"In the name of Father Christopher..."
Imagine there's no countries, | It isnt hard to do, | Nothing to kill or die for, | No religion too, | Imagine all the people | living life in peace...
George W. Bush | Imagine
Back at the Jesus Bunker, Father Christopher (he who was, is, and always shall be) gave me an almighty smack across the back of my head. "You dumb fucking bastard!" he screamed. "How the hell can you ask the ex-Pope to bless Schumacher?"
Being a Good Catholic Boy (for that is what I am), I gave him an honest answer. "Indianapolis. It's the American Grand Prix Sunday and Schumacher needs all the help he can get. He's bleeding. Alonso and Raikonnen are beating his head against the pit wall. They show no mercy."
Honesty is always the best policy. Father Christopher calmed down.
"But this was six months ago. Ratzo was busy mixing up the medicine at the time. And look at those cokeheads," he said, pointing at the coke-snorting cardinals backing the late Pontiff. "It's a crying shame. And why Indianapolis? Why not some other Godforsaken place where they drive these things round in circles?"
"It was the only way I could get him to bless the car. 'He's a German, Lolek,' I told him. 'He's headed into Bush country this June.' It worked. You know how Lolek despised Bush. He never forgave him for invading Iraq."
"Yeah?"
"So he blessed the car and, by extension, Schumacher and the whole team. We're looking at Barichello taking second place."
Father Christopher's face turned purple. His eyes rolled and he started foaming at the mouth. I reached for his coffee and cigarettes, but was too late. He gave me an Almighty kick in the groin and I dropped to the floor, blind to everything but the pain searing my dignity.
"You stupid, stupid fuck," my Spiritual Guide and Mentor raged, putting one of his liturgical boots into my ribs. "Who do you say that I am? Am I not your Spiritual Guide and Mentor?"
"Unghhhh..." was all I could muster.
"Well, then, what the hell did you go to the Pole for? I can tell you right now that Schumacher's doomed. He will not win Indianapolis or the championship in 2005. It's time he had a rest. I'm playing the Spaniard off against the Finn this year."
Urrrgghh..." Writhing on the floor, I offered no answer.
"Besides," explained Father Christopher in a calmer voice. "There are far larger things at stake here than some Grand Prix."
I looked up as my SG&M yanked me to my feet by the collar and threw me into a high-back chair. "Like what?" I asked.
You must remember that although the Pope is Christ's representative on Earth, my SG&M is, when all is said and done, Father Christopher. He is (much like the arguments attending his nature) himself, his scribe Chris Locke, and the Jesus Bunker's resident suicide bomber and gardener, RageBoy.
In short, he is an Eternal Mystery. He outranks things of this world; and the Vatican, if anything, is of this world. This is something all good Catholic Boys and Girls accept with equanimity, grace and outstretched palms.
"Bush," answered FC sadly. "The man's a dumb cunt. He needs our prayers far more than your over-moneyed German sports-car driver."
"Formula 1..."
"Whatever. Thing is, this fucking retard in the White House is going to take us all down with him. We can't allow it to happen."
(Like the British monarch, Father Christopher tends to use "we" instead of "I', but he does so for different reasons.)
Now, should you feel I might be erring on the side of blasphemy here, piss off. I'm not. When I say I am a good Catholic boy, it is because it is so. Besides, it is in Father Christopher's nature that he will pray for the sinner rather than the saint; the most vile and evil sinner, in this instance and century, being George W. Bush.
"So what are you going to do about it?" I asked.
Father Christopher gave me one of his all-knowing sneers. Sneering comes easily to the omniscient. "What do you mean, 'What are you going to do about it?' Christ, man, I've already done it. It's a done deal. Signed, sealed and delivered."
"Eh?"
Two days ago I made Frank a cardinal and sent him off to Rome to fetch Ratzo.""Wha...?"
"Yeah, fuck, why not? He is after all, a Good Catholic Boy, a blogger and a hard man to boot."
"But Frank's a..."
"So what if he's a Quaker? We Catholics are extremely tolerant. Besides, he's one of us now. I bought him a hat this morning."
"A hat?"
"A Deluxe Pope Hat."
"From Gammarelli's?"
"Nah. I was looking at some merchandise over at Paradise Costumes and found one for him there. A white and gold one. At $29.50 they're a snip."
"But Ratzo?"
"He didn't want to come." Father Christopher sniggered. "In fact, that's what all the girls say about him."
"So how'd you get him here?"
"In the Jesus Jet. Y'know the Germans. They're big on ceremony, titles and large planes. I gave him a ring and told him His Eminence Frank Cardinal Paynter of Madison was flying over with a Black Forest Special. I then asked him to say Mass for the fool in the White House. He fell for it immediately."
"A Black Forest Special?"
"Turkish migrant worker. Coal miners usually."
"Oh."
"Yeah. But we're not prejudiced."
"No, of course not."
"I always did like Eminence."
"Eminem."
"Whatever."
One thing about a kick in the groin. It puts you off thoughts of sex altogether and perhaps it was this that made me smell a rat.
"Ratzo," chuckled Father Christopher.
There's no second-guessing the fucker.
"Well," I sneered (I felt I owed it to myself), "It's a pretty tall story."
My Spiritual Guide and Mentor glowered. "Do you doubt my word?"
I felt a cold draft at the back of my neck. "No, not at all."
"You do, you little shit," barked Father Christopher, turning on his heel to make his way out of the room. "This audience is over. I've an important meeting with Sister Levinia and Saint Annie down at The Love Clinic. If you need proof Ratzo said Mass this morning for the asshole running this broken hovel we call home, head over to Cardinal Paynter's place. He has the pictures."
I did.
You should too.
Somehow my having had JPII bless Schumacher's car for Indianapolis tomorrow now seems rather tame. Cardinal Frank has beaten me to the big story yet again. And he has the pictures to prove it.
And yes, I hope George W. Bush chokes on it.
And the coloured girls go, doo doo doo, doo ...
George W. Bush | Walk on the Wild Side
