Tales Of The Gurrier

‘How many today?’

‘10,000 your Holiness.’

‘And why do they come? Is it promises of eternal life in heaven, earthly riches, immortality?’

‘No your Holiness, he brings them,’

‘Yes?’

‘He brings them flowers.’

‘Flowers?’

‘Yes your Holiness, flowers. A symbol of his love’

‘How many are his followers.’

‘Twelve your Holiness.’

‘He brings flowers for 10,000 with twelve men.’

‘Not men oh exhalted one, women.’

‘WOMEN!’

‘Yes your most divine majesty. And he does not bring flowers for 10,000.’

‘Explain yourself lowly worm.’

‘He brings but one bloom and there are many. It is, well it is a miracle sir.’

‘A miracle, here, IN THE VATICAN! What is the meaning of this? Speak maggot.’

‘Oh most divine grace, oh pinnacle of chastity, defender of virtue, shield of the faithful, I am but your most humble and lowly servant and report only what I see with mine own unworthy eyes. It is He sir.’

‘Whom?’

‘He sir, Him. He for whom we have waited and prayed to return.’

‘Guard bring me my Popegun.’

‘Oh please your Holiness, please have mercy on an wretched sinner. A worthless mote in God’s ineffable plan. But the people sir, the people, they know, they know. It is He.’

Pope Innocent XIV shot the priest between the eyes with his bejewelled Popegun. The gun; a one off artifact handcrafted by long dead Russian monks held captive in the black prisons of the Pushtun mountains, had been modified to accept 7.62mm full metal jacket NATO rounds. The priests head disappeared in an explosion of blood and brainmeat.

‘Fetch me another Cardinal,’ said the Pope, ‘and find Mosca.’

‘I am here sire,’ said Mosca sidling into view, taking care to avoid the brains spattered on the exquisite marble dais.

‘Mosca, this stupid son of a whore tells me there is some dumb bastard strutting around my fucking square saying he’s Jesus. What the fuck is the meaning of this?’

‘Ah yes sire Him’

‘Excuse me, have you gone mad?’

‘I’m sorry sire?’

‘You heard me. I said have you gone fucking mad Mosca? Did you not just witness me blow this poor cretins head off because he called him ‘Him’. He is not Him, do you understand me. He is no more Him than the rest of these poor inbred bogbrained savages who turn up on our doorstep every week claiming they are the son of God. Now I am prepared to put up with that kind of crass déclassé nonsense from credible fools like this poor sap on the floor here but I thought better of you Mosca, I really did.’

‘My most humble apologies your Holiness. Yet ahh, and I sense now I am at risk of incurring your almighty and divine wrath I must press forward with his suit. We have performed the requisite investigations my lord and it appears that in at least our initial examinations he does appear to be,Him’

Mosca paused here and moved imperceptibly from the path of the laquered barrel of the Popegun. It was a one shot deal but Pope Innocent had a penchant for augmentation and his personal armoury was known to be fearsome. Who knows what deadly and fiendish devices lay beneath his robes of office.

Pope Innocent furrowed his brow in concentration and scratched the scabby head beneath his mitre. It was hot and uncomfortable here in the throne room and the stench of shit from the dead bible gobbler was not doing the fried liver he had for breakfast any favours.

‘So you have performed the sacred tests then. All of them?’

‘No your Holiness not all of them but in descending order your agents have executed upon his person and in full view of witnesses ‘The Sword of Gabriel,’ ‘The Road to Damascus’, ‘Torquemada’s Kiss’, ‘The Leap of Faith’, ‘Act of Solomon’ and ‘The Walls of Jericho’.’

‘Hmm, so let me see you stabbed him, ran him over, cut off his balls, threw him off a bridge, chopped him in two and dropped a building on him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘See for yourself sir,’ said Mosca flipping a switch concealed beneath a statue of St. Sebastian to reveal a bank of monitors flanked by rotund Renaissance figures. On the screen was the figure of an unremarkable man in his early thirties, bearded, wearing the simple clothes of a carpenter circa 33AD.

‘Christ give me a fucking break,’ said the Pope ‘this is the best they could come up with.’

‘It appears so sir.’

‘Frankly Mosca I’m disappointed. Bitterly disappointed. I thought the Mohammedans had more spirit than this. More, more, ingenuity. Did you know the Orientals actually sent a reincarnation of their god of evil, Amatsu Mikaboshi. Sent that fifty tongued maniac after me they did. God of Evil Mosca, your Nipponese they don’t fuck around. I had to get unholy on that bastard.’

‘Yes sire we have all heard the tales’

‘Don’t smart mouth me Mosca. You’ll be picking scabs off lepers ballbags in Timbuktu faster than you can bless yourself.’

‘My apologies sire, but can you not consider the prospect that this case may warrant further investigation’

‘Mosca my man you’re a stone fool. That’s why you’re down there in the shit and brains and I’m sitting up here on the golden chair getting blown by virgin nuns and a direct personal line to G.O.D. See I know Mosca, I’m the Pope hear me, the fucking Pope! If anyone is going to get a heads up that JC is coming back it would be me. But guess what, nothing, nada, not a sausage. The big guy hasn’t said a word. And you know why that is? Of course you do Mosca, deep down in your black shrivelled balls you know why, its bad for business my friend, bad for business. Ever since I took over this Christianity gig we’ve been scoring off the charts. You know why the big C is the number one religion on the face of the planet right now. We got the numbers baby that’s why. We got the demographics. We are back at number one because we deliver to our core audience. You know who the Scientologists call when they got trouble from some upstart bunch of Brahmins offshoring their sweet Californian yuppie dollars to New Dehli for a quick fix of Yogic flying and yoghurt enemas? It’s us man, the Catholic fucking church. We are number one again because we kick ass and take names like God’s own army of bastard shitkickers. Because that’s who we are; the bastard nightmare sons of a thousand years of rape, torture, war, murder and death. We deal in spiritual genocide my friend and we are number one again hooo ahhh. I fucking love religion!’

The Pope was standing on his throne now screaming at the top of his lungs, loading huge silver rounds into the Popegun and firing them into the crowds gathered beneath his balcony

‘I am the Pope fuckheads. Do you hear me. I am the leader. Welcome to my fucking wet dream!’

‘Sire please think of the ratings!’ said Mosca frantically attempting to pry the maddened pontiff from his favourite balcony.

‘Wha? Oh my yes sorry,’ said the Pope easing himself from the balustrade and tucking his genitals away. ‘Got a bit carried away there Mosca, you know how it is.’

‘Indeed sire. Now about the return of the Messiah’

‘He’s not the Messiah.’

Mosca raised a magnificently manicured eyebrow.

‘Look can’t we just kill him?’ said the Pope.

‘My liege as I was at pains to make clear to you his death appears unachievable through mundane channels.’

‘I see,’ said the Pope deep in contemplation. These immense matters of state barely registered with him when he was but a lowly God botherer in the Vatican’s Hollywood research unit a mere four Summers gone. But that was before the revolution came and the ‘Great Schisming’ of nations. He was Pope now and leader of the free world. These upstart Messianic Mohammedan resurrectionists would be dealt with in the same harsh, brutal yet popular way he dealt with the Anglican Revisionists, the Protestant Lambs and the Mormon Capitulation. There was no place for reason in the world in these times. Not with Japanese biotheocratists cloning God Warriors from shreds of 10,000 year old DNA. Crazed and ancient software billionaires pouring oceans of cash into genome restructuring in Bolivia seeking eternal life and foot long erections at ninety, plagues of hybrid rabbits filled with defective Chinese stem cells and mutated bird flu raping dogs in Parisian suburbs.

People stayed close to their religion nowadays, now that the big governments were gone. He had a responsibility to these poor deluded fools. They looked to him for guidance and he’d be fucked if some hick farmer from the backwoods of Albania with a genetically modified immune system and backing from Al Qaeda stem cell terrorists was going to fuck with his setup.

Pope Innocent XIV squared his shoulders, pursed his lips and spoke with the authority of a regime encrusted with bloodstains stretching back two thousand years.

‘Crucify the fucker.’

Mosca blanched.

‘I, my liege, sire is that wise?’

‘I didn’t ask your opinion Mosca, crucify the fucker. It worked the last time didn’t it. If he really is Him we’ll know soon enough. Within 72 hours is the general consensus. Oh and have the bastard embalmed this time too.’

‘As you wish your Holiness.’

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God help me but the above Flickr fiction was inspired by this photo from Flickr user YanivG. This weeks participants are Teaandcakes, Aquafortis, Chris and Elimare. Click on the links to read their versions.

This entry was posted on Friday, July 7th, 2006 at 1:33 pm and is filed under Flickr Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.