Temptations of the Flush (Act VIII)

Act VIII – Abyss

* * *

Characters:

LUIGI - gravedigger.
CARDINAL PURVES - elderly incontinent.
LAZZARO - Pope Rightvinger’s acolyte, assassin.
POPE RIGHTVINGER - Pope Emeritus.
STAVROS - mortician
MARIA - cleaning lady

‘In breaking news; homicide at a Vatican-owned guesthouse. Police are appealing for witnesses who may have visited the Valle Giulia precinct of Rome at around 2 am yesterday. A notorious red-light district, the area has long been a focus for criminal activity. Experts have ruled out suicide, saying the crime bears the hallmarks of a ‘ritual killing’. A citywide murder hunt has now been launched. Unconfirmed reports suggest a masked ‘monk’ was seen fleeing the scene, leading to speculation of some sort of vigilante attack. Authorities have warned people not to approach the suspect and to report anything suspicious immediately. Although not yet formally identified, the victim is said to be a senior-ranking official within the Vatican. We will of course keep you up to date with this and other news as it develops. Now, on a lighter note, the extraordinary story of one woman’s claim to have found the rosary of Saint Francis…’

‘Bollocks.’ Luigi removed the headphones as his mind spun. He extended an arm from the hospital bed and picked up the vase resting on his bedside table. Although the single daffodil hadn’t fared well on its regime of surgical spirit, he suspected the draft would prove a tonic for human life. I must warn them, came a voice as the mental fog gave way to an agreeable alcoholic haze.

Due to a miscellany of weekend accidents, medical staff were too distracted to mark his egress. After a surprise encounter with Bertilloni, Luigi learned of the gala banquet at the palace. If Lazzaro struck there’d be carnage! And what if the rogue had accomplices…they could even be planning a mass culling…? A timely warning to the cardinals might bestow honours? Fame? But sod that, it could mean financial rewards…booze money? Fortified with liquor, Luigi shambled determinedly towards the Lateran Palace.

* * *

In the bustle of caterers bearing trays of coffees into the hall, Luigi noticed a familiar face hobbling along the corridor. He made a beeline towards Cardinal Purves who peered up at him quizzically.

‘Luigi my son…is that you?’ he croaked. ‘From the orphanage, am I correct?’

‘Yes,’ Luigi wheezed. ‘Listen, no time to explain…you must warn everyone. I believe there’s a plot…to um…’ Luigi’s voice trailed off as he felt a hostile stare. He glanced up and caught sight of Lazzaro loitering by a pillar. He froze as their eyes met.

‘A plot? Erm, erm…to what end?’ Purves pressed. ‘What must we beware of…?’

‘Backstabbers!’ Luigi blurted as Lazzaro smirked and then bounded towards him.

Purves stared agog as Luigi bolted, sidestepped a knot of waiters and then sped towards the exit. In blind panic, he tore up the dim stairwell. Rapid footfalls echoed from below as he vaulted up another flight, then another, his lungs searing. Gasping, he sprawled headlong through an exit and tumbled out into redolent night air. Dizzy, he slunk into the shadow of a lesser cupola, attempting to arrest his frantic gasps as the cityscape reeled. He took a lug from his flask and peered out towards the exit. Dominating the rooftop, the Dome of St Peter’s Basilica, swathing him in shadow. Tall stone saints perched on ledges, backs turned, and inert to the world they gazed upon.

The door clattered open and the pursuer sprang onto the asphalt roof. Luigi shrank back as Lazzaro crept along a row of statues, sword drawn, until he was obscured behind the vast cupola.

As his head pounded, Luigi realised there was but one fleeting opportunity of escape - the door he’d entered by. Other exits could be locked and any noise would betray him. He dithered, uncertain if his attacker may lurk in ambush.

Startlingly, shadow took form at the periphery of his vision. He quailed, stumbling sideways towards the precipice. He steadied himself against a statue, gasping, as Lazzaro emerged like a spectre and stalked towards him.

‘Here…keep the bleedin’ thing this time!’ Luigi wailed, throwing the gold bracelet at the killer. The blade flashed past his blurring sight. He swooned and slumped to his knees.

Lazzaro’s pale face contorted into a sneer. ‘Too late, gravedigger,’ he snickered. ‘Can you fly, ah? Like these things…?’ He gestured along the saintly effigies. ‘Or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking, ah?’

Luigi began to feel peculiarly detached and resigned to his doom. He mourned his daughter, his life and the sum of all his dashed hopes. ‘You remind me of myself. All that anger…that nihilism. Go on then, take your best shot mate. I care not for this world,’ he cried. ‘You think you can take something I haven’t already lost?’

Lazzaro pressed the sword to Luigi’s throat. ‘What the fuck would you know about me? Go on, get on the fucking ledge. It’ll look like an accident.’

Luigi complied. He swayed precariously, steadying himself against a marble limb. Distant traffic glimmered beneath him like fireflies as a balmy breeze ruffled his hair. ‘Let go of the anger son…or you’ll never find solace.’

Lazzaro swung the blade at him. ‘Anger?’ he yelled. ‘Oh I’m dealing with the anger alright…an eye for an eye, yeah? Or both eyes if necessary.’

‘What…what happened?’ Luigi stammered. ‘Tell me…let me understand…before I leave this sorry world.’

‘There’s nothing left to understand. And even if there was, it changes nothing. They stole my childhood. They tore my soul apart!’

‘Who did?’ Luigi pressed, ‘You mean those you’ve…slain?’

Lazzaro stepped from back into shadow and eyed the gravedigger somberly. ‘Yeah…Garibaldi and his cohorts…those wolves in shepherd’s clothing. I was twelve when those demons of hell set upon me. I thought the agony would never end, I…’ his voice trailed off and became choked by sobs. The sword wavered in his hand as he wiped his eyes with a sleeve. ‘After they’d finished with me Garibaldi taunted me…beat the shit out of me. Then left me for dead. And I wish, too, that I had died…because nothing survived that inferno but hate.’

Luigi looked down pitifully at the young man. He swigged his flask and then gazed into the churning chasm beneath his feet. ‘So this is your answer…what you’re doing…? This is this justice?’

‘Justice?’ the assassin sniffed with a bitter laugh. ‘It is not justice I seek, it’s retribution. ‘Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep’*…’ Oh yeah, I’ll see them all in hell my friend.’

‘It’s true they’re not fit to administer the sacraments,’ Luigi said, ‘those who’ve trespassed against you. By rights they should abase themselves at your feet…plead for clemency. But instead they close ranks, prevaricate…connive to evade justice. Believe me, son, I know.’

‘What can you possibly know, uh…a gravedigger, a drunkard…?’

Luigi sighed and tried to drown his melancholy in a long swig. ‘It happened to me too…at the orphanage,’ he confessed gloomily. ‘I lost my innocence before I lost my first tooth. Maybe revenge is the answer? I mean, do you take an eye for the eye or turn the other cheek? I could never quite decide. Anyways, this priest…this vampire of the soul…well, he died before I could find the courage to confront him.’

‘So you let him ruin other lives did you?’ Lazzaro sneered. ‘You’re such a fucking coward!’

‘Perhaps I am, son,’ Luigi conceded desolately. ‘Mind you, I did piss in his grave...during the reading of his eulogy. Then, well…I kind of drank my way out of it I s’pose.’ He lifted his flask in salute and then slurped at it heartily. ‘Cheers…here’s to this wonderful life!’ he spluttered over the rooftops, swaying precariously and belching. ‘‘Cus it don’t get much better than this, does it, ah?’

The question was met by the wail of distant sirens. A buffeting wind picked up causing the gravedigger to teeter at the brink.

‘Get down.’ Lazzaro ordered. ‘I don’t need to kill someone who’s already dead. You’re not even a threat, are you? Look at you; a joker, a derelict… a dead man condemned to life. No one listens to a word you say, do they?’

Luigi gave a hollow laugh. ‘No? Well what about you?’ he inquired of the saint that he clung on to. ‘Are you listening? You got a tongue in yer’ head? No?’ He remonstrated theatrically along the row of plinths. ‘Are any of you fuckers listening, uh? Come on, let’s hear you. What do you have to say for yourselves?’ He pocketed his flask and began to climb up the statue with a fearlessness that only drunkards know.

Lazzaro dropped his sword edged towards the gravedigger. ‘I said get down. I don’t want your blood on my conscience.’

‘Your conscience?’ Luigi laughed feverishly as he shimmied upwards and hauled himself, gasping, onto the shoulders of Saint Michael. ‘Look at it all,’ he wheezed, gesturing expansively. ‘Does any of this pomp and grandeur mean anything? Or is it all just a load of bollocks, uh? A sprawling folly for those chasing the immortality of gods? Is it really anything more than existential narcissism, uh…? Go on, answer me you impotent fucker!’ he bellowed, shaking a fist accusingly at the heavens. ‘Yeah…where are yer’ bleedin’ thunderbolts now, ah?’

Lazzaro began to scale the statue and made a grab for Luigi’s ankle.

‘Oi, get yer’ bleedin…’ Luigi squirmed free as Lazzaro tried to gain purchase on his leg. From somewhere below he heard a thunderous smash, and then strains of classical music. Is that…Ride of The Valkyries...? he pondered absently.

By now, Lazzaro had straddled the opposite arm and attempted to wrestle Luigi from his lofty perch. The music became louder, accompanied by an intermittent droning. As the pair continued to tussle something large and metallic hurtled past, slewing around the dome. They heard a snatch of maniacal laughter. Then, they gazed disbelievingly as the contraption rounded back at them, skimmed the asphalt roof, bounced and then cartwheeled towards them.

 ‘Achtung! Achtung!’ the occupant screamed.

Lazzaro made a lunge for the gravedigger’s arm and wrenched him sideways causing him to topple.

The Kriegvagon slammed into the statue with an almighty crash, knocking it plummeting into an inky abyss. As the flying machine nosedived into Saint Peter’s square there was a hiss as the driver jettisoned free and shot upwards. A clatter of shattering masonry was followed by a distant flare and the peel of an explosion.

As Luigi lay dazed and bruised on the ledge he saw a parachute open in the glowing firmament. Amongst the rubble strewn about him, jutting up, was the remains of the stone angel, sheared off at the ankles. ‘Ah bollocks,’ he muttered. His thoughts turned to Lazzaro. For some moments he considered following him into the void. But then he remembered he still had drink in his flask and shelved the plans.

Luigi watched idly as the parachute wended its way towards the apex of the basilica. As it settled there he discerned a distinct yowling cry. Sirens drew closer. He wanted to call out but giddiness overwhelmed him and his horizons went black.

* * *
 

‘Is he dead?’ came a familiar voice.

Stavros? Luigi’s eyes flickered open. A couple of paramedics were attending him.

‘No, he’s still with us,’ one of the medics said. ‘Nothing broken but he may have concussion.’

Stavros’s face loomed as he grinned down at his colleague. ‘Yet another lucky escape, hmm? So how are you feeling?’

‘Inebriated,’ Luigi slurred, wincing as he turned his head. ‘Lazzaro…dead…?’

‘Yes. So he was the serial killer, eh? Forensics confirmed it. You know it’s fortunate you weren’t diced like the others. Strange though…’

‘What?’ Luigi mumbled.

‘Well, I was there just before he died... before police arrived. I’d come looking for you after you absconded from the hospital. Anyway, he gasped out your name. Then he flung this bracelet at my feet. He wanted you to have it I think? He started blathering something about Saint Michael watching over lost sheep. And that was it…he died.’ Stavros handed Luigi the bracelet.

‘Thanks,’ Luigi muttered tearfully. ‘He saved me.’ He directed his gaze toward the cupola. ‘What about…?’

‘You mean the Emeritus?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, the paramedics won’t be able to move him yet. Apparently he’s kind of lodged on the spire. In fact they think he might be impaled on his rectum. So it looks like he’ll have to stay put for now. At least until they can locate a surgeon with a head for heights.’

‘He scored a bullseye uh? Oh well, at least it’ll serve to curtail his usual outpourings.’ Luigi commented with a wry grin.

‘Quite,’ Stavros remarked. ‘Ah well, he’s did always claim the moral high ground... In fact I don’t think the cardinals are too enamoured with him right now. I overheard one of them saying something about getting him to the nunnery…letting the sisters of the Magdalene Laundries ‘take care of him’.’

‘Ah. What about that explosion?’ Luigi asked.

‘Oh that? That must have been the wheelchair colliding with a kebab van. Ah well, maybe God’s a vegetarian, huh?’ Stavros winked mischievously.

Luigi was strapped into a stretcher, hoisted up and carried down the stairwell. As he was taken from the palace and bobbed along through a sea of flashing lights he noticed a police cordon around Lazzaro’s body that lay amongst the wreckage of the fallen idol. Looking down at the broken life, he felt overwhelmed with pathos. He was touched by an inexplicable kinship with a soul twisted by fury and riven by sorrow. To this pitiful state; the once fearful and enigmatic assassin. This monstrosity, this Caliban; worse than the defilers who’d fashioned him…

Criminal, victim…human being.

* * *

After a considerable media hullabaloo, Vatican affairs eventually returned to a semblance of normality. Bertilloni was arrested, further clerical scandals had the kibosh put on them and emollient words abounded. It was business as usual in the shady corridors of power.

Luigi was tasked with the sad duty of collecting the body of cardinal Purves, who’d passed away peacefully on the loo. As he scouted about the apartment for surplus supplies of alcohol, he bumped into Maria who’d been called in to give the place a quick spruce.

‘Ooh, darling, how are you?’ she gushed. ‘You recover from nearly drowning in da toilet, ah? You okay…?’

‘Yeah, mustn’t grumble,’ Luigi shrugged. ‘Oh, and thanks for rescuing me. I mean, my life very nearly went down the pan.’

‘Ooh don’t mention it,’ Maria crooned. ‘Speaking of toilets, y’know I had to help clear up that great big toilet they call the ‘banqueting hall’.’ She pulled a disdainful frown.

‘Really?’

‘Oooh, them dirty bastardos!’ Maria fumed. ‘Why can’t they shit in da lavatory like the rest of us, uh? Da poo-poo everywhere mate…on da carpet, da walls…’

‘Shocking,’ Luigi commiserated.

‘Oh-ho,’ she whinnied as she crossed herself, ‘I tell you they even shit on da bloody candelabra!’

‘Blimey, that must have been one hell of a bleedin’ party.’ Luigi remarked.

‘Yeah, I tell you mate. They must’ve been squirting it from da bloody chandeliers. But I don’t mind really…‘cause my sweetheart, His Holiness Franco, he give me Saint Francis rosary.’

‘I guess that must have been some consolation,’ the gravedigger humoured her.

‘Aw it was,’ Maria simpered. ‘So I tell him he should ‘come to mamma’ and I feed my baby some boobie,’. ‘He like-a-da ‘titanic titties’ y’know?’ the buxom cleaning lady explained whilst cupping an ample bosom.

‘Um….right.’ Luigi tittered, averting his gave somewhat.

‘Anyway, so after I change his dirty diaper and smack his naughty arse it’s bath time. So I scrub him down and then he beg mamma give him a soapy-tit-wank. But, y’know, he’s a true gentleman.’ Maria asserted with a knowing wink. ‘I mean, he never even made a grab for my piss-flaps.’

‘How very classy,’ Luigi slurred with a lopsided grin. ‘Right, well, I’d best cart off this bleedin’ stiff before my new governor starts whining.’

THE END

* Lucifer, Paradise Lost by John Milton.
 
© Edwin Black 2013

 

Temptations of the Flush (Act VI)

Act VI – Underworld

* * *

Characters:

CARDINAL DOUGAL (DOUG) MACAVITY - Archbishop of Edinburgh
POPE RIGHTVINGER - Pope Emeritus.
BENITO - domestic servant and acolyte.
LAZZARO - domestic servant and acolyte.

Rightvinger descends from his apartments using a concealed elevator for a rendezvous with his acolytes...

‘Uh…? What…what’s the meaning of this? Hey…unhand me!’ Cardinal Doug Macavity remonstrated lamely.

‘Bind him.’ Rightvinger uttered icily.

Lazzaro and Benito manhandled the groggy Archbishop of Edinburgh onto a cross-shaped pedestal and shackled him.

‘What’s all this…? This…this is an outrage,’ Macavity moaned.

His protests reverberated around vaulted archways, fading to the babble of a subterranean river. Along ancient colonnades braziers flickered. In the shimmering interplay of shadow, robed sentinels looked on.

Rightvinger wheeled over to the slab. ‘You were slipped a soporific draft cardinal. You succumbed before you were able to perform fellatio on one of my disciples.’

‘What is this charade?’ the archbishop demanded as he regained his faculties.

‘We are the Order of Saint Michael,’ Rightvinger murmured. ‘What you might call a clandestine cabal. An ancient order that I reinstated.’

‘To what end?’ the trussed cardinal pressed.

‘To rid za church of filth like you!’ the Emeritus snarled, eyes aflame. He composed himself. ‘We’ve already dispatched a number of your vile clique. But your crimes were sufficiently heinous to warrant my personal attention.’

The archbishop tugged against his moorings. ‘I…I don’t know what you’re talking about…release me this this instant. This is a monstrous!’

‘You speak of monstrous, hmm?’ the Emeritus mused evenly. ‘After you bring ignominy upon za house of God? It is rather you and your kind who are monstrous. I know much about you cardinal. It seems you have something of za roving eye…that you’ve run amok in a frock.’

Perceiving threat, Macavity became indignant. ‘So what proof do you have, aye? This is abduction!’

‘Regrettably, we live in an age where little is unseen,’ Rightvinger remarked. ‘So indulge me if you will. Tell me, do the words ‘Porno Vaticana’ mean anything to you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about…this is ludicrous,’ the archbishop blustered.

‘Then I will remind you cardinal. Cast your mind back to your adult movie debut as ‘Cardinal O’Slurper’. Appearing in full ceremonial regalia, your grand opening co-stars a host of junior clergy who all get stuck in with their bit parts.’ Rightvinger held up a DVD box and began reading: ‘an audacious tour de force of erotica featuring an explosive climax at the ‘Sluteran Palace’. Winner of ‘best screenplay’ at the Las Vegas Porn Awards, 2007.’

‘It’s wasn’t me,’ Macavity blathered, eyeing the offending DVD rather sheepishly.

‘Au contraire, cardinal,’ Rightvinger hissed, ‘it’s clearly you. I’d recognise that beaky schnozzle anywhere! Besides, one of my disciples retrieved it from Bertilloni’s safe prior to his untimely auto de fe. You’re named on the dossier it was contained in. In fact it appears you’re one of many budding pornographers within my church.’

Macavity continued to tug against his restraints. ‘I was…erm…erm…maintaining ‘gay-lick’ traditions…?’ he blurted in sheer desperation.

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger spat, ‘which explains why you’re being blackmailed by a retinue of rent boys. Fritz von Vinkel alerted me to your payoffs from the IOR stretching back years. I note one of the little bastards is even threatening to auction footage of your intimacies on eBay! Have you any idea what all this could do to za Curia’s reputation…its moral authority?’

‘Okay, so I might have fallen beneath standards expected of me,’ the Archbishop conceded. ‘But why pick on me…aye? I mean, I’m hardy the only one. I’ve heard far worse on the ecclesiastical grapevine.’

‘Then you will consider me a simple, humble worker in the vineyard of za Lord. Sometimes, when a vine is diseased, one must snip it in order that the rot doesn’t spread.’ Rightvinger stated menacingly.

Macavity looked up apprehensively as Rightvinger began to circle him.

‘One might have excused an occasional furtive dalliance, Macavity. I mean, even I’ve been known to smear herring paste on my genitalia for Magdalene’s rough feline tongue. But you…? Your rapacious appetite and barefaced cheek is something one can barely countenance. You’ve descended to a level of debauchery that would make a whore blush! It has been my displeasure to witness hours of material showing how you’ve gobbled and slurped your way from John O’Groats to the Horn of Africa. But worse; you tried to steal my limelight. You became embroiled in scandal during my abdication. That, my dear cardinal, rather sticks in za craw…’ the Emeritus seethed. ‘I fear I take your actions rather personally.’

‘So what are you and your…your…henchmen planning aye? Excommunication? Is that it?’ Macavity questioned.

Rightvinger paused to eyeball his captive. ‘We will determine your fate in good time. But do not imagine you’ll be absolved simply by reciting a few hail Hitlers. Oh-ho no. Let me assure you, cardinal, your winsome charms will not work on me.’

‘But what of mercy?’ Macavity implored.

‘Mercy is for suckers like you,’ the Emeritus growled. ‘And indeed, according to my spies you are a prodigious sucker of za male organ. But what about za rotten old German pinkel, ah? The one with Bavarian Blue on za end…?’ he taunted, grasping at his crotch. ‘No, you prefer to savour them tender and juicy.’

‘Okay so I’ve been a touch lax…but I can reform,’ the archbishop simpered. ‘I mean, the laity of my diocese have a real soft spot for me.’

‘And you for them it seems,’ the Emeritus retorted furiously, ‘…soft and moist! I mean, is it not high time your buttocks were reunited after these long years apart?’

‘I…I…but…um...’ the archbishop blathered.

‘I assure you we will no longer tolerate your ‘cock-a-hoop’ approach.’ Rightvinger turned and addressed his acolytes: ‘Benito, bring za telephone if you will be so kind. Lazzaro, some music I think. The Nutcracker Suite would seem befitting…but I think Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen is more stirring.’

‘Yes your Holiness,’ they intoned in unison before slinking back into shadow. Shortly Wagner’s dark, bombastic chords boomed, resonating with Teutonic grandeur. Benito placed a vintage telephone on a nearby pedestal.

Macavity could but look on helplessly as Rightvinger glided over to it.

‘Ring-ring…ring-ring,’ the Emeritus murmered before lifting the receiver. ‘Hello?’ He paused, listening intently. ‘Yes mein führer…another one caught with his vestments down…that’s right. Oh?...that would seem a little harsh?....Hmm, but how about za ‘King Edward II special’ instead?…y’know…za red hot poker up za anus…no…?’

Realising the precariousness of his situation, Macavity heaved his plump body to and fro, sweating as fear inexorably crept upon him. To his horror, he noticed the telephone’s severed cable hanging limply. His mind spun into free fall. He’s insane?

Rightvinger drummed his fingers and stared pensively into the distance. ‘Yes…yes I see… emasculation ja? Well if it is your bidding. Yes…yes of course. I am after all your humble inquisitor…Okay, see you. Yes, hugs back. No…I can’t say that…we have company. Oh alright then…kiss-kiss my darling.’

The archbishop gazed up fearfully at Rightvinger who turned back to him.

‘That was God on za ‘phone,’ he mentioned casually. ‘I’m afraid he’s a shade upset with you.’

‘How can you conceivably justify all this?’ Macavity jabbered hysterically, ‘Are you not a religious man…a man of God?’

‘Yes, cardinal, I’m indeed a man of God. However, inclining towards the God of the Old Testament… y’know, the thunderbolt-wielding tyrant of wrath and retribution. In fact I rarely take my cue from that timid avatar of za gospels. I mean he’d hardly sanction an inquisition, now would he? No, he’d more likely fall victim to one.’

‘But what of our creed…and all things holy?’

Our religion, like most, is an agency of power rather than spirituality. We’re here to enforce laws rather than elevate the human soul. Were you not aware of this?’

‘Apostasy!’ the Archbishop shrieked, ‘…you’ll never get away with this!’

‘Contrapasso’ actually. It’s a kind of infernal poetic justice for those who revel in the deadly sins. Clearly, yours were pride, greed and lust. So your just deserts must reflect this. Oh and I’m afraid we’ll also have to have your balls on a silver platter.’

Rightvinger nodded to his dark monks who then edged inwards around a colossal angelic statue to form a close circle. They knelt, drew their swords and began to chant:

‘Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle; be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray: and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls…Amen.’

The figures arose, sheathed their weapons and turned to their leader.

Rightvinger addressed his prisoner. ‘Any last requests old boy?’

Macavity attempted to recover his reeling senses and decided to stall for time. ‘So how are you funding this operation, aye? If you’re opposed to corruption how can you justify dipping your paws into the coffers?’

Rightvinger grinned. ‘A good question. Observe.’ He stabbed at the Kriegvagon’s control panel. Flaps in the arms whirred open and a pair of cannons emerged. ‘I used my artillery to breach the wall to a hidden chamber. I found za Croatian Nazi gold that has been holed up here for seven decades. So believe me, funding really isn’t an obstacle.’

‘Obstacle to what?’ Macavity piped up.

‘To the implementation of my solution.’ Rightvinger responded. ‘A final solution. Indeed, this is why one relinquished office. But for za last phase I need Curia approval.’

‘You’re a bloody fruitcake!’ Macavity accused, ‘…nuttier than a squirrel turd!’

‘I assure you cardinal, I know exactly what I am doing and in full possession of my faculties,’ the Emeritus bristled. ‘But, like so many, you lack the vision to discern my brilliance. I am a man of towering wit and erudition.’

‘Megalomania don’t you mean…and despotism! You’re pure evil!’ Macavity retorted.

‘Those who wield power are often accused thus,’ the Emeritus mused. ‘However I refute your assertion that I’m ‘pure evil’…more a necessary evil I think. After all, it is not sweetness and light that governs the hearts of men, cardinal, it is fear.’

The archbishop shivered as Rightvinger resumed circling him.

‘Y’know, there’s more to me than my mildly draconian approach to shepherding souls,’ the Emeritus continued. ‘But the world never truly appreciated my comic genius. Like my outrageous philosophical joke claiming logos (reason) as a Christian ethos and proposing our church gave birth to the Enlightenment*. Of course this is a preposterous notion. Our dogmatic, a priori ontological system is the very antithesis of reason. I mean, look what we did to poor Galileo when he presented us with reason; he was charged with a heresy and put under house arrest. As for Sir Isaac Newton, trailblazer of the renaissance, he was a nontrinitarian. Had he declared his beliefs at the time he’d have been imprisoned for blasphemy. Alas, the faithful never appreciated the rich irony of my metaphysical witticisms,’ the Emeritus huffed with a shrug. ‘But enough of this procrastination…’

Rightvinger called Lazzaro to his side before returning a cold gaze to his prisoner. ‘You probably don’t remember Lazzaro. Although you should. You were one of za cardinals who violated him when he was a juvenile. I fear the unquenchable rage that you’ve ignited in him knows no bounds. I doubt whether even slaying you will quench it.’

‘Nooooo!’ Macavity yowled, convulsing violently.

Lazzaro promptly stifled his agonised screams with gimp mask. He unfurled a length of rubber tubing and connected the mask to the Kriegvagon’s silage tank.

Rightvinger grinned malevolently as he depressed a button. ‘Are you acquainted with the term ‘eat shit and die’ cardinal...?’ He inquired over the chug of the motor. ‘Now eat up, there’s a good fellow.’

The gurgling squeals became occluded by distant roars of adulation from above.

© Edwin Black 2013
 
* Reference to Cardinal Ratzinger, ‘Europe’s Crisis of Culture’, 2005: ‘…the Enlightenment is of Christian origin...It was and is the merit of the Enlightenment to have again proposed these original values of Christianity and of having given back to reason its own voice…’

A scandalous autobiography of Edwin Black – Part I

Memoirs of a game cock: Father’s antics and how it affected my early life.

I was conceived of an illegitimate coupling and born into bastardy in 1971. Following in the family tradition of Jus primae noctis (i.e. ‘knocking up the serving wench’), my erstwhile father, the late Bicount Randolph Mandy-Cox importuned, and finally sequestered my mother’s virtue in the servant’s quarters at Huberd Manor. Having reluctantly availed herself, my now pregnant mother, Winifred Black (or ‘Whinny’[?] to my father), promptly whisked herself off to Brighton to avoid the stigma of illegitimacy and, moreover, a stringent grilling from the Bicountess.

My father (or Randy Cox as he was fondly known to Peers), followed in an ancient bloodline of raffish aristocrats who, as you might expect, were ruled by passion rather than governed by ethics. This predilection for chasing anything in a skirt (or indeed, trousers) had resulted in a family tree that resembled a veritable thicket. In fact, the Mandy-Cox pedigree can only be viewed in its full tableau when unfurled on the banqueting table of the Great Hall. Needless to say, my father’s frequent genealogical ‘shoot-offs’ had considerably bolstered the local populace of Coxmoor Village.

In contrast with his many other indiscretions, my mother’s self-effacing charm and delicate, raven-tressed countenance stirred in my father a spirit of noblesse oblige hitherto unknown. Upon her return to an uncertain future with her parents in Coxmoor, my mother and I were offered lodgings at Huberd Manor’s gatehouse. This bucolic idyll would become my home for a few happy years until I was of schooling age.

To her great credit, my mother remained tight-lipped as to my paternity in order to spare the wanton destruction of the antique Wedgwood that she’d so lovingly cared for at Huberd Manor. When occasionally pressed on the point, she alluded to a visit from a door-to-door salesman. Consequently, my father was able to renew his acquaintance with her; having, as it were, a penchant for all things tight-lipped and being pressed on the point.

At my father’s behest, I was privately tutored at Huberd Manor and, as a consequence, rarely associated with village folk. Cloistered within these confines, I was afforded a unique insight into some of the vulgarisms and malice of the ruling elite. My two older half-brothers regarded me as part-punch bag, part-pet and as such, apt for the customary maltreatment. If it wasn’t itching powder on the bath towel, it was chilli pepper in my underpants or even one of the dachshund’s ‘calling cards’ on my pillow. Although the apparent hilarity of their horseplay escaped me, the penalty for their hubris didn’t escape them. Fate, it transpired, would have the last laugh…but more on that later.

In keeping with family custom, I spent much of my adolescence lusting after Ashok Varma, an urbane Indian cook in my father’s employ. Despite my awkward attempts to curry favour, he was less than obliging. However, this most formative sense of perpetual lovelorn angst did create a template for later life.

At seventeen, I was afforded an undergraduate place at St Bilious College, Oxford, reading English. However my stint in the hallowed halls of academia was decidedly brief. Naïve, and easily led, some fellow students decided to take me for a night out to ‘get arseholed’. My first public exposure to (and at) local alehouses, proved ill advised. My debauched and drunken antics culminated in an attempt to bugger the bronze effigy of Sir Thomas Bodley (well, that hand-on-hip stance did look so alluring). Although Oxford University’s illustrious founder might have been accommodating to the proposal (given that he’d been a diplomat), the Dean certainly wasn’t. Doubtless, his incandescent fury was, in part, inflamed by the Oxfordshire Herald, which considered photos of my exploits - in flagrante delicto - newsworthy. I was unceremoniously banished from the entire Oxbridge portmanteau in a blaze of salacious publicity.

News of my ignominious downfall did not impress my father, who regarded my actions as a personal slight. Back at Huberd Manor, the blistering diatribe made me realise that his estate’s reputation (such as it was) might not survive being dragged further into the mire.

‘Being seen to be respectable’, he'd admonished, ‘is infinitely more important than being respectable. By all means enjoy a feisty butt, but always remember your feisty rebuttal. After all, respectability is nine-parts denial and one-part brazenness. For example, the true scoundrel will always attend church - a show of piety being the best remedy for any disagreeable rumours…’

He went on to describe his philosophy as ‘the way of the gamecock’. I agreed apathetically, though the rebel in me begged to differ. I suspect he discerned this divergence and in a pique of spiteful rage he contacted an old flame in Ireland. Within days, I was found myself being packed off to a finishing school for girls in the Emerald Isle.

‘St. Grendel’s School of Comportment’ brought a new reign of tyranny to my existence. On arrival, I was immediately compelled to wear a black smock and balance books on my head. However, this enforced transvestite circus act was nothing compared to my ensuing tribulations. This despotic regime was enforced by a brood of hideous and diabolical sadists fiendishly disguised as nuns. Minor infractions of their rules (or 'indecorous displays') resulted in the infliction of devilish torments ranging from imprisonment and starvation to feverish threats of hell and damnation. It was even rumoured amongst the girls that one of these gorgons harboured torture equipment dating back to the days of the Inquisition. Indeed, it was never ‘God’ I feared, but rather, those purporting to represent him.

Days spiralled into weeks as I was forced to clasp teacups ‘just-so’ and attempt to waltz to Stravinsky. I also had to strut with On the Origin of Species clenched between my buttocks whilst reciting scripture. Barely sustained by the meagre rations, the doom and oppression of this daily grind took its toll. In my mind’s eye, it became a Manichean struggle for liberty of conscience and freedom of thought. Oh, how my louche and bohemian lifestyle at the Manor seemed but a distant memory! I resolved to escape this asylum of hysterical hypocrisy and medieval mania.

One moonless night, I sped from my prison. Passing beneath the shadows of a monolith spiked with minarets and spires; a slumbering demon-horned dragon in silhouette. Penniless, I hitched a ride to the seaport and pondered upon my return to dear old Blighty. By chance, I came across a sailor who agreed to ‘provide safe passage’ provided that I returned the favour. It was a small price to pay for freedom.

The whole hideous experience certainly put the willies up me, although not in the fashion one might have preferred. At least it substantiated the theory of aversion therapy, since I now oscillate between being a cynical humanist and an optimistic existentialist. In the next gripping instalment of my life, you’ll discover more family intrigue, dastardly deeds and even hope rising from the cinders of disaster.

Thanks for reading and be naughty,
EB x

© Edwin Black