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Murder in the Vatican.

Tyrant of Words
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Joined 30th July 2020
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Poetry Contest

Poem or short story. Poems must be at least 30 lines. Short stories up to three thousand words.
The Vatican is a nice facade. Make me - make us - discover other sorts of realities behind it.  Your voice, your style.   Let it rip....Have fun writing it.

Tyrant of Words
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Joined 30th July 2020
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Murder in the Vatican.

   ''In nomine magni dei nostri Satanas, introibo ad Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, introibo ad altare Domini inferi''.  
   And so starts the Black Mass in a dark corner in a deep basement of the Vatican.    
   Three weeks before.    
   Father John Blair was in his office putting the last touches to his notes concerning his investigation into  Satanic Pedophilia and child abuse in the clergy.  He was a well respected cleric, well versed in Canon Law.  The Church and righteousness were his entire life.    
   He was not one to go against the grain, but things were coming out in the open and worse was to come.    
   Pedophilia was bad enough and the Church was paying countless millions in compensations for the disgusting deeds done by many of its members.    
   Satanic pedophilia was something else.  He needed somebody to help him leak out the story.  This was way beyond pedophilia, as it included satanic rituals, severe abuse of children and, as he'd been able to gather from barely whispered voices, human  sacrifice.    
   He barely had time to press the ''send'' button on his computer before there was a click at the door.  A fellow entered without knocking.    
   ''Yes?'' he said, a bit surprised by this particular visitor.  ''I have not seen you in a while.  I was not excpecting for at least another week''.    
   ''Change of plans, my friend'' said the visitor as he approached Father Blair, and as swift as a trained S,E.A.L., had his knife out and slit Father Blair's throat.    
   When John Sweats arrived at The Trumpet at his usual hour of seven he was stunned to see that a priest had been killed.  In a town where the biggest crime was normally a speeding ticket in a school zone.    
   The second surprise, as he took a sip of hot coffee from his cup  with the logo of the NFL's Vikings on it,  and switched the computer on, was that the priest in question, who he did not know at all,  had sent him a file.  When he started reading, he was glad he'd skipped breakfast.  Some of the allegations were truly extravagant to say the least. Priests and pedophilia, lesbian nuns abusing their young charges, nothing new.    
   But this was going beyond.  Disbelieving, he started doing searches on the internet.  Satanism,  Black masses.  Human sacrifices.  By priests and higher-ups in the  Catholic Church higherarchy.    
   And many  many references to Rome and the Vatican, as underlined by Father Blair.  
   By noon he felt confident enough with the content of his file to go see his boss with it. His boss agreed that something merited further investigation and authorised the requested trip.  
   it took him a day to put put everything in order, add a contact in Roma and then he was on his way.  HCe hardly slept on the plane, reading some more over the subject.  
   Landing at Fucuomo airport early the next morning,  he took a cab which led him to a charming little hotel walking distance from the Trevi fountain where tourists were gathered and throwing coins in the water to accompany their wishes.  
   Setting things in motion, he called his contact, Father James Barton at the Pontifical Biblical Institute.  They agreed to meet at a small café near the Vatican.  He was the first to arrive.   Considering the number of black robes around, it was simpler for him th tell the priest to look for the young man with the long black hair.  
   As John and Father Barton were both in their young thirties they got along well from the start.  
   ''I must say that I am shocked by the cruel death of Father Blair.  His  excellent reputation as a wordly scholar extended to the Vatican.  Yes, he was a thorn in the Vatican's side but I must say I am intrigued by this. Who would want to to execute a priest, and in this manner goes beyong understanding'',  
   As John was about to interrupt, Father Barton continued:  ''Oh, don't get me wrong, I am not blind to what is going on.  But you are talking about an infinitely small number of priests who engage in pedophilia,  As for the rest, satanism and all, I am very dubious''.  
   ''But what about the Black Masses and human sacrifices?''  
   ''I want to reassure you that the Holy See takes these matters seriously. I converse often on such matters with my mentor, Cardinal Wolanski, a brilliant man.  He assures me, and assure you, that this satanic stuff is nonsense.  Yes, it did exist in the past but is is certainly no longer the case.  Human sacrifices in the Vatican? Huge nonsense.  I wished to meet with you only to make sure that you do not waste too much of your time in Rome''.  
   Disappointed, John left the café to walk along crowded streets , refelcting and thinking and, without even realizing it, ending up right in front of his hotel.  He logged on. searched, and found an article by a journalist named Antonia Fressa from La Stampa.  He would try to contact her.  
   At the same moment a young girl was walking by the parc.  A black van pulled beside her, stopped, door opened, a big guy came out, grabbed her, threw in the van, got back in and closed the door as the van was already moving on.
   Tomorrow was the sabbath.  A sacrifice was needed.
 On this Sabbath  late afternoon, Cardinal Wolanski and friends, led by a select security group, made their way very very discreetly and by a hidden door to their cherished cavern in the bowels of the Vatican.
   The  altar was already set, the fatal injection already injected in the victim's veins and now she was naked, quite dead and being cleansed and made ready for the ultimate offering to Satan.
   The cardinal, dressed in his finest garbs of Red, for the blood to be spilled, and Black in honor of death, approached the altar once all was ready, named himself Pope Sixtus IV, in honor of the real Pope Sixtus IV who led the Church part of the way in the  fifteenth century.  He was a pedophile, a pimp, he practiced incest and, of course, sodomy.  His papal palace was in fact a whorehouse.
   A grand moment as he picked  up the ciborium with the consecrated hosts, dropped  them to the floor and crushed them with his shoes, all the while praying for Satan to join them.
   He then turned to the altar and made ready to sodomize the dead body.
   It is at that moment that Antonia Fressa accompanied by John and led by her father, chief of the security force,  finally found the secret passage.  Only the Pope's personal secretary new of it, if we are to believe,  but there was no time to waste as they proceeded quickly, arriving at the secret cave just as the false Sixtus IV was invoking Satan before the last part of the rite could take place.
   It was too late for the victim, sadly, but at least preventing the last insult to her body.
   The shock was incredible.
   But the discoveries of the atrocities was only beginning.
Written by robert43041 (Viking)
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Twisted Dreamer
United Kingdom
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Joined 4th Oct 2021
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Baser Impulses

They'd come to the Vatican when the MP for Shropshire Douglas Courage got the idea. He'd been in Rome with his personal assistant, George Bishop, a handsome (oh so distractingly handsome, Douglas reflected bitterly) 23-year-old graduate of Cambridge, since the previous month, when the MP had left his wife to the ministrations of her favourite spa and gone on a working holiday to the eternal city. A journalist with the Catholic Herald before he became an MP, Douglas still occasionally contributed an article. The Pope was due to give an interview expressing, if not full and unwavering support for same-sex couples, then at least a more tolerant attitude, and it was Douglas' duty to detail this troubling news for the good sons and daughters of Shropshire.
What better time and place, then, to put down a kelev, the Hebrew word for dog, but also a male "dancer". Hadn't he first seen George while the latter was dancing, 21 and gay (so to speak), on the table of a Mayfair nightclub? The same one where Prince Andrew supposedly met with a portion of his own scandal. Mayfair nightclubs, just like pizza restaurants, New York financiers, and the socialite daughters of dead press barons, were not to be trusted. And neither were "gay" young men, it had turned out.
George had been celebrating a successful term at Cambridge with his childhood friends, a set of kids who'd grown up around power and knew Central London as well as anyone. George's family weren't rich, exactly, not compared to many in their circle, and that perhaps was what had given the kelev, the dog, the whore, his ambition.
Douglas, celebrating his 38th birthday, had passed the table from which the young man was giving an impromptu performance with his wife and a handful of friends. George wasn't wearing a shirt underneath his black blazer, and champagne trickled down his tight yet somehow soft, inviting chest. His sandy blonde hair was in curls, themselves damp with alcohol and glistening in the overhead lights. He spun around and flashed his arse at the crowd.
Douglas, watching now from his party's table while they ordered their drinks, became suddenly, acutely, and embarrassingly aware of his own arousal. When the frisky undergrad pulled his trousers back up, caught Douglas' eye, and winked at him, the good son of Shropshire thought that he was going to pass out. It was with a great effort that he remembered his manners, one of which was to not tug yourself off at the same table where your wife's ordering a G&T. Especially not to the thought of another man's arse. (The rule was probably somewhere in Leviticus.)
For all that had happened in between then and now, as Douglas walked through one of the Vatican's chapels he comforted himself with the thought that even if he could go back in time, he'd do it all again. He wouldn't be able to stop himself. Some years ago he'd publicly excoriated a colleague for fathering a child out of wedlock and then trying to hide it.  
'A chap controls his baser impulses!' he'd thundered from the pages of the Herald. In the spirit of Christian forgiveness, he now wanted to reach out to that man and say 'I'm sorry. I understand now.' He hadn't just tasted of the forbidden fruit. He'd eaten it with large and gluttonous bites, still grinning as the juice dribbled down his chin. And now he was paying the fruit through the nose to keep it quiet.
'I'm getting sick of this' said George. 'Are we going to spend the whole fucking day looking at old churches?' Douglas glanced anxiously at a couple of nuns knelt before the altar. 'Shut up' he spat. 'I've already put you in my will, what more do you want from me? Think about where you are!'  
George snorted. 'Fuck off, Dougie' he said, though a little quieter now. 'If you think that's blasphemous, what do you call getting sucked off at Lourdes?' Douglas walked quickly away, clenching and unclenching his fists. It was a blindingly bright Roman day, God's light soaking the sacred city as if the man Himself was a visitor here, enjoying the terraces and various artworks dedicated to His eminence. Merely thinking about murder in this place is the darkest blasphemy, Douglas thought, so how much worse would acting on it be?
He glanced about and saw George some distance away, leant against a pillar with a newspaper obscuring his face. Which meant that he was smoking, illegal in Vatican City. Douglas sighed and re-entered the chapel. The nuns were gone now. He walked down the cool, shadowy nave towards the tabernacle in which Caravaggio's Conversion on the Way to Damascus was hung. The painting was of St Paul, having fallen from his horse, lying on his back with arms stretched towards heaven.  
Douglas felt in his jacket for the silver letter opener that he kept there. 'Sharp enough to fence with' joked the Westminster stationer who'd sold it to him. He turned it this way and that in the light of the tabernacle, thinking about the headline on the paper that George had been reading. GAY SLAYER STRIKES AGAIN. Announcement of the Pope's semi-liberal feelings towards homosexuals had come after a new serial killer turned up in Rome. He arranged assignations with men on gay apps and websites, then killed and robbed them, leaving them in or near churches. This latter element of the modus operandi led police to believe that the motive was partly religious.
Caravaggio once killed a man over a game of tennis, Douglas thought. And surely he's not burning in Hell, having done so much to promote the faith through his art. If I handle this little problem, I'll dedicate my life to religion. I'll build churches in the third world. I'll put Catholicism back on the political agenda in Britain. And surely I'll be a better promoter of the faith with money and resources, which I won't have if my hobby of gay sex gets out.
The only problem he could see was that he couldn't say for sure that he'd be able to resist temptation in future. He'd be discreet, though. He wouldn't be so stupid as to start screwing a twentysomething golddigger and then hire him as his assistant. There were places that chaps like him could go, surely, to discreetly handle their urges before returning to the business of pretending that even shaking hands with another man isn't quite to their tastes.
Before he could talk himself out of the plan, he took out his phone and rang George. 'Where the fuck are you?' said George.
'In the church. Walk down the nave and step through the arch to the right of the altar. I'm in there.'
'Why can't you come out here?'
'I've got a proposition for you.'
George laughed. 'You kinky old bat. In a Vatican City church now? Well, I'm game if you are.'
Douglas started clenching and unclenching his fists again. 'It's not that' he said, voice like dry ice. 'We've got some financial matters to discuss.' He hung up. That'll bring him running, he thought.
George walked through the arch, arms outstretched. Douglas made a split-second decision to enter the embrace, slipping the letter opener into his lover's stomach as he did so. He felt a short, sharp shock, however, as a stiletto was slid through a point in the back of his neck. He leaned back slightly and stared at George, who seemed equally surprised.
GAY SLAYER COMMITS DOUBLE MURDER! ran the headline several days later. 'Scandal has erupted in Britain as one of its most fervently Catholic politicians, Douglas Courage, was revealed to be one of two men found dead in a tabernacle in Vatican City. Police suspicions were confirmed when a search of the 40-year-old politician's rooms at a local hotel turned up explicit photographs of him and the other man.  
'It appears that the man, 23-year-old George Bishop, was his personal assistant. Police believe that the killer had arranged a threesome with the two men before stabbing Courage through the back of the neck, and then Bishop through the stomach with a separate weapon when the latter tried to defend his lover. Neither man was robbed, probably due to the slayer having been unsettled by people walking nearby, police have speculated.  
'Michael Dunning, former Shropshire Conservative, whom Courage had denounced following revelation of Dunning's extramarital affair and fathering of a child, spoke to the media today. "It seems," he said, "that my late former colleague couldn't control his baser impulses."'
Written by Casted_Runes (Turpin)
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Tyrant of Words
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Joined 30th July 2020
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Nicely done.   Thanks for submitting.  Regards, Robert.

Cashley Marie
Lost Thinker
United States
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Joined 10th Jan 2021
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That Vatican Action

Fans of Us
Crux, of the conversation
A quarter spinning on a table
So elated by the calling
The Vatican is flaming
Lamenting on the memories
What will be said about US
Lust, greed, need, deceive
Everything we knew
Pluralist in theory only
You have no say, that’s why the Vatican is burning!
Written by Ashley_M_Hardy (Cashley Marie)
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