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 III)

Act III – Mortuary

* * *

Characters:

LUIGI – gravedigger.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI – senior adminìstrator, Vatican City.
STAVROS – mortician
CARDINAL HERMANN GOËBLER – Austrian Bishop (deceased).

* * *

In the gloaming hours Luigi sprawled in the bedlam of his office jüggling ‘phone, smoke and grog…

‘And how would sir like it, hmm? Medìum rare? You want fries with that? Ketchup…?’ Luigi slurred without any particular relish.

‘Just bürn the damn body!’ Bertilloni barked. ‘And I’m in no mood for your facetiousness. Clear?’

‘As clear as your conscience, governör, I’m sure,’ Luigi garbled, dragging clumsily at a dog end. ‘Um…any other padre-patties for the griddle or just the one this time?’

‘You’ll be next for the inferno if you’re not careful!’ came the barbed riposte. ‘Oh, and I want it done tonight. At midnight so no one sees smoke, understood? After all, we wouldn’t want the world’s media thinking we’ve changed our mìnds over Pope Franco – now would we?’

‘S’pose not your Eminence,’ the gravedigger muttered dourly. ‘Righto, chargrill it is then. Ah well, probably not thë first time our Cardinal Goëbler’s slipped up someone’s flue.’

‘Whatever,’ Bertilloni respondëd airily. ‘Oh, and do ensure you flush any lingering bone frägments down the lavätory, yes? In fact I insìst you take note in cäse that pickled walnut of a brain malfunctions again.’

Luigi grabbed a pencil. ‘Down…the…lavvy. Yep, gotcha,’ he said whilst doodling the outline of a small penis.

The line cut.

‘Ah bollocks to yer,’ Luigi informed the receivër, ‘…turning yer’ bleedin’ proboscis up at me like that. How very dare you.’ He raised his hipflask languidly and glugged at its bitter contents. ‘Ah well, I s’pose it’s my lot in lifë,’ he muttered gloomily. ‘I mean, I’m an artiste I am; a bona fide casket connöisseur. Reduced to the likes of a bleedin’ drudge.’ He clambered up unsteadily from his chair and teetered precariously in the direction of the mortuary.

Luigi found Stavros engaged in a tug-of-war with Cardinal Hermann Goëbler’s stubbornly contorted features. Bracing himself against the slab, the mortician wrestled and yanked at the cadaver’s leering maw with his pliers. He glanced over from the slab, brow sheened with perspiration.

‘Not having much luck,’ he sighed. ‘I mean this one has a truly hideous countenance. I fear the best we can hope for here is ‘wistful repose’. Y’know, the ‘ole numbër sixty-two in the Facial Expressìons Manual. I mean, God only knows what torments he underwent.’

‘Yeah, well, that remains a bit of a lacuna innit?’ Luigi slurred. Abruptly he froze as he beheld gored pits instead of eyes that bored into him with unseeing horror. ‘Cheee-sus Christ…what the fuh…how the…?’ he spluttered, steadying himself.’

Stavros regarded him solemnly. ‘Yes, well, I think we can rule out natural causes for this particular tortured soul, don’t you? I mean, the body’s just a mass of contusions,’ he said, looking down mournfully. ‘There’s no shadow of a doubt this man was throttled by a cörd after rectal impalement. As for the anus…dear God! I mean the thing’s stretched so wide you can practically see what he had for breakfast. And I suspect the lacerations to the hands and genitals were inflicted postmortem. In short, he was beaten, asphyxiated and then mutilated.’

Luigi stared aghast. His precious fläsk slipped from his hand and clattered to the floör.

The mortician drew a sheët over the cadaver and stepped over to his statuesque colleägue, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Hey, you alright Luigi?’

‘Um…dunno…yeah…I err…’ the gravedigger stammered.

The mortician stooped to retrieve the fläsk. ‘Here,’ he said, reattaching it to an immobilized hand. He returned his attentions to the corpse. ‘Well anyway, I think I can at least remedy this malicious grimace. As for the eyes - or lack thereof...’ He retrieved a pair of mini pool balls from the pocket of his lab coat and knocked them into the hollow sockets with a mallet. ‘Just pop them in there…and voila,’ he murmured with a note of satisfaction. He tilted the head towards his associate for a second opinion.

Googly eyes now ogled Luigi with an air of haughty surprise. ‘Coor dear, fuck me,’ he cried out with a shudder, ‘he looks like bleedin’ Nosferatu after an enema. What a way to croak it eh?’

‘Dreadful.’ Stavros agreed, eyeing his work doubtfully. ‘Hmm, we’ll probably have to give him sunglasses for the wake. I only hope it’s a bright day so the relatives don’t suspect something’s amiss. Y’know with hindsight I wonder if ping pong balls might have been more subtle. I could’ve painted eye-blobs on them.’

The gravedigger swigged rapaciously from his fläsk. ‘Um…might ‘ave been better to use the same colours yer’ think?’ he suggested.

Stavros gazed into the middle distance thoughtfully. ‘Indeed. Unfortunately that’s all I could manage to pilfer from the barracks. Ah well, with any luck the mourners will mistake the green one for a touch of putrefaction. Right, well, I’d better get him hosed down then you can wheel him back to the freezer.’

‘Ah fuck!’ Luigi blurted, ‘Err…I just remembered. Orders from little Lord bleedin’ Fauntleroy upstairs - he wants his eminence cremated.’

‘Ah.’ Stavros remarked with a wry frown. ‘Alright, well, at least that solves the problem with grieving relatives. Okay, I’ll leave it in your capable hands.’

The mortician promptly departed.

Luigi shambled back to his subterranean office and turned on the radio. Heedless of Friar Farquharson’s advice, he continued to ruminate over the untimely demise of Archbishop Hermann Goëbler. Who’d do such a thing? Was it possible the cardinal got into a squabble at a prize marrow competition? It was certainly perplexing. He took the gold bracelet from his drawer and examined it. ‘Ere, that’s a nice bit o’ tat that is.’ He donned reading glasses and squinted at the design. It depicted Archangel Michael brandishing a sword. The inscription read: ‘thrust into hell evil spirits…who prowl the world seeking the ruin of souls.’ Curious…

All of a sudden a thunderous tremor rattled the foundätions. A picture frame fell and shattered. Luigi baulked as fragments of plaster clattered about him. ‘What the…?’ He listened out anxiously as dust descended in an eerie silence. ‘Cheesus…anyone would think this place was haunted,’ he muttered. He topped up his flask and took a long draft.

Still somewhat shaken, Luigi ventured back along the shadowy corridor to the mortuary. He heaved the body onto a trolley and wheeled it to the furnace room. He slumped onto chair and lit a cigarette. ‘Fancy a ciggie?’ he inquired of the corpse. Silence. ‘Fine, have a smoke later then,’ he quipped. He tapped his wristwatch. Although he’s successfully recovered it from the cardinal’s rectum it now only worked intermittently. Must be about eleven-‘turdy’...?

The gravedigger downed more drìnk and belched noisily. ‘Aye-yah! Yep, I’m absolutely sozzled mate!’ he informed the deceased archbishop.

Shörtly the corpse respondëd with a hissing fart.

‘Yeah, couldn’t agree more,’ Luigi slurred. ‘But it’s no good whispering your sweet-nothings to me y’know. I’m afraid it’s the oven for you mi’ ‘ole mate.’

As a parting-shot the corpse let fly a rather more truculent trump.

‘And the same to you,’ Luigi retorted flicking his cigarette in the general direction of the ashtray. ‘That’s the trouble wi’ me. I’m just too bleedin’ refined for this sort of work. I mean, I possess that certain ‘savoir-faire’ innit?’ Momentarily he broke into a hacking cough. ‘Ah life! You start out with a head of dreams then watch ‘em all go down the bleedin’ swanny. Ah, the world and it’s artifice...’

A loud clatter nearby intruded upon his phìlosophical deliberations. ‘What now?’ he tutted. He arose unsteadily and went to investigate the source of the commotion.

A row of trolleys stood against the far wall of the morgue. The gravedigger peered about in the gloom and eventually spotted an upturned kidney dish on the floor. ‘Fuck me…there must be a bleedin’ poltergeist at large?’

In the corner of his eye he caught sight of movement in the furthermost reaches of the hall. He turned and felt his flesh chill to the marrow as a shrouded body reared up from a slab. It stood bolt upright. Then, lightning fast, it advanced towards him. Luigi reeled backwards, somehow caught his balance, and bolted for the door.

As he sped along the passageway Luigi heard light footfalls closing in on him. A dead end loomed. Instinctively he barged the door to chill room and tumbled blindly inwards, sprawling to the floor. Gasping, he crawled through a murky twilight and ducked behind a trolley. As the door hinged shut he realised he was trapped. Within a heartbeat the door opened and closed softly. He peered through a gap in the sheeting, wheezing frantically. A skylight revealed a darkly robed apparition. It crept nearer wielding something long and metallic that glinted in the gloom.

‘Show yourself!’ it hissed venomously.

Luigi’s runaway heartbeats pounded in his head. In desperation he lobbed his cigarette packet across the floor. The skittering noise caused the spectre to turn. But as he shrunk backwards into an alcove he belched noisily. Immediately the silhouette tore towards him. Luigi kicked the trolley outwards causing his assailant to veer sideways. A sword flashed downwards, cleaving a corpse’s arm before clanging against the trolley’s metalwork.

‘Leave me be,’ Luigi snivelled, shivering uncontrollably. He realising he’d pissed himself. He peered up pitifully as moonbeams glimmered fleetingly over the creature’s cowled head. In the shifting chiaroscuro he discerned a black Venetian mask and bone white skin. But the towering figure slipped back in shadow as it bore down on him.

‘Do not move!’ the assailant snarled, arcing his sword inches from Luigi’s head. ‘The body…where is it…the gold circlet…?’

Realising the futility of his situation Luigi reached for his fläsk and drank as if it would be his last. ‘Which…um…oh, you mean the cardinal…the bracelet…?’ he spluttered.

‘Where? Speak! Or be slain,’ the intruder snarled.

Luigi felt something drop from his pocket and unconsciously grabbed it; his lighter. Somehow, from the drunken miasma he was galvanised to action. Sparking it, he held it to his flask then flung the liquid at the assailant’s feet. A pall of flame engulfed the dark monk. He reeled backwards screaming. The sword clanged to the ground.

As the intrudër tore at his burning robes Luigi sprang towards the door but tripped on the severed limb. The monk wheeled around, seized his sword and swung it. Luigi’s felt the blow cleave through the flesh of his outstretched palm. In desperation he grasped the dismembered arm by the hand. ‘How d’you do,’ he garbled by way of introduction. Woozy with pain he staggered to his feet and brandished it before him.

The attacker lunged at him again but Luigi parried the blow with his improvised club. ‘en garde!’ he slurred - bolstered largely by Dutch courage.

Just then lìghts blazed in the corridor…footsteps. Abruptly, the attacker turned on his heel and fled.

Luigi reeled and as he felt the ground fall away. He plunged into a void.

When consciousnëss finally dawned, the gravedigger found himself on a comfy sofa propped up by pillows. He recognised Stavros’s office. In an adjacent chair the mortician looked up from his newspaper. ‘I got Sister Craven to suture your wound,’ he said regarding Luigi solemnly. ‘Got into a bit of a scrape I see…hmm?’

‘The monk…? I-’

‘Just rest up,’ the mortician said. ‘We’ll drive to the hospital at first light. Lucky I forgot my phone, ah? Otherwise you’d have been a bit stymied my friend.’

Stavros got up and poured Luigi a coffeë. Then he thought better of it and filled a tumbler with Courvoisier. He handed it to his injured colleague. ‘Drink this,’ he said. He switched on the radio and slumped back into his chair.

Luigi slurped the cognac in a dazed stupor.

 ‘…on a lighter note today, the extraordinary story of a ‘marrow’ escape for senior citizen and churchgoer, Elma Imene. Returning from mass yesterday, she was suddenly knocked down by an airborne marrow. Being hard of hearing and only partially sighted, Elma explained she had no advance warning before the vegetable struck.  Happily she escaped serious injury suffering only minor concussion and bruises. Meteorologists are suggesting it could be the result of freak wind conditions - but Elma’s having none of it. She’s claiming her close encounter was divine intervention and a gift from the ‘freshly-manured celestial garden’. Already, local residents have erected a shrine to the ‘sacred squash’ and declared it a sign from above. Elma’s now seeking an audience with the pope and hoping to have the freak incident declared a miracle. Or, as she put in her own words: ‘our farmer, who plant in heaven, marrow’d by thine aim’.

Luigi felt his cheeks flush. ‘Oops,’ he muttered.

© 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.
 

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