Three hours hitherto receipt of yon evangelical missive, you’ll be shocked and perhaps mildly aroused for to hear, three hours aforehand, says I, I had stumbled blind into the throb of the morning having only just escaped the clutches of a sore infamous cleric done lured me towards his wine cellar early the previous afternoon, bid me enter, yes, with promises of grand chat and much revelry with a band of Marxist Creationists he’d recently befriended at some convention or other.
On account of I was in something of a mood for a well mental banter, on account of this, and for none much other reason, I agreed to join the foul malignant bastard, ignorant as I was of his many colourful perversions and peculiarities and habits.
I was to discover the hideous truth not ten minutes after setting foot in his home.
The place was empty save for an old fella slumped o’er a table in the hallway spluttering and slabbering concerning this or that eschatological text he’d studied back when wandering the seminary byways. “Ignore the daft old cunt” said the host, “Sure as fuck I hope he’s dead afore the night’s out.”
The babbling fellow hissed at this, clawing pathetically in the general direction of our good selves. “Aye” hollered the priest beside me, “Dead! Dead as the ball-bag o’ Ghandi, says I, I’ll settle for nothing less!”
The priest requested I follow him towards a modestly furnished room, the contents of which were as follows, give or take an anal bead or two;
A double-bed surrounded by fine mahogany etchings of the stations of the cross; a selection of clay phalluses arranged according to the orifice best explored by such (a tiny number for the nose; a bizarre three-pronged affair which “evolution has yet to accommodate, but it will, boyo, bet your cockled minge on that”; a terrifying article designed to simultaneously stimulate the anus and the right ear canal); a tiny statue of Christ listening to Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret by Soft Cell; a framed photograph of the priest himself receiving a thorough teabagging from a prominent politician bears striking resemblance to Nancy Reagan circa-1978.
You’ll know, friend, you’ll know as well as anyone the many depraved and deplorable affronts to The Faith I’ve seen littering chapels and churches and rectories and vicarages here and there and where have you, and so, to my eternal regret, I thought nothing of this curious paraphernalia. What worried me most was the absence of the Marxist Creationists my Jesuit pal done assured me would be waiting in this very room.
“They’ll be here soon enough, sonny” he said, before, by way of a most alarming bound, jumping on top the bed, patting the patch of mattress to his left. “Best you take a seat here, and sure and surely we can discuss matters of great import till such times as those fellows in question make good their promise of swift arrival.”
Article comments
1 - Mat Brewster
Great job again fellas. I have been fascinated with Fort Knox since that episode of Gilligans Island. Now that I live not far from that blessed bastion of gold I so desire to visit, but my wife can't understand my glittering longing and won't allow it.
Perhaps in the end I am but a Psychlos looking for John Travolta.
2 - Aaron Fleming
Thanks Mat. If you feel the temptation too strong and decide that it would be a good idea to attempt a raid on the old Fort, then I'd recommend hiring Barry Pepper for the job. I'm sure he's more than affordable these days.