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

Liber Gomorrhianus Lima (Act III)

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Liber Gomorrhianus Lima* (Act II)

FOLLIS BRITANNIA**

Welcome from Edwin – court jester to the disreputable houses of Europe and scoundrel to whatever remains. May I extend warm greetings from riotous Great Britain – that grandiose bastion of eavesdropping hacks, looters and more CCTV cameras per capita than the world’s most paranoid theocracies. Could it be that rather than ruling the waves, Britannia’s become a snooping, neurotic landlubber who’s having her metaphorical t*ts sucked dry thanks to a recent baby boom? (I’m curious about the rationale to expand the population whilst human activity compels our planet towards ecological catastrophe?)

…Is it patriotism that stirs in me or an attack of biliousness?

           

Enough of this brooding existentialism! Let me leave you with Act II of Liber Gomorrhianus Lima. So kick off those high heels, pour yourself a glass and enjoy…

*Latin for Book of Gomorrah (see Act I for details). ‘Lima’, means ‘revisited’.
**Latin meaning (literally) ‘wind-bag’. Follis forms the root of the word ‘fool’ – another word for jester. ‘Fool Britainia’ is a notional word play on ‘Rule Britainia’, arguably the most grossly jingoistic anthem known to man.

Liber Gomorrhianus Lima

ACT II – MANNA FROM HEAVEN

(The following story is intended for ADULTS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS (in order of appearance).

MOTHER LUCRETIA - Mother Superior of the Divine Sisters of Mammon.

SISTER CRAVEN - Bride of Christ and general lackey.

SIGNORE CORLEONE -  Dealer in rare antiquities, holy relics and upmarket tat.

HIS HOLINESS POPE CHIPOLATA II – Head honcho of The Roman Curia.
SISTER DIABOLIS - Bride of Frankenstein and hideous old crone.

* * *

Deep within the catacombs beneath Vatican City, the Divine Sisters of Mammon enjoy some fiscal stimulation... [Translated from Italian.]

‘Now did Luigi bring those personal effects for signore Corleone to handle?’ Mother Lucretia enquired haughtily while drumming podgy fingers on a leather topped desk.

Sister Craven glanced up sheepishly from her kneeled position, unable to meet the fearsome gaze of her Mother Superior. ‘Yes ma’am, I have them here,’ she said, offering up a gold collection plate with trembling hands.

Her superior inspected the proffered tray with beady magpie eyes. ‘Is this all there is?’ she snapped. She hauled up her corpulent form and lumbered ponderously towards her minion.

‘Yes ma-’ Sister Craven cowered as the plate was snatched from her clasp and flung onto the desk with a clatter. She felt the customary searing glare directed at her crouched form.

‘Whatever, all ill-gotten-gains help the coffers,’ Mother Lucretia purred. She smirked coquettishly at her subordinate. ‘Now, a little dickie-bird told me you’ve been having impure thoughts Sister Craven…that you’ve been idling in your room and concerning yourself with the visceral rather than spiritual…hmm?’

Sister Craven’s cheeks flushed. ‘Oh no Mother Lucretia…no,’ she bleated, ‘I’d never think about Sean…I mean…Father O’Leering in that way. I just wouldn’t…I-’

‘Father O’Leering is it?’ The Mother Superior cut in with a triumphal sneer. ‘I suspected as much! Is that ye’ dirty little game eh? Jezebel!’ she shrieked. She yanked at a stray lock of her sister-inferior’s hair.

‘Ouch!’ Sister Craven yelped. ‘Oh…thank you Mother Lucretia, thank you.’

‘Filius meretricis…ye’ daughter of a harlot, you!’ Mother Lucretia flared. She wiped away a bead of drool that had begun to irrigate the stubble of her triple-chin.

Sister Craven looked up tearfully. ‘But I didn’t…I’m not-’

‘Not what, hmm? Not virgo intactus? Is that ye’ confession Sister Craven…?’ The Mother Superior bristled. ‘Tell me! I demand to know what you’ve been stuffing into ye’ snatch?’ Without waiting for a reply she took a swipe at the cowering form, producing a startled squeak.

‘I might…perhaps…have touched it accidentally…when I was bathing,’ Sister Craven blubbed piteously.

‘I knew it,’ the Mother Superior hissed, ‘I just knew it…indulging in bestial carnality in this most holy of cities. It’s apostasy! I bet you’ve spent all night dreaming about huge throbbing heathen phalluses didn’t ye’…eh…eh…?’

Again, the quivering form squeaked unintelligibly.

‘Answer me when I interrogate you!’ Mother Lucretia commanded. She raked her fingernails along the subordinate’s flanks, pausing briefly to grapple and pinch at the prone pair of buttocks. ‘Oh, but what a brazen little slattern you are - what are ye’…?’

Sister Craven glanced up woefully, ‘a brazen little slattern ma’am.’

‘To bloody right you are!’ the enraged disciplinarian snapped. ‘Do you know what torments await indolent sluts like you in that infernal abyss, Sister Craven? Ravening demons force you to read Jackie Collins while they stuff pickled chillies up ye’ jacksy and whip up ye’ fanny-batter with an egg whisk! Imagine suffering that for the rest of eternity! But it’s nothing compared with what I’ll do to ye’!’ she screeched.

‘Oh forgive me Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven pleaded through her tears, ‘I didn’t intend to commit a deadly sin. It was such a terrible moment of weakness.’

‘This cannot go unpunished Sister. You’ll have to be severely admonished. And if you imagine you can oink and squeal your way out of this one then you’re sorely mistaken. Be at my chambers at eight-thirty tonight…or there’ll be hell to pay…’

‘Yes m’um,’ Sister Craven sobbed.

Oh for those halcyon days of proselytising with the aid of thumbscrews and red hot pokers… Mother Lucretia mused wistfully. She waddled backwards, perching a gargantuan pair of buttocks on the edge of a creaking desk. She hitched up her habit and took a moment to fondle her inflamed sex then dabbed it with her handkerchief.

Presently, she cast covetous eyes back over Cardinal Rightvinger’s belongings. Not a bad little haul… she speculated …the fact that proceeds end up in the pockets of defence attorneys is fecking scandalous. Oh those poor priests… unwitting victims of the most malicious and outlandish allegations. How dare those fantasists, philanderers and fornicators accuse those under the aegis of God’s sacred institution? Was that not the real act of defilement?

Momentarily her gaze strayed onto the tufts of ginger pubic hair that remained wedged in a set of Rightvinger’s false teeth. It called to mind a flaming-haired alter boy, Marcos, who’d loyally served the Vatican before meeting with an untimely accident…odd…?

Shaking herself from her reverie, Mother Lucretia noticed that her charge was still crying. ‘Now, come dear, you mustn’t wail so. You’re simply making a spectacle of yourself. It’s most unsightly.’

‘But I’m unworthy of the solemn vows I took, Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven wept. ‘Oh! my mind is so riddled with uncertainty.’

The Mother Superior extended a chubby palm and stroked the trembling cowled head. ‘Of course you’re worthy my delicate little rosebud. Oh dear, perhaps I was a tad harsh on you? I didn’t mean to seem uncharitable. It’s just that you’re such a jaw-droppingly repulsive old troglodyte, aren’t you dear? It’s so difficult to overlook sometimes. But you really shouldn’t blame yourself. Naturally, you will remain with the Divine Sisters of Mammon. We welcome all devout souls no matter how pig-ugly they might be.’

‘Yes ma’am…thank you ma’am,’ the Sister said, attempting a feeble smile.

‘That’s better.’ The dominatrix handed the Sister her frowsy handkerchief to dry her eyes. ‘But just try not to roll those hurt little piggy eyes at me okay? Otherwise, (and I mean this with the utmost kindness) you’ll be sanctified with another slap. Understood?’

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Immediately, Mother Lucretia straightened her robes and ushered her subordinate to the corner of the room. ‘Please enter,’ she said curtly.

A tall, immaculately suited man strode into the room and parked himself on a chair unbidden. His gaze fixed upon the tray of trinkets speculatively. ‘So ‘dis is what you have for me most holy Mother?’ he said, receiving Mother Lucretia’s hand and planting a slobbering kiss.

‘Indeed signore Corleone,’ Mother Lucretia simpered. ‘…and though our church shuns pecuniary concerns and the filthy luca, earthly blessings sometimes fall like manna from heaven. Especially, I might say, in matters of rare and wondrous objet d’art.’

‘Ah yes, I pay ‘da usual prices. But let me see…’ Signore Corleone grinned, plucking an eye glass from his pocket and examining a small specimen jar. ‘And ‘dis is…?’

‘Oh signore, a most prized artefact!’ the Mother Superior exclaimed. ‘I don’t know if our order could ever part with it. You are holding the sanctus gluteus-minimus papilloma - apt only for the most discerning of tastes….’

Signor Corleone shot the Mother Superior a quizzical look. ‘Signora…?’

‘Sir, it is the sacred anal wart. It was appropriated from our most revered Cardinal Rightvinger just before his ascension on that heavenly stair lift,’ the matriarch elaborated. ‘But look, there so are many saintly relics that might also be of interest. We have the sacred undergarments - sanctus pantaloons…and the sanctus pubic saeta.

‘Sanctus what…?’ Signore Corleone enquired.

‘Ah, I’m most happy that you ask!’ The Mother Superior gushed. ‘They are the divine follicles - gathered after Cardinal Rightvinger’s short-crack-and-sides waxing session.’

A telephone began to ring. Mother Lucretia directed her minion to answer it with a withering glare.

‘It’s those researchers from Oxford University again ma’am,’ Sister Craven explained. ‘They wish to carbon date the sanctus skid vestigium to verify its authenticity…’

‘Certainly not!’ Mother Lucretia squawked. ‘Tell them we will never grant permission again. Tell them we refuse!’

Signor Corleone raised an eyebrow. ‘I confess that I’m curious about this ‘skid vestigium’. Would you care to elaborate most eminent mother?’

Sister Lucretia clasped her hands together and took a moment to compose herself. ‘Signore Corleone…it is hard to find words to convey the sacramental nature of this cherished relic. You see, our Saint Rightvinger left a stain on a hotel bed sheet during a visit to Turin. It is said that the mark depicts an effigy of our Lord if you squint at it whilst performing a handstand and possess a keen appreciation for Abstract Expressionism.’

Signor Corleone glanced at his watch. ‘That is all very interesting signora, but I need to discuss a matter of the most delicate nature.’

Mother Lucretia pricked up an ear and pursed her lips. ‘Of course signore.’ She scratched idly between a roll of fat that had acquired a healthy crop of mildew.

‘As you are aware, I am but a simple man,’ Signore Corleone explained, ‘…a humble patron of our church and very much lesser mortal.’

‘Indeed, and we are most grateful for your continued generosity,’ the Mother Superior urged.

‘So my request may at first, seem…unorthodox… Although I assure you it derives from the most steadfast and noble of motives.’ Signore Corleone felt encouraged by his counterpart’s approving nod. ‘I simply propose to take a mould from Saint Rightvinger’s most holy edifice and preserve this great man for posterity.’

‘Edifice?’ Mother Lucretia queried.

‘Yes signora, ‘da sacred manhood,’ her counterpart confided. ‘Then hey presto, admirers might enjoy Rightvinger’s blessings ‘til Kingdong™ come. You must agree to this request, signora, I beg you.’

The Mother Superior needed no encouragement in any profitable venture but feigned an expression of mild disapproval.

‘Perhaps you might think of it,’ Signor Corleone continued, ‘as your saint conducting a different kind of service for parishioners. Allow me to elaborate. Imagine if pilgrims to this most holy of theme parks could take with them a memento of their religious experience…a prized souvenir that might stimulate their faith for years to come…’

‘I’m not sure I understand…’ Mother Lucretia fibbed nonchalantly.

‘Madame I refer, of course, to ‘da Saint Rightvinger marital aid; lovingly crafted in polyurethane in order to preserve the dignity and sensibility of our holy institution. It would also come with a presentation gift box picturing our dear Saint at his most alluring. Furthermore, it could play a selection of his most poignant addresses at St. Peter’s square that would be motion-activated. It might even recite a few post-coital Hail Mary’s to assuage any residual guilt. Surely it would become a prized possession for the faithful and elevate their heavenly rapture to its climax. Let me assure you, Mother Lucretia, it would represent the epitome of good taste.’

The Mother Superior flashed a demure smile. ‘Well, I’m really not sure that would be appropriate given that-’

‘Oh please signora,’ Signore Corleone cut in, ‘will you at least consider my proposal? Naturally, I would make a wildly extravagant donation for your troubles. It is a most equitable arrangement, I think you’ll agree?’

The Mother Superior directed a stern look at her subordinate. ‘Sister Craven, if you’ve quite finished scratching your bearded clam maybe you’ll leave us to conclude business in private hmm?’ she taunted. ‘Go on ye’ repugnant little Caliban…scoot!’

As Sister Craven burst into tears and fled. The sex toy manufacturer raised an eyebrow.

‘She’s such a dear little soul but so terribly capricious,’ the senior nun apologised. ‘Heaven knows how we might help that poor tormented child… Anyway, as you were saying signore…?’

The businessman flashed an easy smile. ‘Signora, let me tell you a little story if you’ll indulge me. You see, a few years ago a holy relic came into my possession. A manhood of the most august pedigree. Indeed, it was the earthly appendage of a Saint. Being as I am a purveyor of only the finest merchandise, I had a cast made which proved an overnight success among those seeking earthly solace. It became obvious to me that there was a yawning hole in the market. So I create ‘da ‘Fred Phelps Fag’s Finger Butt-Bung™’. It also proved an instant hit so I expand operations to America. It was there that I devise the ‘Scott Lively Pink Squat-Tickler™’ and the ‘Terry James Muff-Mecca™’. I cannot tell you, madam, how those good people of the U.S. clamour for ‘da goods. It was then that I set up production in Uganda with ‘da ‘Martin Ssempa Sludge-Funnel, Mask & Scat Blanket™’. And for those who enjoy a sluice-with-a-da-juice, I make the ‘Giles Muhame Gutter-Bib & Slops Tray™’. (Mr Muhame, of course, was prone to spew out the most seminal ejaculations.)

‘I must confess signore; I find this assortment of erm…bedroom adornments a trifle disconcerting,’ Mother Lucretia admitted, ‘…if not a touch base.’

Signore Corleone patted her hand with a clammy palm. ‘Oh no, not ‘base’ signora. I concede that my approach may seem cavalier, but I’m merely providing sermons from a different kind of mount.’

‘I suppose I can see where you’re coming from,’ the Mother Superior conceded.

‘Signora, you are an immensely gracious lady and I heartily thank you for it,’ the businessman crooned, oozing subum and charisma in almost equal proportions. He gazed appreciatively at the near walrus-sized woman slouching before him. After rifling through an attaché case, he presented the object of his desires with an elegantly wrapped box. ‘Perhaps I you might accept a small token of my devotion Madame. It’s a prototype. It is my heartfelt wish for you to be the first...’

‘Why, thank you kind sir,’ Sister Lucretia giggled, unceremoniously grabbing the gift, ‘but what, pray tell, can it be?’

‘You are actually holding ‘da ‘Osama Bin Laden Vulvic-Volcano™’. It spouts ‘Allah be praised’ at the point of climax.’

* * *

‘Mother Lucretia, may I humbly request your counsel? I need to speak with you on a matter of utmost urgency,’ Sister Craven said anxiously.

‘Just remain in my chambers - as ordered. Impudent child! And don’t forget the egg whisk this time or else!’ Mother Lucretia snapped. She resumed her counting of the large bundles of Euro notes piled on her escritoire.

Sister Craven lapsed into melancholy contemplation. The gloomy bowels of the Vatican had served to intensify a suffocating sense of confinement that went beyond mere physicality. She sighed inwardly.

There was a sharp rap at the door. Sister Craven took delivery of a parchment and handed it deferentially to her senior. There was a wax seal bearing the impression of the Pope’s ring. It read:

“It is decried tthat hiss most holey eminence, Cardinal Rat Rimmer be sanctified at too thirty to daye. By order of his hole-in-arse Pope Chipolata II.”

Mother Lucretia scowled at the spidery lettering. ‘That good-for-nothing boss-eyed scrivener!’ She cursed. Jesus, wasn’t it about time they carted the old fart off the fecking glue factory?

* * *

As implied previously, the clandestine rite of beatification was presided over by His Holiness Pope Chipolata II.

Christened ‘Fedele Chipolata’, the would-be pope had been raised in Las Vegas. He was one of six little darlings brought over to the States by impoverished Italian emigrants. A singularly precocious child, he’d been widely disliked by his peers thanks to a preoccupation with snitching over the pettiest infractions of authority. Fedele’s weasely adherence to convention had inevitably drawn him towards the more pious mindset. At the tender age of fifteen he’d experienced his first epiphany and had been ‘born again’. This transformation heralded a meteoric rise in his fortunes. By seventeen, he’d assumed the guise of an evangelical lay-preacher-cum-faith-healer.

After two decades of fabulous affluence (and indeed effluence), Pastor Chipolata opted to return to mother church and mother country. Remarkably, this second ‘Damascus road’ moment coincided with a criminal investigation into his mentoring sessions with a deeply troubled young parishioner (who just happened to be an underage rent boy). In Rome, the Holy See were quick to recognise the talents of their newly acquired turncoat. Consequently, Fedele climbed through the ranks faster a gravity-defying martyr on Ascension Day. On the advent of Pope Rightvinger’s tragic demise, Cardinal Chipolata seemed the obvious successor. His diabolical fusion of sophistry, egomania and sanctimony had already all but bewitched a whole new generation of unquestioning automatons.

Pope Chipolata II eyed Mother Lucretia gravely. ‘I believe we’re ready to begin,’ he informed her haughtily.

‘Certainly, your Grace.’ Mother Lucretia intoned. She proceeded to throw open large set of doors revealing a lavishly adorned baronial hall festooned with flickering candles. The centrepiece was a shrouded coffin on a low marble plinth.

The pair strutted stiffly into the room like a pair of haemorrhoid victims. Mother Lucretia turned. ‘Right, come now youse disgusting little sin-pigs. Get yer fecking arses in ‘ere or, so help me God, I’ll make bacon rashers of the lot of youse. A disorderly herd of nuns clambered and crawled on all fours into the room and congregated about the stage.

‘Right my porcine princesses you know the procedure!’ Lucretia barked. She promptly peeled back the shroud revealing the withered naked body of Saint Rightvinger who’d mysteriously acquired a beatific smile (expression no. 49 of the Mortician’s Guild catalogue).

‘You may begin.’ Chipolata commanded. ‘Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. We are gathered here to slaver the cadaver...’ he droned. When the interminable solioquy was finally over, he regarded Mother Lucretia rather pointedly.

Mother Lucretia unfastened a bullwhip from her belt and sidled over to her minions. With one sharp crack of her whip the jostling, fawning herd began eagerly licking at the suppurating carcass. Amongst the chorus of slurping and sucking noises were gleeful little oinks and snorts.

Abruptly, Mother Lucretia unleashed a stinging hail of lashes upon her cowering underlings. ‘Repent! Atone yourselves damn you, Repent!’ She shrieked, lashing out indiscriminately and mercilessly. ‘Indolent, ungodly swines!’

Pope Chipolata II looked on imperiously from his throne. He grimaced somewhat as he noticed one of the more enthusiastic brides of Christ burying her face in Saint Rightvinger’s leathery groin. ‘Mother Lucretia! Will you get her to stop muzzling his private parts?’

Mother Lucretia’s face fell. ‘With the greatest respect your grace I think she’s rooting for truffles. Ah, will ye’ look at ‘em – happy as swines at a slop trough. They’ll soon have him beatified your grace.’ She looked approvingly as the elderly Sister Diabolis began sucking at the furry papal earlobes. ‘That’s my good little piglet; one should never forget to wash behind the ears.’

After covering almost the entire cadaver with copious sputum, Mother Lucretia instructed her ‘snivelling piglets’ to turn the body over.

‘You don’t find this form of spiritual ablution a little…ah…vulgar?’ Chipolata queried. (Being relatively new to the post, he’d not been privy the beatification ritual.)

‘Ach no, I find it to be the height of sophistication, so I do. It’s a good crack too.’ Mother Lucretia observed, noticing that one of her charges was rimming the recumbent form adoringly. Following another savage round of whipping, she promptly disrobed.

Pope Chipolata II gazed on in disdain as Mother Lucretia emerged from her vestments like a huge, over-brimming blancmange. She wobbled precariously into the fray, clad in only a PVC basque, matching chaps and nine inch stilettos. As she got on all fours, her enormous pendulous cleavage swung apart, drooped and smacked together again as if offering a polite round of applause. ‘Now come here my good little piglets. Mother sow has a special reward for youse. Come and get your teat treat my little suckling porkers.’

As the congregation jostled to take their turn amongst the rolls of fat, Mother Lucretia snorted contentedly and released a long hissing fart.

Pope Chipolata II gazed down imperiously. ‘Mother Superior, I fear you’re charges seem to be labouring under a misapprehension?’

* * *

It was some hours later that Mother Lucretia shambled back to her private quarters. Sister Craven was perched on the chaise lounge and glanced up timidly. ‘Mother, I’ve been thinking about leaving the order. You see I-’

‘Sister, I don’t have the patience for your puerile whining!’ Her superior snapped. ‘Besides, if it wasn’t for your gluttonous self-adoration you wouldn’t even have these misgivings. May I remind you, Sister, you’ve taken solemn vows. To break them is sacrilegious.’

‘But it’s not just the vows Mother. It’s the teachings…it’s the tainting of young minds…of innocents, with notions of guilt, sin and unworthiness…Is that not a betrayal of the human spirit…a desecration of that inner-Eden we call our ‘soul’?’

The Mother Superior glared at her, eyes ablaze. ‘What the hell are you prattling on about ye’ she-devil? ‘Y’know, I think I’ve had just about enough of your obstreperous attitude!’ The Mother Superior fumed and began fingering her whip. ‘Besides, you should never underestimate human folly sister.’

Sister Craven stared tearfully at the floor. ‘But I have irreconcilable doubts Mother Lucretia. Despite your disciplines, there’s no means to substantiate the existence or non-existence of God. Such things are unfathomable and unknowable. Without certainty, all these rules, these rituals…all this guilt, stricture and moral absolutism disintegrates into vain absurdity. It is but a house of cards; hinged on conjecture and propped up with the complicity of sovereigns, knaves and fools. Beyond this toppling wonderland, I aspire for those finer sentiments of human nature and accept its innate diversity. A multiplicity that defines us, our world and the dreams that garland our heavens.’

Mother Lucretia rounded on her. ‘You’ve been guzzling communion wine, haven’t ye’?’ She screamed as she advanced towards her prey. ‘…no-good drunken trollop of a halfwit troll. How dare you defy me! I’ll make pork cutlets of ye’!’

‘Leave me alone, you monster!’  Sister Craven shrieked.

Whether it was her bloated, overfed body, her unduly agitated state of simply an act of God was indeterminate. Whatever, without warning, Sonia Lucretia O’Brien’s carotid artery imploded sending her sprawling to the floor in agony. Sister Craven could only gaze on in horror as her superior plunged into a dark and irredeemable oblivion.

© Edwin Black 2011

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