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 IV)

Act IV – Private Quarters

* * *

Characters:

POPE RIGHTVINGER - outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO - incoming pope.
BENITO - domestic servant.
LAZZARO - domestic servant.
LUIGI - gravedigger.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI - senior administrator, Vatican City.
SIGNORE GARIBALDI - mafioso boss.

* * *

Popes old and new take tea and discuss future directions for Curia policy…

‘That thing should be defrocked,’ Pope Franco fumed. ‘He’s clearly a raving homosexual!’

Rightvinger eyed his successor imperiously as he fingered a white cat. ‘Hmm, but I suspect he would enjoy being ‘divested’ ah?’ He raised his Kriegvagon seat slightly causing the feline to twitch.

Franco frowned and tried to discern his counterpart’s inscrutable expression. ‘Well I’ve never been so insulted in my life!’ he raged. ‘The indignity…absolutely diabolical!’

‘Dire-bollock-pull, you say?’ Rightvinger responded with a feint smirk. ‘But shouldn’t one ‘turn the other cheek’…?’

Franco glared ferociously at him. ‘You find this amusing?’

Rightvinger cackled and slapped his knee. ‘Moderately so, ja.’ The cat started and peered up from his lap. ‘But you have to admire Cardinal Felatittio’s enthusiasm - I mean, he was practically champing at the bit.’

‘How dare you!’ The new pope snapped.

‘Or perhaps you found it pleasurable my dear fellow…when he, y’know, offered his succour…?’ The Emeritus winked.

‘I beg your pardon, Franco puffed, ‘you…’

‘And we grant you our pardon,’ Rightvinger deigned. ‘But enough of this loquaciousness; to business I think. We are, after all, here to discuss your future plans are we not?’

Franco sipped sulkily at his tea.

The Pope Emeritus pressed a button on his wheelchair. Shortly, two besuited domestic servants padded into the opulent drawing room. ‘Benito, we will take more tea please. Lazzaro, if you would be kind enough to fetch my aide memoire? Oh, and call maintenance about za blocked lavatory, yes?’

The pair nodded deferentially.

‘Coffee!’ Franco snapped. ‘I prefer coffee…and thank you for asking. Truly, one is overwhelmed by such gracious hospitality.’

The Emeritus ignored him and exchanged a glance with Benito who then disappeared into an adjacent kitchenette. The sound of a coffee grinder broke a stilted silence. The cat mewed and stared down disdainfully at Franco.

‘Manners maketh man,’ Rightvinger commented absently whilst petting his furry friend. ‘Puss, puss, puss, puss,’ he crooned; pursing his lips in a fashion evocative of a grossly distended sphincter. The feline looked up, watching intently as her master fished a tidbit from a silver tray. It promptly wolfed down the morsel from his fingers. ‘Aw, you love za lange-schwein don’t you, ah? Oo-ooh...you little slut! Oo-ooh...you little harlot...ah?...ah?’

The feline purred wildly as it was boisterously fondled and pawed.

The Emeritus returned to his successor. ‘You like cats?’

‘I’m allergic to the brutes,’ Franco sniffed. ‘So I’ll thank you to keep that mangy moggy away from me.’

‘Hmm, we take exception to that, don’t we Magdalene?’ Rightvinger’s maw puckered again and lowered to the cat’s head, planting a slobbering kiss. ‘Don’t listen to that nasty cardinal. We should tell her to put her claws away shouldn’t we, hmm?’ As the feline sniffed adoringly at Rightvinger’s drooling grimace, his dentures slithered from his mouth and crowned her with a toothy-tiara. The cat shook its head and mewed forlornly as her owner retrieved the itinerant mandibles and blew at them.

‘Dis-gusting,’ Franco sneered. ‘I’m surprised such cankerous creatures are permitted here,’ he continued haughtily, ‘left to roam hither and thither…leaving their calling cards on the upholstery…’

‘Nonsense my dear chap,’ Rightvinger countered. ‘My Magdalene is fully potty-trained. Furthermore, she’s a devoted ‘roam-and-cat-lick’. Aren’t you my diddy-pusskin?’ he chortled through slightly furry teeth. The cat stretched up on its haunches and began prancing coquettishly about her master’s lap before presenting him with a quivering rump. ‘Who’s a little Jezebel then? Who’s my strudel-strumpet, ah? Oo-ooh, you vant me to tickle that pretty pink rosebud again don’t you, ah…ah…?’

‘Eeugh...how utterly repugnant,’ Franco muttered.

Shortly, Lazzaro crept in. ‘Your Holiness,’ he said reverentially, handing a leather-bound journal to the Pope Emeritus.

‘Ah thank you Lazzaro, most kind,’ Rightvinger said with a nod. ‘I trust your paw’s healing satisfactorily?’

The tall young man looked down sullenly at his bandaged hand. ‘Yes, your Holiness. Most agreeably.’

‘Good. Now, you will attend to our maintenance concern if you will. Please escort the tradesman straight here and ensure he doesn’t stray.’

‘Yes, your Holiness.’ The servant bowed low and departed.

‘And the coffee…?’ Franco huffed, staring pointedly at his wristwatch.

‘Patience, my discourteous friend, is a virtue,’ Rightvinger scolded. As he shifted awkwardly a gurgling noise emanated from his Kriegvagon. ‘Ooouf, oh dear. I fear my effluvia’s proving a touch bothersome today.’

‘Pfffffft,’ [sic] came a gusty expulsion from his nether regions.

The cat bristled, pricking up its ears with alarm.

All of a sudden, the genteel ambiance was punctured by a thundering cannonade: ‘Brrr-ummphhh!…pitta-pitta-pitta…flumph-phuff…thrump…parp!…phhhlutt…pit-pit…’

The feline wailed, scrambled to floor and promptly hightailed it to the sanctuary of the chaise lounge. It gazed back looking most aggrieved.

‘Puss, puss, puss,’ Rightvinger called after his skulking pet. A flushing sound emanated from his wheelchair followed by the urgent thrumming of a motor and a whooshing sound. ‘Oooh…I love zat bracing air wafting around meine pinkel,’ he chuckled.

‘Phorrrp!...pwit-pwit...fumphhhhhhh…’ rumbled a decidedly damp squib. Sloshing, slurping noises began to swill around within the Kriegvagon’s bowels.

‘Will you desist from your foul percolations!’ Franco bellowed, wrinkling up his nose in disgust.

‘You do not vant za coffee?’ Rightvinger inquired mildly. ‘Hmm, there is no pleasing some people.’

The new pope duly produced a dainty handkerchief as he felt himself gag.

Benito strode into the room wearing a plumber’s mask and bearing a tray. He placed it down before the retching guest and opened the terrace window. Before beating a hasty retreat he coughed politely and discharged a discreet blast of air freshener.

Meanwhile Rightvinger perused his notes. ‘Hmm, let us see what we have in za pipeline. Hmm, I note you’re proposing some reforms? Tell me, what is wrong with preserving centuries of intransigence, ah?’ He paused to gaze at a portrait of Benito Mussolini. ‘You know, if I were you I… Ah…but za vicissitudes of men are no longer my concern…’ As if to underscore his existential angst the Emeritus evacuated a whining fart.

Franco glared up at his predecessor. ‘Well, mercifully, you are not me. What our church - and indeed what I desperately need - is a breath of fresh air. I envision our onward course as a mélange of old and new.’

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger sniffed, cocking a haughty eyebrow.

‘As everyone knows by now,’ Franco went on, ‘I’m a humble man of modest needs…’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ his counterpart butted in. ‘So you will take za guest house and I keep my palace. I’m pleased we’re in accord.’ Dripping, trickling sounds issued from beneath him rising to a crescendo of rapid plopping noises, culminating in an explosive splatter.

Franco brought his handkerchief to his nostrils and eyed him up and down severely. ‘Good God man, are you not well?’

‘I fear I’ve been stricken with an ague of late,’ Rightvinger responded with a dismissive wave. ‘Continue.’

Franco’s began to gasp for air, his eyes streaming. ‘You will… [cough] …excuse me…a moment…’ He felt himself begin to swoon.

‘I must say, you’re looking a little peaky cardinal,’ the Emeritus observed.

‘Whoa …uh-oh…ooh…’ Franco panted, ‘…attack…o’ the vapours...I feel like…the Oracle of Delphi…y’know…seeing stars.’

‘Oh dear,’ Rightvinger said gazing down critically. ‘Well I sincerely hope you have the capacity to fill my shoes satisfactorily. Certainly, I filled my shoes on a regular basis until I acquired this most commodious throne. My very own ‘poopmobile’.’

The new pope gulped at his coffee and began to feel somewhat bolstered by a light breeze. He gathered his wits and addressed his host. ‘The…erm…first point…is the matter of sollicitationis; you know; clergymen who spend more time preying than praying…?’

‘Ah yes. It seems despite my worldwide edict enforcing the concealment of sexual abuse cases, there’s been seepage.’

‘Seepage? Listen, those shyster lawyers are bleeding us dry over this! Our church must act forthwith or face bankruptcy. So I suggest we discreetly petition the European Parliament. Have them lower the legal age of consent to five-years old.’

‘Hmm, an interesting strategy,’ Rightvinger cogitated.

‘As for the existing legions of libertines you’ve been shuffling around the globe, I propose immediate excommunication; leave them to face the jurisdiction of the civil authorities.’

‘Nein! We continue to handle these matters internally and in strictest secrecy. Guarding our reputation trumps any concerns of so-called ‘civic justice’. This is a matter of principle. As supreme representatives of God, do you think we’re answerable to the paltry laws of men? Of course not; we transcend such fripperies. Besides, I’ve an alternative strategy. I’m fully aware of these clergy and za catamites with whom they consort. And I’ve come to za conclusion that cure is better than prevention.You will leave this with me.’

‘I see. Well we might at least implement the second-phase of my scheme; the introduction of Fleshlight™ and Kleenex to all confession cubicles. That way, should a priest experience… [ahem]…‘amorous inclinations’ during confession he might, as it were, contain the matter discreetly.’

‘I will consider this,’ Rightvinger commented nonchalantly.

‘Fine. But I trust this won’t become a sticking point,’ Franco went on, ‘because quite frankly matters have come to a head. Do you know I actually discovered a glory-hole in my local confession box? I was there as a penitent. Initially I assumed the priest was offering home-cooked sausage to the destitute. Dear God…I mean the degeneracy!’

‘Quite,’ Rightvinger murmured. ‘It would seem piety, not patriotism, is the last bastion of za scoundrel.’

‘Well, it is high time we clamped down on this sort of behaviour in our ministries. So I’m advocating the imposition of chastity belts. Furthermore, I’ll insist upon a daily dose of bromide for all clergy. And, for those more ‘wayward’ clerics, we provide child-sized inflatable dolls. I feel confident that, in concerto, these measures will reign in those vile and libidinous urges that have cost us so dearly.’

‘Ah-ha, excellent,’ Rightvinger crowed approvingly (popping a celebratory squeaker). ‘I must concede you have devised a competent damage-limitation strategy.’ A red light began to flash on the Kriegvagon’s control panel. ‘Ah shizer! Not again surely?’ he grumbled. ‘Za sludge tank is almost full. You will be succinct. I have no desire to baste in my own juices again.’

‘Then I will speak of my majestic vision - visited upon me by God himself: ‘Popeworld’. Good wholesome family entertainment with a healthy dose of proselytizing. I received inspiration after reading about Walt Digby – y’know, the McCarthyite racist who hated trade unions and enjoyed fairy stories?’

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger reflected, ‘I’ve heard of him. I understand he shared many of our political affinities.’

‘Doubtless. Anyway, his muse led me to a shining revelation; St Peter’s Square festooned with carousels, rollercoasters, burger stands...  I see a carnival of characters from our illustrious history like Pope Julius II and Tomás de Torquemada.’

‘Ah-ha,’ Rightvinger slapped his knee approvingly, ‘yes, a useful diversion.’

‘Quite. Not only would it entice more sightseers, but it would also restore funds to our impoverished coffers. We might even utilize our pool of amateur musicians, thespians and clowns.’

‘A splendid notion. In fact I have myself progressed from the pianola to za violin. I might offer the occasional performance as za ‘kiddie-fiddler’ yes?’

‘Hmm, well…a possibility…’ Franco humored him doubtfully. ‘But just think of the vast revenue from corporate sponsorship. There’s also the merchandising potential. Picture it: Jesus Juice, Pope-a-Cola, Heretic Burgers, Papal Peenie-Pads…Pope John Paul II dildos… The possibilities are endless. Further, we commission the IOR to print Popeworld Dollars. Then, at the end of a two-week vacation package, we massively devalue them and claw them back at huge profit.’

‘It seems I’ve underestimated you my dear fellow. You are, like your namesake, General Francisco Franco, a man of uncommon vision. Alright, we will review other matters in due course. There are more pressing matters to attend to before decrepitude overtakes me. Good.’ The Emeritus lowered his seat and stood to pour himself another tea.

Franco quailed as he was confronted by a pair of blotchy, sloughing buttocks through a circular vent in the rear of Rightvinger’s vestments. The Emeritus stooped as his cat scampered up to him, providing a more intimate portrait and one normally reserved for proctologists.

‘By all the saints!’ Franco exclaimed, ‘I’ll never eat a pastrami bagel again.’

‘My main concern, naturally, is we maintain the dignity of za church,’ Rightvinger asserted as he caressed his pet. ‘Oo-ooh what a fluesy, ah? Oo-ooh you’d make a lovely pair of gloves, hmm?’ he cackled raffishly. Feeling a slight updraft he settled back into his chair.

Magdalene wailed and darted towards the visitor.

‘Shoo!’ Franco yelled. ‘Keep that caterwauling quadruped away from me!’ He began sneezing.

There was a rap at the door.

‘Come,’ Rightvinger called out.

Lazzaro stole in accompanied by a disheveled, shambling, wreck-of-a-man in overalls and brandishing a sink plunger.

‘Evenin’ yer’ ‘oliness, I understand you got a problem with yer plumbing?’ Luigi slurred.

‘How dare you!’ Rightvinger spat. ‘Impudent swine!’

‘Ah…err…now…hmm,’ Luigi gabbled, swaying somewhat. ‘Um…I’ve come about the...um...clogged up lav, yeah? The governor mentioned you got a logjam or something?’

Rightvinger ignored him and addressed Lazzaro. ‘Please, will you show this cretin to the restroom. And keep an eye on him, yes? I think it is inebriated. Oh, and the other matter; you are to bring this one to me, ja? Integra et incolumi…understood?’

Lazzaro nodded soberly and led Luigi to the bathroom.

Luigi winced as he dropped his tool bag and regarded his bandaged hand. He peered into the toilet bowl. A solitary kernel of sweet corn sailed a rather stagnant sea. As Lazzaro watched over him from the doorway he quaffed a long draft of liquor and placed a refuse bag by the pedestal. He began to struggle with a pair of long rubber gloves. ‘Ere, give us a hand will yer’?’ he called back to the servant.

‘Sure,’ Lazzaro said, closing the door behind him. ‘But I only have one hand to offer.’

Luigi noticed the servant’s bandage as the pair wrestled with the gloves. ‘Snap,’ he grinned, feeling a certain camaraderie with a fellow sufferer. ‘Right, well, I’d best get this sorted…I left the gas oven on, see?’

With gloves finally secured the gravedigger began groping around the u-bend. ‘Papers,’ he huffed, trying to keep his chin from the bowl. ‘Coor dear, you wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve ‘ad to fish documents out o’ blocked lavvies.’

‘I see,’ Lazzaro murmured.

Luigi yanked a dripping, sodden mass from the depths and plopped them into the sack. ‘Bleedin’ ‘orrible,’ he shuddered. ‘Reckon there’s bit more up there too.’ He returned his hand to the putrid pool. ‘Y’know, I’m not actually qualified in the maintenance of bogs?’

‘No, you’re a gravedigger…and a fucking thief,’ Lazzaro hissed.

‘Now…um…‘ere…’ Alarm bells rang loud in Luigi’s head. So loud, in fact, that even he could hear them over the dull throb of his hangover. ‘Omar-gawd…you…?’

‘Me.’ Lazzaro grinned maliciously as he stalked towards the prone workman. ‘What’s wrong?’ he snickered, seizing Luigi’s head and thrusting it brutally into the pan, ‘…feeling a little flushed?’

* * *

Bertilloni dialled his cell phone and drummed his fingers to the dialling tone. ‘Answer goddamit.’

‘What already?’ Garibaldi spat.

‘Another fatality. Wiener…Stanislaw Wiener. And he’ll be missed. He was the Archbishop of Warsaw,’ the cardinal said perfunctorily.

‘Oh yeah, he was a regular…paid well…liked ‘em young,’ Garibaldi said with a horse laugh. ‘So he fell off his perch, ah?’

‘Not exactly. He was decapitated… dismembered. My source informs me the walls were adorned with profanities written in his own blood.’

There was a long pause. ‘Mother-fucker. Hey, I only sent my guy ‘round there yesterday. Y’know, the Ganymede Guesthouse. Anyways, he had a sniff around. One of my little boys mentioned this masked monk he saw; tearing down the stairwell. So he followed this freak to the basement. But then the guy just fuckin’ vanished. The kid said he ‘melted into darkness like a phantom, like il Diavolo himself’.

‘Of course…the catacombs!’ Bertilloni exclaimed. ‘There’s a network of rat-runs extending way beyond Vatican state boundaries. Hmm, it seems our assassin’s privy to this. But how? I mean it’s hardy common knowledge…?’

‘Obviously he’s connected. So he has a rendezvous with our bishop then dices him. Y’know, this ain’t good for business,’ Garibaldi murmured gruffly. ‘So I been thinkin’…why don’t I move operations to São Paulo?’

‘But we’re in this together aren’t we? Surely it’s imperative that we find this cutthroat? I mean, what if he knows of us…?’

‘Hey that’s your lookout pal. I’m shippin’ out. I mean, we may be morally bankrupt but at least we’ve stayed financially buoyant all these years. But things ain’t lookin’ too bright now. Y’know that friendly police commandant? Well, he just told me about some other stiff. Monsignor Giuseppe Carrioni, Bishop of Verona - ‘Sloppy Giuseppe’ to his friends. Anyways, the polizia just pulled him out the fuckin’ Tiber. He looked like he’d been fuckin’ crucified. Oh, and he’d had his balls sliced off.’

‘What?’ Bertilloni gasped. ‘Jesus! Of course we must act on this. You must send your men into the catacombs hunt for this killer. I mean if I go down, well…what of your fate?’ the cardinal insinuated.

‘You threatening me - smug little cunt? Garibaldi hissed menacingly. ‘Hey, Listen, forget the inferno, I’ll throw you down the deepest fuckin’ pit there is. I told you, I’m out. Latin America’s where the action is. People-trafficking, drugs…you name it. And thanks to you guys prohibiting condoms they can’t stop having bambinos. So there’s always fresh meat for the whorehouses. So when your cardinals finish spouting their sanctimonious bullshit from the pulpit they can enjoy some R&R in the Favelas they’ve helped create. It’s perfect. Plus the kids can’t afford no fuckin’ lawyers and nobody asks questions when they go missin’.’

‘I think you’re forgetting about the documents in my safe my friend,’ Bertilloni hissed. ‘Many of which might prove, shall we say, embarrassing - even for you. After all, you’re not above sampling your own delectable wares on occasion, are you? Oh, and don’t forget I have you on candid camera.’

Yeah-yeah, whatever. We’re through pal.’

‘We’re not through, damn it!’

He was anwered with the dialling tone.

Bertilloni assumed a faraway look. He gazed from his townhouse window to the infernal embers of Rome’s metropolis. Was it over…all the power, the influence…the wealth…?  Up in flames like the apocalyptic pyre of the cityscape? Perhaps it was time to retire…enjoy all the wealth in sunnier climes…?

Bertilloni’s craggy features took on a wistful expression. But then he noticed smoke wafting around the doorframe. Paint blistered on the door. What the hell? As he stepped over and flung it open, flames consumed him.

© 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.
 

Prison Drama…

Greetings - and apologies for a belated reappearance. Oh, the bane of writers block! Liber Gomorrhianus Lima (Act II) remains half-written since one of my characters, a vicious sadist, has had me rather hogtied (creatively speaking).

In the meantime, I would like to offer you a chapter from a novel that I’m working on, Touching Base. It finds the central character, Winston Grub in a dire predicament.

I confess to being fascinated by prison and have often considered petty crime to facilitate an insider’s view of one of these most marvellous institutions. Jean Genet, after all, composed many of his finest works behind bars (when he wasn’t jerking off, that is). Truly, he blossomed as narrator and poet in the ‘luxury’ of isolation; languishing as he did with his fellow outcasts and pariahs.

I digress. I hope that you find the following tract amusing.

EB

* * *

Touching Base - Chapter 7

Winston gazed at his cell wall confused, perplexed and deconstructed. The world had chewed him up and spat him out.

Winston’s cellmate was known as ‘Masher’. He was a convicted rapist with a sadistic predilection for mauling women. The chances of him being reformed by the penal system seemed, at best, pretty remote. Winston managed a simple form of communication with him by means of monosyllables, grunts and gesticulation. Since he’d frequented many of Rheadon’s bars, it was a language that was more than familiar to him. During the night he had the dubious honour of being kept awake with Masher’s incessant masturbation on the bunk above. It was usually so vigorous that it caused poor Winston’s head to knock against the bedrail. In the latter stages of Masher’s crescendo, the whole bunk would lurch towards the opposite wall. The sole object of Masher’s passion appeared to be a soiled newspaper clipping of one of his victims.

Masher’s other defining quality was his chronic flatulence. His exchanges with Winston were invariably punctuated by trumps and hisses that rendered normal conversation quite impossible. The stench emitted brought a burning sensation to the eyes and frequently left Winston gasping for breath. However, he thought it best not to mention this delicate problem to the muscle-bound pugilist since Masher was not someone who took kindly to criticism.

As Winston faced the bleak prospect of two years of incarceration, he pondered Oscar Wilde’s imprisonment and how he’d survived his ordeal. The answer became apparent. Hadn’t writing set him free? Winston decided that he would emulate his literary hero and compose some poetry. Yes, that was it, he’d write The Ballad of Blackhurst Gaol. That night, he grabbed a few sheets of toilet tissue and a copy of the Bourgeois Herald to rest it on. With his trusty pencil in hand, he proceeded to pen his very own classic:

Prison life is quite a gas, in much more ways than one,

Thieves and brigands, pimps and killers fill the institution.

Though walls are high and bars are thick, the screws attempt to train us,

And bandits plot their fellow’s escape then slip one up the ladder.

‘I’m not exactly sure about the last line,’ Winston grumbled moodily. Just then, Masher began his nightly ritual and Winston found himself at the epicentre of a localised tremor. There were grunts above as the bed began to wobble and creak during the course of its inexorable migration to the other side of the cell.

‘I’ll never get this finished,’ Winston said despondently as he heard a rasping fart explode overhead. A particularly damp squib followed hot on its heels.

Shortly after a guttural growl, Masher’s sweating face came into view. He extended a clammy hand and promptly grabbed Winston’s literary endeavours. ‘Cheers mate! I just spilt something.’ He cackled hoarsely.

‘That’s okay,’ Winston mumbled, ‘It was only a first draft anyway. I’m glad somebody’s creative juices are coming thick and fast.’

Prison life was all about routine. Oh, how repetition could so easily deaden a man’s wits! Winston decided to occupy himself some of the time with a graphic design course. He had already attended a creative writing class but the tutor expelled him for composing ‘obscenities’. Feeling hard done by, Winston had finally plucked up the courage to speak his mind. It had to be said, however, that any pleasure derived from calling the tutor a philistine, was somewhat undermined by the loss of all privileges for a whole week. A week is a long time in prison life. Even so, he muddled through and tried to get along with the eclectic mix of characters.

Winston often pondered disturbing paradoxes within the prison community. Not content with being judged by society, the inmates seemed intent upon judging eachother. Without exception, they felt compelled to define the relative wickedness of their fellow inmates’ various felonies. It was like some bizarre horse-trading ritual.

Comparing the relative immorality of a crime seemed, to Winston at any rate, a manifestly subjective exercise. Moreover, it struck him as an idle indulgence in hypocrisy. Nor was his particular crime against humanity (or at least the animal kingdom) easily categorised within this pecking order of villainy. Eventually, consensus placed him above habitual gross indecency but below serial rape. He was also instructed to respond to the name of ‘birdman’ and perform the Birdie Song when told to do so by convicted rapists and murderers. (Oh, the indignity, that his love for Angelo [an obliging ostrich] should occupy such a monstrous and base perception!) It was precious little more than an exercise in absurdity, of course, but then Winston was no stranger to the absurd.

Despite the fact that prison did not prove to be the great leveller that Winston had expected, he bided his time. He tried to unravel the machinations of fate and understand how he had found himself in such a place. He attempted to keep his spirits high and his mind free, especially while performing the Birdie Song. Sometimes, he would read his poems to other inmates. This caused much hilarity. True, this was hardly the reaction an aspiring bard might have wished for but it served, in part, to lift the spirits. Besides, who can deny there are advantages in having a captive audience? Whatever, it helped restore, in part at least, his natural humanity, flagging as it was within those imposing grey walls.

By now, Winston had been obliged to fend off certain dishonourable intentions proposed by several other inmates. It dawned on him that the term ‘doing a stretch’ might be less of a euphemism than an anatomical reality. In order to avoid creating a precedent in the showers, he’d purchased a soup-on-a-rope. However, prevention is rarely perfect and, despite his avant-garde airs, Winston was not unappealing to the sex-starved prison population. Moreover, word got around that he was a little ‘ephemeral.’ Consequently, the less savoury elements began to regard him with avarice.

After his experiences at the hands of Genéral Delaguerra, poor Winston realised that he was likely being sized up for a fitting. It was an unnerving notion, one that unseated him from the complacency of maverick prison poet. He was therefore relieved to discover a friendly face in this tumult of uncertainty. It happened one morning when he stumbled from his cell, gasping for oxygen as usual.

‘Awite babes?’ a catcall purred along the balcony.

‘God, am I that obvious?’ Winston replied listlessly.

‘You’re sweet bruv. ‘Low it. Relax yeah?’

Winston looked towards his would-be suitor. Before him was a tall, wiry black guy with glittering tigerstone eyes alive with mischief. He wore a broad confident smile and had a gaunt, pockmarked, forty-something face. Dextrous hands rolled a cigarette as he leant casually against the railing. His relaxed demeanour suggested he was no stranger to institutions. The overall effect was disarming, even quite beguiling.

‘What’s yer name bruv?’ The man smiled.

‘Erm, Winston.’

‘First time?’ The guy inquired.

Winston was uncertain whether he was referring to his stay in prison or whether he meant being importuned. Maybe the question was intended to be ambiguous? ‘Yes.’ Winston smiled back, imagining that it was the right reply.

‘Cool bruv. The name’s Jerome.’ He said gazing over intently.

‘Nice to meet you Jerome.’ From behind him, there was a fart like a thunderclap that reverberated around the ironclad heart of the prison.

‘Oh mate, you sharing with that?’ Jerome said, gesturing towards Winston’s cell.

‘Yes, its reeking havoc with my sinuses but I’ve been in worse places.’ Winston said pensively. ‘Life really stinks sometimes.’

‘Life really sucks sometimes ‘n’ all.’ Jerome smirked, adjusting his crotch suggestively.

‘Hmm, I see,’ Winston floundered, ‘well, erm, it was lovely to chat, but I’m attending a class in half an hour and I…’

‘I get you bruv,’ Jerome interjected. ‘I’ll see you around though, yeah? Take care, man. Good to meet yer.’

‘Likewise,’ said Winston, nervously flashing a smile.

Jerome drew closer. ‘Listen, you ought to do something about that cellmate of yours. I heard somewhere there’s laws about air pollution. You should check it out yeah?’

‘I will. Thanks Jerome.’ Winston made his excuses and left Jerome to his cigarette.

* * *

Time dragged ever onward for Winston. His daily regime of scrubbing porcelain, designing prison leaflets and strolling around the tall concrete enclosure of the courtyard continued. Sometimes, he would stop and chat to Jerome. The latter seemed very much at ease with his often haphazard musings. It became obvious that Jerome had developed quite a fondness for him. Sometimes he would even give Winston cigarettes or offer advice about coping with captivity.

Winston had begun to investigate European laws on air quality. One day, in the prison library, he unearthed an obscure ruling intended for agricultural labourers. It stated that, should methane release exceed a certain level, a clause could be invoked that forced organisations to fit ventilation systems or supply breathing apparatus. He wasted no time in writing to the European Court of Human Rights seeking their advice about his noxious dilemma, copying the letter to various other human rights organisations for good measure.

In the course of his epistolary pursuits, Winston also wrote to Detective Inspector Walton, care of Rheadon Police Station. As well as continuing with his assertion that he thought Walton was gay, he suggested several organisations that might help him come to terms with his sexuality. Winston considered this something of a magnanimous gesture, given that the man had been instrumental in his loss of liberty. Reiterating his sense of injustice at being imprisoned, he asked Walton him how his conscience allowed him to sleep at night. Who knows? By appealing to Walton’s better nature, they might yet share a laugh about events over a Superpilsner one day.

Jerome had seemed pleased that Winston followed his advice and was inclined to put an encouraging arm around him. Despite his rough edges, Winston considered Jerome to be a kleptomaniac prince among thieves. Jerome, in turn, enjoyed Winston’s docile, unassuming nature. He felt he had nothing to prove with Winston and could lower his guard. It was not long before they would eat together and banter endlessly about their mutual conquests. Jerome appeared a little concerned by Winston’s relationship with an ostrich-like creature but admitted he would probably have ‘slipped one in there’ if he were sufficiently stoned. Jerome’s female conquests would have read like a guest list at royal banquet. Winston was amazed that he had found the time to shoplift and smoke crack cocaine, given his obvious way with the ladies. Jerome often spoke wistfully of his miscreant days spent womanising and getting high.

Jerome also defended Winston from the harsher elements of the institution. When someone called Winston ‘birdman’ he had launched into the guy with fists flying. Winston didn’t really sanction violence but felt strangely moved by the gesture all the same. Jerome also appeared to have useful connections within the prison and other inmates began to leave him alone. Inevitably, Winton’s feelings towards his friend grew in scope and magnitude. It seemed that, even within the austere stone walls and cobbled courtyards, there were cracks and crannies where life and beauty took root and strived for sunlight.

* * *

Winston was awoken one morning by something of a commotion. He was unaccustomed to this since he was normally roused by the rather bracing alarm clock above him (or ‘smellarm’ clock, as he referred to it). Suddenly, he found himself surrounded by what appeared to be astronauts in white suits and breathing apparatus. All six crowded into the cell. It took four of them to roll Masher over and pin him to the bed.

‘What the ‘ells going on? Ere, get yer filthy ’ands off me!’ Masher yelled.

A fifth member of the group applied a muzzle to Masher’s face then proceeded to pull down his soiled underpants. The sixth member of the team came forward armed with an electronic box with a tube protruding from it that he shoved unceremoniously between Masher’s buttocks. This was accompanied by muffled squeals and a stifled fart from their captive. Winston watched dumbfounded as buttons were pressed on the device and readings were fastidiously noted down on a clipboard. A smaller hand held a funnel device, which was then held up to the window and the dimensions of the cell were measured. Winston noticed that their identity tags read ‘Environmental Emissions Testing’. Within a matter of minutes, they nodded to each other and somewhat hastily evacuated the cell.

Winston decided it was best to leave Masher while he ranted in the cell but was promptly greeted by the Governor and a host of guards.

‘Grub!’ the Governor bellowed, ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain why I’ve just been served a writ for human rights violations?’

Winston noticed that the entire level of inmates were staring at him and began to feel more than a trifle self-conscious. ‘Erm, can I talk to you in your office, sir? I can explain everything but it’s a little delicate…’ He glanced apprehensively at Masher who’d begun to eye him with suspicion.

Winston was frogmarched to the Governor’s office and the guards were promptly dismissed.

‘I knew you were a troublemaker as soon as I laid eyes on you!’ Governor Frank Tollman growled menacingly from behind his desk. His patience had already been tested to its limit by three remand prisoners being ‘mislaid’ due to a wildly incompetent electronic tagging contractor. Furthermore, the debacle had been filmed by an undercover reporter. Now he would have to explain yet another fiasco to his director.

‘Oh…erm. It was just a couple of letters, that’s all,’ Winston squeaked.

‘Siddown Grub! Just a couple of letters eh? Listen you little toe rag, I’ve just been handed a five figure fine from the Environmental Health Department and now they tell me they plan to carry out further spot checks. I’ve also got Amnesty International chewing on my arse and threatening to declare my prison a torture zone! That’s not to mention my own director telling me I should consider a change of career and prison reform groups calling upon trade unions to have us blacklisted! To cap it all, the Home Secretary is visiting next week as part of her ongoing review!’

Not for the first time, Winston wondered if he might exist in purgatory. At any moment, an irate Lucifer would make a theatrical entrance and prod him with his trident like an overcooked vegetarian sausage on a barbeque.

The Governor snatched up a piece of paper and thrust it under Winston’s nose. ‘Furthermore I’ve been issued with the results from the emission tests. They’re claiming that the toxicity levels of your cell exceed Health and Safety Laws by two hundred and thirty five percent. I’ve been told that if I don’t fit a powerful extractor fan immediately, I’ll be fucking closed down!’ Tollman snarled.

‘Oops,’ Winston mumbled shrinking even lower into his chair.

‘Listen, you little prick, I am ordering you to retract your statement in full to the ECHR. I’ve also drafted a press release that you will sign right now or, so help me God, I won’t be answerable for the consequences…’ Tollman bawled.

In his panic, the muse struck Winston like the poke of an electric cattle prod. ‘I’ll do all that you ask of me. I’ll tell the world what a reforming environment this prison is and retract all my other complaints. I’ll even give you my word as a gentleman not to write any more letters. But I need one thing in return. I want to be transferred to Jerome Baptiste’s cell. That’s all I ask.’

Tollman eyed Winston speculatively. ‘Why him? He’s that useless druggie isn’t he, the one who’s been banged up more times than a cucumber in a nunnery?’

‘Yes, that’s him. But he’s a good guy,’ Winston said indignantly.

‘Okay, I’ll authorise your bloody transfer. But if I get anymore shit from you, Grub, I’ll have you transferred to ‘C’ wing. We’ll see how long you last there.’ Tollman growled menacingly.

As Winston was dismissed from the Governor’s office, he felt elated. To be with Jerome was more than he could have dared hope for.

* * *

It was their first night together. Winston lay on his bunk staring at a space where he imagined the stars might exist. Already, he’d begun to plan a future with Jerome. Aspirations soared into the air, nebulous as the sentiments that gave them wings. He tried to articulate the yearning that dwelt within him but was pre-empted by Jerome.

‘You gonna get yer lips around this or what?’ He called up to his dreaming cellmate. In the murky half-light Winston looked down into the lower bunk and noticed Jerome toying with himself. His breath caught as he marvelled at the dark, lithe body that greeted his eyes.

‘How did you guess I was familiar with the penal system?’ Winston joked.

‘Whatever babes. Just give me some sugar, yeah?’ Jerome intoned gruffly.

Without another word, Winston clambered to the floor and indulged his lusty friend. However, after relieving Jerome of his frustrations, he wasn’t offered any assistance with his own outstanding dilemma. That didn’t seem to matter to Winston as he was offered the sanctuary of Jerome’s embrace. His universe finally became complete and it seemed that nothing could intrude upon the sacrament of their union. He sensed a blazing firmament of stars stirring his poetic soul. He had always found sonnets a little difficult, so instead he tried to compose a limerick in his head:

There was a young fellow in prison,

whose life was in some kind of schism

‘Till he met a nice scamp who liked a good champ

Then drenched his friend’s lips with his kisses.

‘Always the last line. Why is it always the last line that’s the tricky part?’ Winston asked of himself. Jerome didn’t really kiss much either, but he thought he’d afford himself some artistic licence. Feeling cosseted, he drifted off into the hallowed realms of sleep.

Some evenings, encircled in the arms of his paramour, Winston’s mind’s eye would drift the gauze veils of sunset. Walls and bars became as insubstantial as mists and eddies swirled about the breath of lovers. The sweet rapture of togetherness wove enchantments through the oceanic majesty of night. Months passed, but Winston had stopped counting the transitions of day into night. It seemed strange that time spent under the punitive regimes of prison restored a form of contentment. Maybe the lack of change was, in itself, comforting in a world constantly attempting to reinvent itself. Winston’s brave new hopes soared, unencumbered, into the great blue yonder.

Ah, but fate had other ideas...

One morning, Winston was trying to make sense of the Daily Muckraker in his cell when he heard a coarse shout. ‘Oi Grub. The governor wants to see you. Yer parole’s come though.’

‘What?’ Winston said distractedly as he glanced over the semi-coherent rants and images of silicon-enhanced starlets. A warder appeared at his door.

‘Listen Grub, You’ll address me as sir. Is that clear?’ The young guard growled at him.

‘Sorry sir, I was distracted. I didn’t hear you properly.’ Winston confessed nervously.

‘We’re chucking you out, birdman. The parole board reckon you’ve done enough. It’s high time you clucked off.’ The guard sniggered humourlessly.

As Winston was lead into Tollman’s office, his stomach performed a succession of somersaults. The ensuing conversation was a one-sided, perfunctory affair punctuated by telephone calls about staffing problems. Winston was informed he would shortly regain his liberty and return to mainstream society. Indeed, he had but a day to prepare. The Governor, grateful for Winston’s restraint from letter writing, had pulled a few strings with a golfing partner who worked in Human Resources for a marketing corporation. His associate had secured a job for Winston (without too many questions asked) in a place called Grot-on-Knuckle. Winston shook Tollman’s hand with genuine gratitude.

‘Well Grub, can’t say I’ll miss you much, but I wish you well. You’re not a bad sort so long as you’re not stirring up trouble. I hope you feel rehabilitated by your time here?’ The governor enquired (with about as much enthusiasm as a politically correct automaton) upon releasing a crushing grip on Winston’s hand.

‘Oh yes, I do sir.’ Winston winced. ‘It’s been…illuminating.’

‘Glad to hear it. Just keep you’re head down while you’re on the job.’

‘Yes sir, I’ll do that. In fact my cell mate often tells me much the same thing.’ Winston said, trying to suppress a smirk.

‘Yes, well. I’m not sure Baptiste is a good influence. Quite honestly, I don’t know what you see in him. I suggest you steer well clear of him once you get out. The guy’s nothing but trouble. I can promise you that.’ Tollman warned sternly.

‘Okay.’ Winston mumbled. But, he knew the impossibility of turning his back on a dawning truth, a truth that now blazed like a supernova and flooded his lonely planet with sunshine. Jerome was everything to him. It was as if he’d never truly lived before they’d met. Even the pain over Angelo seemed somehow distant. How could he abandon that? As he gazed abstractedly at a waxing sun, he realised there was a quiet, indelible truth emblazoned across his heart like a badly daubed tag-line.

That evening, Winston returned to his cell lost in deliberation. Jerome said nothing as he scrambled up to the top bunk. Still, Winston felt tentatively confident that his lover would consent to sharing a new life together once they were both free. Eventually, the cell was locked and the lights dimmed. Winston slipped furtively from his bed and sat by Jerome who appeared strangely distant. ‘You okay?’ Winston smiled, brushing a hand tenderly over his Jerome’s soft, fleecy hair.

Jerome made no response. He began to flick distractedly through an old newspaper.

Winston swallowed nervously, ‘Jerome I…’

‘What?’ Jerome cut in with a sidelong glance.

‘I wanted to explain something. It’s knowing where to begin that’s…’ Winston’s words trailed off.

‘Begin? Begin what? It’s simple isn’t it? You’re leaving. End of.’

‘But…’

‘Nah, it’s cool bruv. You don’t need to explain anything.’ Jerome sniffed with an air of casual indifference.

Winston fought back a growing unease. ‘Jerome, listen, please. Let me finish. What I’m trying to say is, things don’t have to change. When we’re both out of here, that is.’

Jerome eyed him with irritation ‘I’m not getting you. What’s that s’posed to mean?’ he said in a fractious tone.

Winston was a shade taken aback. ‘What I mean is…’ he gulped nervously, ‘I’ve become quite…I mean…really fond of you. In fact, you’ve become…erm…indispensable and…’ But the words just seemed to catch in his throat, fluttering there helplessly like caged doves. Jerome returned his attentions to the newspaper, pretending to scrutinise an article about colonic irrigation.

‘Jerome, you know I…couldn’t imagine losing you…’ Winston faltered, ‘I mean, when you get parole we could…you know?’

Jerome threw the newspaper petulantly to the far side of the cell, staring with contempt at the barred window.

‘What’s wrong?’ Winston said placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Jerome shrugged it off. ‘It’s you. You’re wrong. You’re so totally wrong, get me? You really think we’re still gonna be rolling together on the outside? Shit. You don’t get it do you?’ he said in a cold mocking tone.

‘Get what? What do you mean?’ Winston implored. His mind began to reel. Dread and hope spiralled into a dizzying pall of confusion. ‘We’re happy…aren’t we? And you’ll be out of here next year. Then, who knows, we could have a future together…couldn’t we?’ Winston faltered as he tried to fathom the mysteries of his lover’s intent. Suddenly, the air seemed more stifling; the dusky half-light acquired menace as doubt cast its lengthening shadow. ‘What are you saying to me, Jerome?’ He whispered, half-choked.

Jerome glared at him. ‘Listen yeah, it just ain’t happening. I’m sorry bruv but I can’t be with you on the outside. Never, you get me? Anyway I ain’t into that crazy shit. I thought you knew all that bruv?’

Winston began to cry. A dream was haemorrhaging, bleeding from downcast eyes.

‘Rarse!’ Jerome exclaimed, looking exasperated.

‘Crazy shit?’ Winston wailed, ‘How can you even say that? After…after everything…?’

Jerome extended an arm and tried to gather Winston to his chest. However, Winston recoiled. He got up, stumbled. After almost collapsing over the hand basin, he gazed searchingly into the mirror, hating what he saw. It was an ugly, stupid, tear-streaked face; the face of an idiot, a fool, a clown. Desolation swept over him like Arctic winds. He glanced pitifully at Jerome through blurring sight. ‘I thought you cared about me?’ he wept bitterly, ‘I thought…?’

Some minutes passed as Winston sobbed uncontrollably. Jerome gazed down at the floor with a remote sadness in his eyes.

‘Christ, Jerome, if there was ever one human being in the world I could have…’ What was the word he sought…‘loved’? He lifted his gaze to the vile, contorted face reflected at him. He slapped himself, then again, sending his glasses skittering across the floor. ‘Jesus! I’m such an idiot…why? Why do I always end up in this same tired old tragedy?’ His shoulders slumped. He felt faint, nauseous. He sank to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Jerome stared at Winston worriedly. ‘You okay, blood?’

Reeling with a dizzying confusion, Winston turned on him. ‘No I’m not okay!’ he yelled.

‘Low it man, yeah? You’ll bring the feds in here for fuck’s sake.’

Winston looked up, eying him resentfully. ‘Yeah? Well, I don’t give a damn okay? Fuck you Jerome! You’re full of it. I hate you…’ But for all his rage, the aching inside was greater. ‘Just don’t talk to me okay? Don’t say another word…don’t…’ his protests trailed off to a whimper. He buried his head in his hands attempting to shut out a dull, sickly sensation that threatened to engulf him.

Jerome got up and went over to him, ignoring, as was his habit, a hurt that remained trapped behind the impregnable fortress a life on the streets had provided. His arms encircled the shaking, sobbing form that now lay sprawled in the gloom. But a steely resolve hardened in his eyes. As he knelt on the chill floor, Winston’s weight seemed to slump against him like a lifeless manikin. ‘Listen bruv, I never promised you nothing. It’s not like I don’t care, though.’ Even so, the soothing tone belied an emphatic determination to put an end to things once and for all…or else…what, exactly? Face up to all the taunts, the ridicule…the utter disgrace? Or worse even? No way. And if he couldn't simply rip out his shameful desires, he’d bury them beneath the onerous weight of denial. ‘I never said we’d be together after all this, Win. I never lied to you neither…did I? Everything changes...it has to…that’s just the way it goes.’

‘Not everything,’ Winston whimpered, clutching at his chest, ‘needs to change. Some things run too deeply for that. We could have been happy…?’

‘But, you’re not hearing me, Win. You never listen. You imagine all this shit and it’s like…’ Jerome grasped for the right words, ‘it’s like you’re high or something, dreaming things up all the time. But that stuff ain’t real, bruv. Shit, I’ve got family on the outside. Mates too…and bitches yeah? I’m not like you, man. I ain’t no battyman. Get me?’

The brutal frankness of Jerome’s words cut Winston to the quick. The most unbearable sting in the tail was that Jerome was right. It was true he led a fictitious life. He was a lover of impossible idylls, a dreamer and poet (of sorts). Guided by these phantoms, he’d built his fairytale castles, without foundation or reason. Now it was his turn to retreat behind a wall of denial. He felt a renewed surge of tears, angry tears, tainted with betrayal and self-recrimination. ‘You’re just weak Jerome, that’s what you are, weak. But worst of all, you’re a coward!’ he blurted.

‘Whatever bruv,’ Jerome murmured.

‘And how can you criticise my fantasies when you can’t even face up to your own sham of a life? Winston hurled spitefully. ‘Oh yes, we have so much in common, you and I. It seems we’re both exiles from the truth. And no, you didn’t lie. You are a lie. One big, fucking lie! Oh, I wish I’d never met you.’ He wanted to say more but he was cut short by a glimpse of something he’d never witnessed before.

For one defining moment, Jerome’s mask slipped. Winston caught sight of an expression that was at once vulnerable, hurt and immeasurably sad.

Jerome flinched as the home truths tore at him. It was true that the endless procession of drugs, women and petty theft were simply a refuge. They veiled his shameful secret. But how could he ever expose that truth? Better, surely, to let it slowly gnaw away at his insides? For all the guilt, sin and regret that he’d imprisoned, there could be neither liberation nor healing. It wasn’t enough, the sweet, beautiful feeling that flourished yet tortured him as he held Winston close. It would never be enough. His heart sank as he felt his lover struggling free. ‘Win, it just has to be this way. I’m sorry okay? Alright, so I’m a cunt. Is that what you want to hear? But it’s my peeps, bruv. Shit. You know what they’d do to me? Bruv, they’d fucking shoot me if they knew about our shit! It’s the truth, blood…I swear.’

Winston finally broke free of Jerome’s hold and stood up unsteadily. ‘Well go back to your old life then!’ he said petulantly ‘Go and make the same mistakes. That’s your choice. See if I bloody care. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have the rest of my life to get back to.’ With that, he clambered back up to his bunk and drew himself up into a tight knot against the wall.

‘I could still see you sometimes, yeah?’ Jerome said softly ‘Like when I’m in your manor and that? Nobody needs to know our business. You don’t have to hate me, bruv.’

Winston gave a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Jerome,’ he said cruelly, ‘you’re just as much a fake as I am. We both know that. How can I possibly hate something that isn’t even real? Maybe I’ll post you my address if I feel like it. It’s up to you what you do with it.’

‘Sure,’ Jerome mumbled dejectedly.

‘You can stick it up yer jacksy for all I care,’ Winston mumbled as an afterthought, cradling his head in his hands.

* * *

The following morning, Winston’s moment of freedom finally arrived. After a last desperate night of intractable silence, Jerome’s farewell was painfully curt. Winston too remained impassive, barely speaking. Perhaps there were no words to bridge the troubled waters of their separation. Clutching a small bundle of possessions, Winston chose not to linger at the prison gates or look back at his place of confinement with sentimentality. A chill breeze buffeted him as he trod anonymous streets, still feeling the oppressiveness of high walls.

© Edwin Black, 2011.