Temptations of the Flush (Act V)

Act V - Guest House

* * *

Characters:

LUIGI - gravedigger.
STAVROS - mortician
POPE RIGHTVINGER - outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO - incoming pope.
MARIA - housemaid.

* * *

‘What’ll it be sir?’ the bar steward said smiling genially. ‘Oh and err…free drinks at the bar - compliments of the management.’

‘Yeah? Aww…well how about a surgical spirit on the rocks for starters - with a cheeky dash of embalming fluid, eh?’

‘Certainly sir. An excellent choice. And if you’ll pardon my boldness sir, it’s not often we’re graced by such esteemed company.’

‘Who me? Well…what can I say? I mean, one tries and confine one’s patronage to the more classy boutiques, y’know?’

‘I certainly do know sir,’ the bartender grinned. ‘May I say your reputation as the foremost curator of cadavers precedes you.’

‘Why thank you squire. Yeah…s’pose I do exude that certain ‘cachet’ innit?’

‘Indeed you do sir. Same again?’

‘Yeah, don’t mind if I do-oooh. Hang on…bit queasy. You got a–’

‘Spittoon? Naturally sir, allow me,’ the barman said, presenting a kidney dish.

‘Thank you-oooeeugh!’ The torrent that bleched from Luigi’s mouth flushed away the beatific vision revealing an ugly melee of swimming figures and abdominal cramp. ‘Ah Bollocks!’ he spluttered between regurgitations.

‘Hold his head,’ an ethereal female voice instructed.

Words detached from meaning and became a distant drone. He surrendered to darkness.

From the gloom a familiar face emerged. ‘Welcome back from the dead me’ old chum,’ Stavros said chirpily. ‘Well, technically you were only dead four minutes. I was actually working on your eulogy…’

Luigi heard the sound of crumpling paper. ‘Where…?’

‘You’re sampling the delights of Rome Memorial Hospital. Saved from going down the pan by Maria, the cleaning lady. She helped one of the domestic servants who was trying to haul you out the drink. Erm…and on the subject of drink, y’know you might want to mix a bit more tonic with it next time, hmm?’

‘Nah…it was-’

‘Past the cocktail hour? Yes I know. Nevertheless, a little early for a stupor don’t you think?’

‘Lazzaro…I…’

‘Yes, I suppose you are a bit of a ‘Lazarus’. Perhaps you have a guardian angel?’ Stavros mused with a wry grin. ‘Or maybe Bacchus looks fondly upon his adherents?’

Luigi mustered a wan grin before his mind drifted back along dark corridors.

* * *

The papal duo trundle to Domus Sanctæ Marthæ (the Vatican guest house)…

‘We’re somewhat relieved a Jesuit assumed office,’ Rightvinger remarked. ‘Had the Opus Dei candidate had got in it could have meant butt-spurs on the chairs.’

‘Most unseemly,’ Franco puffed as he scurried alongside the Kriegvagon.

‘Quite so. Did you say you hail from Argentina? You know, many of my childhood friends do their hailing there.’

‘Really?’ Franco wheezed.

The Emeritus came to a standstill over a drain. After some delicate manoeuvring, he pressed a flashing button. A telescopic funnel extended downwards from the base of the chair. After a series of glugging noises, a cruddy cascade slopped into the gutter.

Franco recoiled and dug out his trusty handkerchief. ‘Eeugh…how perfectly ghastly! Dear God, does this never end?’ he gasped, choking at the sulphurous stench.

A veritable blizzard of back-splashes caused the hem of the old pope’s vestments to become speckled with excreta, along with a large radius of the pavement. ‘With zis splendid contraption I can discreetly empty my chair during za papal crowd-pleasers.’ he announced. ‘Indeed, this is no bog-standard wheelchair you know?’

When the deluge finally subsided the wastepipe automatically retracted.

‘Have you quite finished?’ Franco scowled. ‘Or are you planning to manure the rose garden too?’

The Emeritus ignored him and lurched forward apace. ‘Oh the spirit is willing, but za bowels are weak.’ he called back.

The pair arrived at a flight of stairs leading to an ornate sunken garden. Franco laughed up his sleeve as his counterpart peered down from the precipice. However, much to his amazement, four buttress arms extended from the base of the Kriegvagon and a powerful compressor fired up causing a localised tempest. As the Emeritus twiddled a joystick the vehicle gradually levitated from the terrace. The squall whisked Franco’s zucchetto from his scalp and swept it into the shrubbery.

‘See you at za guest house,’ Rightvinger yelled over the maelstrom. He tilted forwards and swooped over the fountain, decapitating a stone cherub on his way.

* * *

After concluding state affairs, the pontifical pair slurp their respective beverages as a maid dusts the bijou parlour…

‘Yes, you’ll make an adequate understudy,’ Rightvinger surmised. ‘So, any questions?’

Franco’s brows knotted into a frown. ‘Yes. It’s your decree for the beatification Benito Mussolini. Do you really think it wise?’

‘But of course,’ Rightvinger said incredulously. ‘Did he not restore territory to the Curia under za Lateran Treaty? And he clearly perceived us for what we are; right-wing political lobbyists who happen to claim God as their patron. Okay, so he committed the odd delictum gravius along the way but, hell, nobody’s perfect, ah?’

‘Hmmff,’ Franco murmured. ‘Couldn’t we make Margaret Thatcher patron saint of harridans instead…?’ Sensing a battle lost, his attentions drifted to a rather buxom cleaning lady. ‘Err, you there! You’re supposed to sweep up the dirt, not rearrange it!’

The maid looked up. ‘Me know nothing,’ she cooed demurely.

‘Me know nothing your Holiness,’ Franco corrected, casting a licentious gaze over shapely calves.

‘It him,’ the cleaner pouted, motioning at Rightvinger. ‘He tell us it’s Vaticana practice to ‘sweep everything under da carpet’. True.’

‘Foolish fräulein,’ Rightvinger admonished, ‘I was speaking figuratively. Anyway, why is there a woman on Vatican territory? Perchance, did someone order za spare rib…ah?…ah?’ he hooted.

‘Spare rib? Oooh, but what a magnificent rack, eh? ’Franco drooled, leering at a diving neckline and ample bosom. ‘Phooaar…hubba-hubba! Come feed me mamma.’

‘I’m given to understand she avails herself in exchange for sacramentals,’ Rightvinger intimated with a knowing wink, ‘…‘tit-for-tat’, as it were.’

‘Oh-ho really?’ Franco chortled with a rakish cock of an eyebrow. ‘Well, I’d gladly lavish a few beads around that neck…’

In a scene worthy of a Cinderella pantomime, a pair of grotesque transvestites cackled wickedly as a maid blushed.

‘Right, well, that’s quite enough levity for one day,’ the Emeritus pronounced. He leaked a whimpering fart which went some way to restore a more dolorous atmosphere. ‘Och…this wretched ousia will be za death of me. Right, I must prepare my address for za farewell feast. And of course you must greet your adoring multitude my dear fellow.’

‘Quite so.’ Franco snuffled disdainfully as rancid odours wafted in his direction. ‘Yes, my St Peter’s Square blessing.’

‘Good,’ the Emeritus concluded, lowering his seat. Upon touchdown he squelched forcibly and jettisoned a mini-torpedo. ‘I return to my quarters. I must set about tying up a few loose ends…very loose ends I suspect…’

© 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

Publish and be Damned!*

PART I

Welcome back and a belated happy New Year to all.

A new year also allows many of us to spiritualise over past and present. Whether a year passed represents milestone or millstone, hope it is said, springs eternal. Even a shameless skeptic like myself can’t help but pause and revive a flagging faith in human nature.

Meanwhile, back in the known universe and indeed blogosphere, I feel mildly disappointed that I’ve not been insulted in at least five different languages by now. What’s wrong with Edwin’s withering wit eh? Is my lampoonery limp, my pasquinade passé or my ridicule redundant? Don't I deserve a fatwā too?

Onward…and to Uganda, favoured stalking-ground for nutty American Evangelicals…

CASTING THE FIRST (ROLLING) STONE

October 2010 saw the first publication of the now infamous Ugandan ‘newspaper’, Rolling Stone - no relation to the U.S. magazine of the same title. Indeed, the lack of ingenuity regarding the title derived from several near calamitous attempts at naming this borderline-literate rag. ‘Tumbling Turd’ vied for pole position with ‘Careening Coprolite’ (fossilised shit). Despite both names having been considered ‘eminently appropriate’ by expert marketing gurus, the editor opted for a less risqué baptism.

Prior to a High Court injunction, Rolling Stone published a lead story ‘100 pictures of Uganda’s Top Homos Leak’. The truly reprehensible aspect of this great ode to Parnassus (aside from the grammar) was the fact that names and addresses of alleged offenders were published along with the banner ‘hang them’. This rallying cry for ochlocracy didn’t go unanswered. Victims of the ensuing mob violence included a woman who was seriously injured and forced to flee her home in order to evade a biblical-style stoning. (Erm, I’m not a Christian but isn’t there something about casting stones in the Gospel of John?)

The article also asserted that the homosexual movement [?] were actively engaged in a recruitment drive for kids as part of their dastardly worldwide takeover. (Hang on a second - aren’t they confusing gay folks with the Holy See or something?) Presumably this indoctrination involves playing Liberace songs to the intended victims while encouraging them to wear sequined ball gowns and nibble gingerly at dainty cakes…? Or perhaps the editor favours slightly more far-fetched and disingenuous stereotyping?

Next from this repository of rancour came the startling headline ‘Men of Shame II’ featuring that other great scourge of society - the ‘generals’ the clandestine homosexual cabal. Apparently, these monstrous military masterminds included liberal clergymen within their ranks. In the next breath, Rolling Stone asserted that ‘Homos raid schools’. I imagine these were effete interior designers whose delicate aesthetic sensibilities compelled them to offer their services pro bono?

I could attempt to elaborate over ensuing muck-raking headlines like: ‘Homosexual generals plotted Kampala terror attacks’. But y’know, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not undergoing some out-of-body experience here. We are evidently straying into the realms of Fortean Times and a world of paranormal phenomenae. One can only speculate at what further diabolical horrors await... ‘Frenzied faggots enjoy fondle-fest in maternity ward’ or ‘Extraterrestrial bum-bandits kidnap kids for mass rectal probing experiment’…?

Meanwhile back on earth, one can’t help but wonder who’s been stirring up this disgorging sewer of hatred? Is it entirely the brainchild of managing editor, Giles Muhame? It seems doubtful since both in print and on Youtube I’ve rarely seen a more convincing impersonation of an ignoramus. In fact this person’s histrionic and downright fantastical editorials would barely make the grade as childrens’ fiction, let alone journalism. Here are some examples:

‘It has also come to our knowledge that some youths’ butts have been shattered by merciless homosexuals.’
No source, bibliography or research paper is cited as corroboration (because none exists?) Or could it be that Mr. Muhame is simply indulging his erotic fantasies and concocts this rot while jerking off?

‘This investigative newspaper has hundreds of files implicating some top homosexuals in sexual harassment and spreading sexually transmitted diseases with impunity.’
Naturally, these ‘hundreds of files’ are as yet unpublished and therefore unsubstantiated (gosh, what a surprise!). Erm, ever heard the term ‘journalistic veracity’ Mr. Muhame?

‘...these homosexuals need to refocus their energies to seeking the grace of God.’
Ha ha, yes, all hail the mighty prophet Muhame - great arbiter of human ethics! Might I suggest, Mr. Muhame, you dust off your dictionary and look up the words ‘sanctimonious’ and ‘prick’ ?

In fact the Rolling Stone editor is sufficiently conceited to profess that he’s on a mission to ‘save the moral fabric of our nation [Uganda] and preserve cultural values.’
Delusions of grandeur… megalomania? Or does this man regard himself as the rightful successor to Idi Amin?

Since Giles Muhame advocates a ‘final solution’ for homosexuals (‘hang them’) it would suggest that he has more than a grudging sympathy with Nazi ideology. This, despite the occasional back-peddling statement like ‘we are not advocating violence against any group in the country.’ Really? So I suppose hanging someone is just a kindly act of Christian charity, yes?

The whole fevered polemic of Rolling Stone echoes the sentiments of Nazi newspaper Der Stürmer that also sought to demonise a minority (in this particular instance, Jewish people). Its editor, Julius Streicher, described Jews as sex offenders who were ‘violators of the innocent’ and ‘perpetrators of bizarre sex crimes’. So does this sound vaguely familiar Mr. Muhame...?

Der Stürmer too spared none of the lurid details of these alleged crimes and invariably published the names of those involved. However, shock-horror headlines, articles and accusations were rarely referenced to specific or reliable sources. This may also ring true Mr. Muhame? Incidentally, I’m given to believe that real Christians adhere to the tenet ‘you shall not bear false witness against your neighbour’. Ever heard of that one?

Hubris (and indeed nemesis) finally caught up with Herr Streicher at the Nuremberg trials. Prosecutors were of the opinion that he was guilty of inciting Germans to exterminate Jews. This made him an accessory to murder. He was found guilty and promptly hanged. (I assume Mr. Muhame doesn’t aspire to share such an unpleasant karma.)

It’s interesting to note that circulation of Der Stürmer reached 480,000 at its zenith compared with the pitiful figure of Rolling Stone that barely approached 2000. (Are there not performing dogs on Youtube that enjoy greater popularity?)

A LIVELY MASS-DEBATER

So what belies Muhame’s jaundiced perspective of humanity? The smoking gun is as apparent as it is abhorrent. This poor soul studied at Makerere University, a favoured destination for well-financed misanthrope preachers (artfully disguised as ‘Christians’). Among the central protagonists was Scott Lively, president of ‘Abiding Truth Ministries’.

In 2009, Lively led a vanguard of U.S. evangelical preachers into Uganda. Among their various acts of misinformation, they sought inculcate impressionable young minds with a hackneyed treatise concerning homosexuality. One of their assertions was that gay men were, ostensibly, preoccupied with buggering minors. Another preposterous theory argued that the ‘gay movement’ [?] was plotting to ‘defeat marriage-based society and replace it with a culture of sexual promiscuity’. Lively also propounded the notion that homosexuals could be ‘cured’ - which is pretty extraordinary…if not miraculous. It certainly encourages one in the hope that there may be a corresponding ‘miracle cure’ for total arseholes.

Obviously, ideas this repugnant represent something marginally less pleasant than a substance one might scrape from one’s shoe. But then Mr. Lively is widely regarded as a conspiracy theorist and revisionist historian, so talking crap represents his stock-in-trade. Furthermore, this hallelujah-hollering-hillbilly became so infuriated at being likened to a Nazi by his critics that he attempted to deflect censure by co-authoring a book that claimed Nazism was a gay conspiracy. Obviously, I wouldn’t wish to sully myself by acquiring such a discreditable tome (The Pink Swastika: Homosexuality in the Nazi Party) but I suspect the Amazon.com reviews speak volumes:

‘…a one-sided piece of far-right religious propaganda. Definitely not a piece of scholarly work as it cherry-picks and distorts the facts without presenting opposing points of view or providing proper historical citations.’ R. Erkert.

‘This book attempts to use smoke and mirrors to trick unsuspecting or prejudiced readers into accepting a completely biased and blatantly revisionist version of history.’ ‘Aeroefie’ (Middleburg VA, USA.)

‘Nonsense wrapped in conspiracy theory.’ S. Smeets (Utrecht, The Netherlands).

Jon David Wyneken, an Associate Professor of History at Grove City College (PhD in Modern German history 1933-1955) went further:

‘…he does no original research in primary archival documents; meaning, he has not examined the thousands of documents available on these subjects for himself.’

And:

‘…responsible historians tend to cast a skeptical and cautious eye on any historical conclusions that appear reductionist, monocausal, and polemical in their conclusions. In particular, books that use historical topics to score contemporary political points.’

Further:

‘While lessons can and should be drawn from history, these are not nearly as easy to arrive at as many (especially Lively, it seems) think.’

Clearly, Lively disagrees with mainstream academia and has convinced himself that Hitler and his cronies were part of a homosexual conspiracy. Wow, this must be one of Mr. Lively’s ‘abiding truths’... I mean could anyone look at footage of the Nuremburg Rallies again and not think ‘screaming queens’? Oh heavens - that’s not goose-stepping, it’s an impersonation of the Twirling Corps Majorettes! And maybe, Mr. Lively, the Holocaust was simply one of Hitler’s hissy-fits because he preferred his men ‘uncut’? Ah, but what of the estimated 300,000 gays that the Nazis had killed and tortured? Who were they then - spurned lovers possibly?

So what else might we expect from this great visionary of our age? Allow me to suggest some further ‘potboilers’ for Mr. Lively’s series:

The studded Ankh - Rather than being an exotic siren and seductress of the Nile valley, Cleopatra was in fact a flange-munching lesbian who employed her asp to commit unspeakable acts on handmaidens.

The crinoline hammer and sickle - Joseph Stalin wasn’t really a paranoid sociopath but rather a renowned cross-dresser who recruited a secret society of fellow ‘trannies’ in order to affect a world take over. A dastardly plot was hatched to coerce fine upstanding Christian men into high heels, micro-skirts and pantyhose.

The bent scimitar – Although Genghis Khan appeared to be a Mongolian pugilist, all the manly bravado was merely a pose. Incontrovertible evidence now points towards a secret life as a limp-wristed, flannel-wearing aesthete novelist from Oxford.

But finally Mr. Lively, genteel society might like to brace itself for your ultimate literary tour de force:

The brown bulldog – A jaw-dropping exposé proving unequivocally that Winston Churchill was an unabashed coprophile whose shit-gobbling hoards swarmed into Normandy in order to liberate fellow turd-burglars from the clutches of fanatical Germanic enema fetishists.

GOBBLING UP SEAMEN

Giles Muhame, like his svengali-like mentor Scott Lively, appears to be on a voyage of vengeance. Like some latter-day Ahab**, he is obsessed by the pursuit of a fabled homosexual leviathan. Seeking it out, whatever ruinous fate might befall the innocent or the orphaned. Yet, what drives a man to such loathing? What compels this mania to lunge blindly at the inscrutable malice of ‘gay conspiracy’? Does Muhame dare to tear away that despised paste-board mask…gaze into the eyes of abomination?

…Does he dare confront his own chimeral reflection?

* Quote attributed to the Duke of Wellington.
** From Moby Dick, by Herman Melville.


QUOTE OF THE DAY: ‘You [the English] wisely threw out your Calvinist witch hunters 400 years ago but they landed in the U.S. and have never gone away.’ Armistead Maupin (novelist).

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In Publish and be Damned - part II, I hope to post a short story, ‘The Buboes’. It's a bawdy satire, set in somewhat less than salubrious surroundings. The tale will feature a character that may remind the reader (vaguely) of Giles Muhame - coincidence, of course...


Thanks for reading.

© Edwin Black