Midnight Meat

The advertisement was for a loft apartment in a building that had been converted from a warehouse. It was in the fashionable Fishtown section of Philadelphia, an area where prices were always rising. Nowadays Fishtown is a hip area of restaurants, boutiques, nightclubs and galleries. Young professionals want to live there. It is only a ten minute El ride from Center City. You can walk, bike or roller skate the distance if you are health conscious or want to save the environment. Forty years ago, however, Fishtown was different. It was a working class neighborhood of factories and row homes. There were warehouses, not lofts, and corner bars instead of chic eateries and fancy watering holes. I knew the history, vaguely. I was not from out of town. I had grown up in the Roxborough section on city’s northwest fringe. I guess you could say I was one of the would be hipsters who wanted to be closer to the action.

The price for the unit was reasonable. I didn’t understand why at the time, but now know why the rent was lower than most of the buildings around it. I signed the lease and moved in. All was fine for a few weeks. I had time to decorate and explore the area when not at work. Maybe I was too tired from drinking and working those first few weeks, but with time I began to notice things. At first it was strange sounds, always after midnight. It would evolve from there.

One night I was woken by what sounded like mooing. I looked around, thought it was part of a dream, and went back to sleep. A few nights later it was a persistent clucking as if I were surrounded by chickens. Again, there was nothing to be seen and a chalked it off as a dream. Then there was the oinks and shuffle of trotters. This was not every night, nor happening in any fixed pattern. I began to suspect delivery trucks for a halal butcher shop several blocks away, but, when I asked the owner, he said he didn’t take deliveries until 5 AM.

I wondered what this meant, but not too much because the nights were quiet for a while, or quiet enough for Fishtown. There was always the normal rumbling of the El and the noise of cars. Then the music started.

I was laying in bed when I heard the rumba like tune, monotonous, reminiscent of the Muzak that used to be played in elevators and shopping malls.

Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA.

It was low at first, but grew louder. I Iooked out of my apartment window to see if a passing car was blasting its radio. There was no car outside. I banged on the ceiling thinking it was coming from my upstairs neighbor’s apartment, then remembered she had moved out the previous weekend. The unit was empty. That left the downstairs tenant. I banged on the floor, then remembered he was visiting California. After twenty minutes or so the music stopped. I could not get back to sleep. I kept thinking about the music and where it could be coming from. I managed to fall back asleep right before my alarm went off. It was a weary and bloodshot day at work.

The next night was safe from music, but the night after that it began early, around 11 PM. 

Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA.

It lasted on and off for over an hour.

During my lunch hour at work I went to a drug store and bought a jar of foam earplugs. This should solve the noise problem, or so I thought. That night it was quiet at 11 PM and at midnight, but around three in the morning the music started.

Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA.

I took my earplugs out and out them back in again. The sound was the same whether I had the ear plugs in or not, as if the sound was in my head and not in the room. I tossed and turned, and finally shouted, “What do you want from me?” The music stopped. I was finally able to get some sleep.

Being an optimist, I thought that was it. Whatever spell I was under had been broken by confronting it. I was wrong. The next night the real trouble began. Around one in the morning the music began, lower than before, but still audible. It was as if whoever or whatever was the source of the music was trying to be at least a little considerate. I might have been able to sleep in spite of the sound if not for the animals. They came one after another floating across the room, just below the ceiling. They came out of one wall, crossed rug and bed, and disappeared into the wall above the headboard. Cattle mostly. At least this night. Though there were other animals near the end of the parade. A few pigs. Some sheep. A stray cat. They all moved in tune with the music, as if on a conveyor belt of some kind. Start start start, Stop start Stop start, etc. I hid as best I could under the sheets. I buried my head under the pillow. But every time I looked out they were there. Once I pulled the sheets down and stared directed into the eyes of a somber steer who hazed down at me, nose so close to mine that we could have nuzzled.

I went to see a doctor and obtained a prescription for sleeping pills. I slept well for a few nights, then the noise and the visions became my dreams. The same thing every night. After a month I gave up on the pills. I might be getting more rest, but I was not getting away from the problem. I was also afraid that I was be getting addicted. It was taking more pills each night to make my body sleep through the animal show, but my mind could never rest. The animals were always there, inside my head, every night whether I was awake or asleep.

I went to a psychologist. She asked me to talk about what was bothering me. When I told her she gave me a referral to a psychiatrist. I saw the psychiatrist once. He offered me more pills. I knew that would not help any more than sleeping pills. Plus, once I saw the bill I knew I could never afford to be sick in that way.

Without sleeping pills the animals occupied my apartment most nights. The music came at midnight or just after. The animals came out of the wall and danced across the ceiling. Cows, pigs, chickens, sheep, and the rare household pet. They spun and pirouetted. They slid and shuffled. They tapped and twisted. All in time to the music. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA.

My hair began to fall out. Maybe I had caught the mange. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep. Maybe it was the coffee and chemical assistance I had been using to stay awake and alert through the work day. I was tired and itchy. I needed rest. I needed peace. I needed my mind back. I needed my life back. I needed my apartment back.

The dancing continued. Nearly every night. Then one night all the animals crossed over my head. The room was quiet for a minute. Then the conveyor belt reversed. For the first time the animals came out of the wall over the headboard and crossed the room towards my bureau. They were no longer whole beasts. They were pieces. Chopped. Bloodied. Decapitated. Skinned. Plucked. Dismembered. They crossed the room in bloody bits and sometimes in shrink wrapped plastic and foam packages. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. The music. The music. It could not calm the savage beasts. It could not calm the docile herd. It could not calm me or my stomach. I vomited.

I did some research online about the building where I lived. I found the name of a company, but not much else. I went to the Free Library of Philadelphia, the Central Branch, the big one at 19^th and Vine Streets. I asked for information in the Business and Science Department. A librarian referred me to dusty volumes of old city records and phone books. I learned the business name was for real estate holding company. That was not what I wanted. I wanted to know what was there before. A librarian referred me to the Social Science and History Department and the Map Collection. On a fifty year old map I found my apartment building, the name of a business and the term “rendering plant”. More research in old City Directories, reverse directories, and phone books showed the history of the building. For most of its history it had been a slaughterhouse or a rendering plant processing animals into meat and other products. Skins, bones, hooves and hair all had their value. 

I wanted more information. I had the names of several companies that had been housed in my building over a century. I was sent to the Newspaper Collection. I went through indexes and scanned microfilm of newspapers that no longer existed. An article on music to keep man and beast in better spirits at a local slaughterhouse leaped out at me from 1971 edition of the Philadelphia Bulletin. It was one of those peculiar stories, a mix of business and human interest. Later I read about the history of the Clean Air Act, the Clean Water Act and other environmental laws, how they were passed, and how the laws eventually led to the closing of many factories including rendering plants in Philadelphia. The stench and runoff from slaughterhouses and animal processing plants had become unacceptable in a closely packed urban area. Health. Disease. Death. Music. After the plants closed years of vacant buildings, poverty and unemployment characterized the neighborhood. Then rebirth. Fishtown was reborn in the new century. It was a mix of quaint old buildings and new construction. It was clean, modern, hip, desirable. Underneath, the past was still there.

I thought I understood. That night I cried out to the dead. “I’m sorry for what was done to you. I am sorry for the slaughter. The torture. The maiming. The mockery.” I heard music and a noise in the kitchen. Slowly I walked towards the noise. The refrigerator was open. Both the fridge part and the freezer. All the sausages and bacon, the hamburgers and spareribs, the steaks and eggs and scrapple from both the fridge and the freezer had been cast on the floor.

“Is that what you want?” I shouted. “Is that what will bring you peace? Is that what will bring me peace? “ I listened for a response. A low moo, a baa, a squawk? Something. “I mean it.”

It was a quiet night. I burned the meat in reverence and buried the ashes. I became a vegan. Not just a vegan. A low fat vegan. I lost a lot of weight, lowered my blood pressure and lowered my cholesterol. I became more flexible. I healed faster. I felt more calm. More at peace. But the animals did not leave. They wandered around my apartment at night gazing at me with loving eyes. It was beautiful. And creepy. When it came time to renew my lease, I chose to move. 

I found another apartment in Fishtown. I tried to stay vegan for spiritual and health reasons, but it was too damn hard. Especially at barbecues and Thanksgiving. I still ate much less meat than I used to. On most days. But that was not good enough. It could never be good enough. They came for me one night while I was still awake. Not into my new apartment. They stayed outside, floating in the air next to my living room window. Three stories up, the ghosts of the slaughterhouse, the cows, the pigs, the sheep, the hens, all took their turn looking in on me with sad disappointed eyes. 

But they did not make any noise. I had won that much for the effort. 

When I realized this, I felt like celebrating. I put on some music. A familiar piece I had found online. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. Da da da. Da da DA DA DA. And danced. I had earned it.

The Pope’s Dildo

The head that wears the papal crown was bare. So was the rest of him. After a hard day of leading the world’s one billion Catholics, Pope Porky the Second needed to relax, and best way he knew to relax was stimulation of his aging prostate gland with his favorite vibrating dildo. .His anus was greased, his sphincter relaxed and ready. Pope Porky was prepared in every way except for one thing, he couldn’t find his fucking dildo.

“Where is it?” he growled yelling at the purple socks in the drawer where he kept his toys. He tossed balls of purple silk onto his bed. “It should be here!”

Search as he might, no dildo was to be found. Pope Porky turned his eyes towards the ornately painted ceiling of his bedroom and let out a cry of primal anguish.

Monsignor Pepe De Silva came running in response to the shout, his high heels clicking on the marble floors of the corridors. He arrived at the pope’s bedchamber and banged on the large heavy doors.

“What is it my pope?” de Silva cried. “Have you fallen and you can’t get up?”

“No, Pepe,” the pope wept. “It is worse than that, much worse.”

“What is it your magnification?”

“I can’t tell you until I let you in.”

The pope unlocked the door with his a television remote. Pepe De Silva rushed in, his shoulder slipping through his strapless habit, made from the finest sackcloth. He saw the pope wrapped in a sheet.

“Closed the door,” commanded Pope Porky.

De Silva closed the door.

“What is it?”

“Come closer,” the pope gestured.

The monsignor moved towards the pope. The pope embraced him.

“Pepe, oh Pepe,” Pope Porky slobbered.

“You can tell me anything,” De Silva reassured him with a hug. “What is bothering you so much.”

“Pepe. You know my dildo?”

“The one modeled after Michelangelo’s David?”

“Not David,” Pope Porky corrected, “just his cock.”

“Yes, I know it. I helped you try it out after the Archbishop of Canterbury gave it to you.”

“Ah, yes,” Porky smiled. “How could I forget that night. How the mind weakens as we get older. That is why I thought I had just misplaced it, but I have searched everywhere. Now I fear that it was stolen.”

“Stolen? Who could have done such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” said the pope grimly. “But whomever it was, he or she is a real dastardly bastard.”

“Shall I notify security?” asked De Silva. “Or the police?”

“No,” said the pope. “This is too sensitive a crime. We need someone clever, someone subtle, someone discrete.”

“Who do you suggest?”

“Padre Brio,” said the pope, his features stern.

“Padre Brio?” Monsignor De Silva gasped. “Are you sure? He’s a loose canon, a wild man. He’s out of control.”

“He is also the best man I have,” said the pope.

“And the most dangerous,” sighed De Silva.

Padre Brio was laying on an inflatable mattress floating in a swimming pool in his retreat in Capri. He was working on his tan and enjoying semi retirement. He lifted a large cocktail with a straw to his lips and gazed at a pair of beautiful young women in bikinis splashing nearby. The young nuns were at the height of beauty and had been recruited for their unwavering devotion. Maria was a feisty lass originally from Naples. She could speak seven languages, and her black hair, ample bosom and full lips could stun a man, and many women as well. The nuns had trained her to perfection. Matilda, her rival in the water fight, was an expert in electronics. He slender frame concealed an inner strength fueled by fasting and meditation. She could go for a week without sleep, had done so many times, and she could be trusted unto death never to confess except to the pope himself. Which she had done on more than one occasion when blood was of necessity spilled. Padre Brio shifted his glance to the young seminarian, Antonio, 19, a bronze work of art, as the lad prepared to leap from the diving board into the deep end of the pool. Brio was not sure how this new addition would fit into his team, but he enjoyed the way he fit into Antonio even more than he had meshed with his previous counterpart. 

On parchment, Antonio was an agent in training, filling a role that Brio had once played when he was apprenticed at a similar age. Brio half suspected that Antonio’s role was also to spy on him for the Vatican, to make sure his faith, however liberally practiced, was within the proper range of thought. If that were the case, Padre Brioe could live with it. Brio made sure he lived in accordance with the strict rules, and privileges, afforded him by the Papal Indulgence that sat in his safe deposit box in Zurich. Such were the rewards of being the chief assassin and agent to the Vatican. Of course there were risks. Padre Brio’s firmly muscled chest bore the dark scars of entry wounds. He had been seven times, and stabbed twice more than that, but he still lived. Padre Brio was certain his survival was a miracle, a sign of God’s favor. The Pope had assigned two monasteries, one in Quebec and one in Poland, to pray for Padre Brio in twenty four hour shifts. Padre Brio could feel the power of their faith even as his own rose in his trunks.

A shapely Filipina in a white bikini strode over to the pool holding a towel and a bathrobe.

“It’s the white phone, Padre,” she said with a smile that accentuated everything erotic in her form.

Padre Brio’s eyes widened.

The white hone was a secure hotline. Only the Pope called on it. Regretabbly, it was in the trouble room and could be brought pool side. 

“Thank you, Sister Bianca,” the Padre said.

Bianca was gorgeous, but no one’s toy unless she wanted to be. She came from a family of escrima fighters, trained from childhood until she took the veil at seventeen. Bianca was deadly with a machete, knife or stick. Some of Padre Brio’s scars had come from training with her. Bianca accompanied Brio on some of his rougher jobs.

Brio paddled over to the side of the pool and climbed out. Bianca helped him towel off. Her hand brushed against his swollen member.

“Would you like me to take care of that for you Padre?”

Brio grinned. He slipped on his robe and lowered his Speedo. 

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, “but we should not keep the pope waiting for long.”

“Of course not,” Bianca replied sinking to her knees. “I will be quick about it.”

***

The Pope was angry at being kept waiting, but Padre Brio was in a good mood when he picked up the phone. 

“Your Holiness, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You owe loyalty, obedience, secrecy and success,” recited the Pope.

“Bananas taste best when they are yellow and hard,” said Brio repeating the day’s code phrase.

“But some prefer bananas that are brown and soft,” replied the pope with the other half of the code phrase.

“Who came up with today’s code phrase?” Brio asked. “Monsignor De Silva?”

Pope Porky grunted, “I picked this one.”

“And what a good phrase it is,” Brio kiss-assed.

The pope sighed, “So you did not like the code phrase. Don’t treat me as if I am an infant.”

“My apologies, your holiness,” Padre Brio said with with emotion while bowing slightly to the phone. “I did not mean to offend. How can I be of service?”

“A private and personal object of great value has gone missing.”

“What is it?”

“I dare not tell you over a telephone.”

“This is a secure line.”

“We are in Italy. There is no such thing as a secure line.””

“How will I find out what this object is?” Brio asked.

“Monsignor De Silva has sent a carrier pigeon. It should be arriving soon.”

A shotgun blast was heard. 

“What was that?” asked the pope with alarm.

“Probably my groundskeeper,” Brio said. “He fancies himself a hunter.”

“What can he hunt on a small island?”

“Birds mostly.”

“He better not kill my pigeon,” the pope growled. “It is a fancy breed.”

“He does not tell me what he kills, and I do not tell him who I kill,” Brio explained. ”It is an agreement we have.”

“He sounds like a scoundrel. Why do you keep him on?”

“He has relatives in the Calabrian mob,’ Brio said. “Those connections are sometimes useful.”

Benito Esposito entered the room. He was a short bull-face man with broad shoulders and a flat nose. A brace of birds hung from a string in his hands, including a pigeon with rare and colorful plumage.

“Boss,” he said in a deep voice. “I think this pigeon is for you.”

“Thank you Benito.”

Brio grabbed the pigeon and slipped the note from its leg.

“Your message has arrived.” Brio told the pope. 

“Good, take a look at it and tell me if you can help.”

Brio read the message and suppressed a laugh.

“Your holiness, I think I can help you, but you will need to provide me with a list, a complete list, of all who have had access to your bedchamber since you last saw the object.”

“That would only be three. Monsignor De Silva, Cardinal Scruggs and Monsignor Menida.”

“Is that all? What about security and cleaning staff? What about secret visitors?”

“I can get you the names of the guards and cleaning staff, but I do not know you mean by secret visitors, are you suggesting something untoward?”

“I suggest nothing,” Brio said. “I just ask questions. The answers suggest more questions. It is one way of getting to the facts, but there are others. I will check the security tapes.”

“The object was not used for three days before its loss was determined,” the pope said somberly. “If that helps any.”

“Every piece of information helps,” assured Brio. “I will get Matilda on it. How soon can we get the security tapes, visual, audio, whatever you have?”

“By this evening.”

“Good,” said Brio. “I hope you did not send more pigeons?”

“Of course not,” said the Pope. “They are in a compressed digital file sent to your secure computer.”

“Very well,” said Brio. “We shall see what we shall see.”

“I want this matter solved quickly.,’ ordered the pope. “No leaks, No screw ups. No scandal. The Church as has had too much scandal.”

“Of course your holiness,” Brio said oozing charm and confidence. “Have I ailed you yet?”

“No,” Pope Porky agreed. “Let us pray you do not fail me now.”

***

Matilda went over the tapes while Antonio and Maria ran background checks on all the guests on a list provided by the pope. As Brio had suspected, there had been a backstairs visitor, a disreputable ballet dancer from Budapest. Brio thought it was wise of the pope to produce this new information. Concealing it from Brio would have only delayed the investigation. 

“I doubt our good pope was taking dance lessons,” Brio told Maria. She was not pleased with the remark. 

“Remember your vows, padre” she hissed.

Touchy, Brio thought, but he should have known better. If not for Pope Porky’s dispensations, they would all be mournfully celibate, or at least trying to be, and none of them would be enjoying the cloak and dagger world, unless they were missionaries in China, Iran or Guatemala.

Antonio brought him the news he was looking for. Brio read the dossier his assistant had prepared, pulled from newspaper clippings, Interpol reports and attendance lists at inter-faith conferences. Brio double checked the facts himself, then called the Pope.

“Be careful who you dance with.”

“What do you mean?” Pope Porky asked with indignation.

“Your visitor has some unsavory connections.”

“The Mafia?’

“No,” Padre Brio said. “They are old friends. This is an older enemy who may try to play a game the Mafia plays well.”

The pope asked, “What game and what enemy?”

“The game is blackmail,” Brio said grimly, “and the enemy is the oldest enemy the Roman Catholic church has.”

The pope gasped, “The Lutherans?”

“Older than than that.”

“The Muslims?”

“Older still.”

“You can’t mean…” 

“I do,” Brio said firmly. “The Patriarch of Constantinople.”

“You mean Istanbul?” the pope corrected.

“Call it what you will. I believe your object is on its way there now.”

“Why?” the pope inquired. “What good would it be to the Patriarch?”

“It is most likely wanted for leverage in unification talks between the Orthodox churches and the Roman Catholic churches. What has been the major stumbling blocks to unification? Married clergy? No. Latin versus Greek for liturgy? No. The two stumbling blocks have been the refusal of the West to admit that the Latin translations on which the Western faith is founded were poor translations, the Eastern translations being more accurate from the start. The second major stumblingly block has always been who is top dog. Who bows to who? If the Patriarch can get you to bow to him, if you bend, the Patriarch will have the power, the prestige and the patronage that goes with it. After that, who knows? In another five hundred years the other christian churches may follow suit like loyal children and bow to the Patriarch. The Patriarch would control all of Christianity. And who would control the Patriarch? I think you know.”

“We can’t let that happen,” the pope said angrily. “We cannot diminish the the See of Peter.”

“We won’t let it happen,” Brio assured him. “I’m leaving for Istanbul with my team in a matter of hours, but I need an extra player.”

“Who do you you need?”

“I want sister Gerturde.”

The pope was silent.

“Sister Gertrude is retired. She is greatly troubled by her former life of service to the church. In her moral crisis, she has taken a vow of silence and transferred to a Carmelite Convent. No one gets in. No one gets out. It is high walls, small cells, days and nights of deprivation and prayer.”

“I would have thought she had enough of that when she was in that KGB prison,” Brio said thoughtfully. “It was very difficult to spring her. Cost several lives. If that is what she wanted, she should have let me know and I would have left her there. Now I need her.”

“Do not mock Sister Gertrude’s faith,” the pope scolded. “I fear her vocation is stronger than yours.”

“So is her wrist lock, but I still need her special skills.”

The pope sighed. 

“This may not be the best thing for her soul, but if it is for the good of the Church…?”

“It is essential to the survival of the Church.”

The pope conceded.

“I will see to it that she meets you in Istanbul.”

*** 

Sister Gertrude was an enormous Dutch nun, an expert in Judo and other martial arts, such as the little know drunken style and ox style. She was also an expert torturer, a talent that had greatly challenged her faith and caused her fits of despair. In between jobs she was often plunged into dark binges of prayer, denial and flagellation. But when the pope called, Sister Gertrude always came. She never failed to follow through with an assignment, no matter how much physical pain or spiritual anguish it caused her.

The pope’s mischievous dancer was performing at a theater in Istanbul. He was a bit player on stage, but a much larger player in the world of religious espionage. A triple agent, he had worked for the Russian Metropolitan, the Greek Patriarch and the Church of Scientology. He had been lucky until now, but his time was running short. 

Matilda became a maid for a day at the hotel where the dance troop was staying. It only required a uniform, a fake mustache and a lot of chutzpah. Matilda searched the Hungarian dancer’s room. She did not expect to be so fortunate as to find the dildo. She did not, but was able to bug the room with cameras and listening devices. Bianca covered her head in a scarf and watched the front door, posing as a street vendor. She followed our dancer where ever he went. She later reported seeing him meeting with a known Orthodox priest. No packages were exchanged. 

Antonio stationed himself in the hotel bar. He lured one of the other minor dancers into a tryst, drugged him and assumed his identity before the evening performance. In between acts he jabbed the suspected thief with a needle. Brio, disguised as a stage hand, helped get the package to the street and shove him into a waiting car with Maria at the wheel. Sister Gertrude was waiting in the safe house. It was safe for Padre Brio and his team, not for the intrepid dancer. The poor man nearly died when he saw Gertrude’s instruments laid out on the table waiting for him. Despite his apparent fright, he was a tough bastard. It took more than a crushed testicle and a few missing finger nails to get him to reveal the whereabouts of the dildo.

“It’s hidden in my ass,” the man confess. “It has been there the whole time.”

“Incredible.” Gertrude stammered. “You must have one deep anus.”

“It is my pride.
“Was your pride,” Brio said.

He stuck his hand into the dancer’s dark recesses and felt around. There was something there. A string? Brio pulled it. The man laughed.

Brio realized his stupidity.

“Everyone out quickly!”

Our dancer was in no condition to run, but he did not seem to care. Brio’s team barely got out of there before the dancer’s intestines exploded, taking half the house with them.

“What now boss?” Antonio asked.

“We trace his steps,” Padre Brio said. “He must have ditched the dildo somewhere in town.”

“I’ve checked his room already,” said Matilda.

“We have not checked the theater.”

The show was over. The performance had not been the best, being shy two dancers, but the audience had been indifferent and had not noticed the poor quality of the art displayed before them. The troop had returned to their hotel. The police were another matter, They seemed to be creeping around the theater in uncomfortable numbers, as if they had been tipped off that something was up. This is where the ladies proved most useful. Turkish sexism made them less suspect to the local police, and men being men everywhere, they were easily duped by their charms. Even Gertrude drew the attention of one officer. The poor soul did not live long enough to give her the tussle he had desired. It was a messy affair, but Brio had come prepared. He had his team plant pamphlets in Kurdish on the bodies so local rebels would take the blame for the casualties. The dressing rooms revealed no secrets. Nor did the prop room, but the stage was another matter. Matilda ran a series of sweeps of the area. She saw something odd in an x-ray scan. She notified Padre Brio.

“Look at that sandbag used to leverage one of the backdrops. There is a long shape inside it.”

Brio looked at the ghostly shape on Matilda’s hand held monitor.

“Could just be a bottle of booze hidden by one of the stage crew,” Brio cautioned.

”Could be,” Matilda agreed, “but we’ll never know until we look.” 

Antonio shimmied up the rope attached to the sandbag. He cut open the bag with a dagger. Sand poured onto the floor. The back drop behind the team raised slightly. Brio watched the grains fall until the dildo appeared. It was a work of exquisite craftsmanship, a gold and jeweled vibrating dildo, presently missing its batteries, a work of art suitable to please a pontiff.

Bianca, who was on watch, signaled Brio to hurry as more police had arrived, looking for officers who had not called in. Matilda had previously arranged for a diversionary explosion a quarter mile away, should it be necessary. She pushed a key on her cell phone. The small bomb detonated. The blast drew the police away from the theater long enough for Padre Brio’s team to slip off into the dark. A speed boat was waiting on the coast near Marmara. The papal dildo safe in a latex sack, was secured in Sister Gertrude’s unassailable vagina. In an hour hour the team was on an Italian fishing trawler, skirting Greek territory. A seaplane met them south of Kithira. They landed near Brindisi. Two limousines were waiting. Padre Brio, Sister Gertrude, and Bianca climbed into one vehicle. Matilda, Antonio and Maria git in the other. They were driven to a private landing strip and a jet ride to Rome. 

Pope Porky was ecstatic upon seeking his beloved dildo again. 

“Padre Brio,” he declared. “Buy some purple socks. I am making you a Monsignor.”

“As you wish your holiness,” Brio said, “but what about my team?”

“My blessings and forgiveness to you all.” 

The pope called to Monsignor De Silva, “Get the cards.”

De Silva bowed, exited the private chamber where the pope was having his audience Padre Brio and his team. De Silva returned with what appeared to be a set of business cards. He handed one to Padre Brio and each member of his team. Each read the card he or she had been given.

Padre Brio looked at the card in his hand. It read, “Get of of hell free,” and bore the papal signature.

“Go ahead,” said Pope Porky. “Enjoy yourselves. You’ve earned it.”

And we will, Padre Brio, thought. We will, until the next time that duty calls.