink.

‘Natural causes you say…?’ Luigi queried, scratching his temple. ‘Ah well, whatever…’ He crouched and unzipped his carryall, removing a body bag along with a selection of tools.

‘Terrible business...’ the Friar commented, ‘… and most unseemly - even for this place.’ He winced and produced a handkerchief, holding it to his mouth as he crossed himself.

Luigi lit a cigarette and surveyed the grim spectacle. He took a long swig from his hipflask and regarded an assortment of root vegetables strewn about the floor. His gaze inexorably strayed back to the marrow nestling within buttocks that were striated by angry welts. ‘Well, to be frank with you Friar, it looks like there might have been foul play afoot,’ he observed. ‘I mean, I’m no expert but even for a flagellant this is going a bit too far innit? Ah, but what I know eh?’

‘Nothing.’ the friar asserted. ‘You know nothing, you remember nothing… you say nothing. I think we both appreciate this, yes? Or must I inform His Eminence of your burning curiosity?’

Luigi stared back defiantly. ‘Ere, don’t you get shirty wi’ me Friar-Fuck!’ he blustered. ‘Remember, I’m doing you a bleedin’ favour ‘ere. And doing it very much off-the-record by the looks of things.’

The Dominican relaxed somewhat. He gazed pensively out the portafinestra and beyond to a coruscating cityscape. ‘Just so long as you understand. It’s imperative we maintain the utmost secrecy.’

‘Trust me, I’m a professional carcass-courier.’ Luigi slurred. ‘And I ain’t spilling no beans neither. Or any other vegetables for that matter,’ he quipped, lobbing his cigarette butt towards the balcony. He set about gathering up the selection of soiled tubas. ‘Coor dear, talk about getting the shit end of the stick,’ he complained.

‘He was the primate for the whole of Austria you know… a contender for the chair of St Peter…’ the Friar reflected gloomily.

Luigi looked up from his exertions. ‘Primate? Bloody ‘ell, he looks more like a bleedin’ baboon to me. Anyway, how d’you reckon that marrow found its way up there?’

Friar Farquharson drew a pained expression. ‘Well, I fear he must have stumbled upon it whilst performing his ablutions.’

‘Stumbled? Yeah right, pull the other one mate!’ Luigi scoffed. ‘And I s’pose it’s been well documented how marrows can suddenly launch themselves up a fella’s ‘mangina’…?’

‘How dare you cast those smutty aspersions over our beloved brother!’ The Friar countered indignantly. ‘Besides, well… you’ve heard of Mexican jumping beans…?’

‘Alright, alright,’ Luigi said raising a placatory hand. ‘I mean, it’s only natural to speculate given the unusual circumstances innit? I mean, maybe it was some bizarre rite of passage that went horribly wrong…? Well, back-passage in this particular instance. Or what if it’s the ‘omosexual version of a sharia divorce…?’

‘Will you shut up?’ The Friar snapped testily. ‘I’ve never heard anything so preposterous!’

‘Sorry mate.’ Luigi said as he struggled to unknot the rope around the cadaver’s wrists. ‘Just that I find all this easier if I’m thinking aloud… Y’know, it takes my mind of the macabre realities?’

Luigi finally unbound the corpse and unsuccessfully attempted to attach one of the ropes around the end of the embedded marrow. ‘Ah bollocks!’ he cursed. ‘Listen you’re gonna ‘ave to help me get this marrow out. If the governor sees this he’ll go apeshit.’

The pair wrestled against the stubborn squash from either side, bracing themselves against a broad fatty rump.

Exasperated, Luigi stood. ‘Ere, grab my waist yeah? If we both yank at the same time we might manage to shift it.’ The friar’s large hands fastened to Luigi’s hips as he finally gained purchase of the slippery green baton. ‘Heave!’ he instructed. They hauled in unison.

Abruptly the obstinate marrow dislodged with a loud ‘squelch’ and went sailing out through the French windows. The pair toppled backwards into a squirming heap. The extraction was followed by the sloppy trumping of escaping gas that finally subsided into a gurgling hiss. The Friar retched as the fetid reek assailed his senses.

‘Ere, do you reckon he just blew you a kiss?’ Luigi jested with a ribald chuckle.

The Friar dusted himself off and scowled at him.

It fell to Luigi to perform the disagreeable task of ensuring there weren’t any further foreign bodies lodged in the corpse’s rectum. He cursed as he retrieved a gold bracelet beaded with fecal matter. ‘Eeuu-yuck!’ he exclaimed. He promptly rinsed his hands, the bracelet, then rewarded himself generously with some further libation. He pocketed the trinket.

It then took the duo some time to manoeuver the considerable deadweight into its bag and then manhandle it into the corridor.

‘He was a big fella, weren’t he?’ Luigi gasped as he slumped against the wall again and tried to catch his breath. ‘The occasional fast wouldn’t ‘ave hurt... I mean, His Grace here could have lived off the fat of the land for years.’

‘He was susceptible to the same temptations that we all are, I suppose,’ the friar reflected. ‘We must pray that he’s been gathered unto God’s bosom.’

Luigi snorted derisively and lit another cigarette. ‘Never mind about breastfeeding, who the ‘ell was this bloke anyway… Cardinal Sin…?

‘Certainly not,’ the Dominican snapped. ‘This was His Eminence Hermann Goëbler, Archbishop of Vienna. A most venerable member of our mother church.’

‘Ah well, in that case he’ll probably get canonized and depicted with one of them gold Frisbees stuck on the back of his ‘ead. They might even make him patron saint of marrows, eh mate?’ Luigi speculated with a lopsided smirk.

‘That is not for us to say brother. We will advise the press office he suffered a mishap whist tilling our vegetable patch for the poor.’

Luigi went to check the time but, much to his dismay, realised his wrist watch was missing. ‘Ahh...fuck!’ he spat petulantly.

‘Yes?’ The friar dutifully inquired.

© Edwin Black 2013.