The Vatican, Rome, December 2004.
“Benedict is the president of the Catholic Church and he is presently laughing loudly and swimming in the shit of sinners and rapists.”
The tour guide is a svelte Italian woman in her early twenties.
“Why does he do that?” asks one of the tour patrons. His face is concealed with a hood, which flaps around in the wind on the top tier of the double-decker tour bus.
“Well, he feels to really... eh, how would you say, understand Satan, he must… eh… enjoy swimming in the excrement of Satan’s minions. And is it not the place of the pontiff to lower himself so far so we, his loyal subordinates, need not know such blasphemed crap?”
The mysterious man disagrees.
“The world is full of sin miss. Would it not be more enlightened for our Pope to lead a virtuous life, one which the common man can aspire to and imitate?”
The tour guide smirks and postures.
“It is not our place to question the decisions of our Pope sir. Or should I say, the orders of the Lord Almighty. As is it not He who has a hand in all of our dealings?”
The stranger stands up from his place on the bus and withdraws his hood. Sparkling white, Irish teeth glint in the Italian sun and Bono, the handsome lead singer of acclaimed Irish rock n’ roll outfit U2, strolls to the front of the bus. He slaps the guide hard.
Without warning, he bounds from the top of the bus and it explodes beneath him. Italy rocks from the blast and several bottles of wine in the close vicinity sour, a clutch of babies begin to cry in distant apartments, a writer with block gains immediate inspiration and a flock of doves realise the irony contained within their use in John Woo films.
Bono lands safely on his feet. A pair of sunglasses gently drift down from the sky and place neatly on his face.
In the Vatican, an alarm sounds. Pope Benedict’s manservant places a robe over the Germans shoulders, the stink of shit becoming a religious experience for the simpleton in charge of the Popes garments.
“Do you need a scrub sir? I have sponges prepared with a variety of fragrances surely suited to your sacred glow.”
“Christ man, don’t meddle me with such unimportant details. Do you not hear the alarm sounding?”
The pope knocks his trusting servant aside into the used shit.
“I feel touched” sighs the manservant who has no name to claim his own, so James will have to suffice for the stories purpose, and he begins to masturbate.
Bono has infiltrated into the Popes sanctum using the cunning and guile affording to him through years of just being alive. Presently his hides around a corner he knows, when turned, will lead him face-to-face with the earths most German Pope ever. But he contemplates turning back before damage is done, aware of the severity of his mission and it’s implications on the world stage.
“Oh, but it’s too late to take the knife from my hand.”
Bono was speaking metaphorically of course, as he was not wielding a knife. He had never needed to arm himself before, always relying on his hands when situations got tough. One time, long ago, he had to amputate a young mans leg which had become gangrene after extreme exposure to urine.
The operation was a complete success.
After a brief pat on the back for his general courageousness, he turned the corner to meet his intended victim.
Pope Benedict felt nothing but the hot, sweaty breath of an Irish man as his heart was removed manually.
“Remember this moment Pope as the moment when your God…” Bono licks the Popes heart for effect, “… as the moment when your God ate shit.”
The Pope dies, his soul spiralling into Hell as punishment from crimes committed when he was a member of the Young Nazi party and Bono laughs, the skin on his face becoming loose and malleable. With a quick tug, followed by a swipe, the latex mask is removed revealing the face of the true assassin. Tom Cruise.
"Mission Impossible three bitch!"
A litany of the Popes assigned Cardinals gather in the lobby of the Vatican. Armed to the hilt, they are an army prepared for vengeance of the most violent kind. A tank pulls up outside and aims it’s barrel through the front door. A last ditch effort, a fail-safe switch, in case they are fighting some superman, some Hell sent demon with blood on its tongue.
“You know your places.”
A crescent of men, two rows thick, form in front of the exit. Each man brandishes a fully automatic rifle and a handgun sidearm. Above, in the mezzanine, twenty men with teargas guns form around with enough gas to blind thousands upon thousands of children. Just thousands of children. Unimaginable amounts of the youngest children.
But these men, robed in the clothes of God, carrying the most destructive weapons not banned implicitly by the bible and trained to shoot on sight, are not prepared for what they see next.
Tom Cruise rubs his eyes. He is tired of this work. The pressures of retaining witty one-liners to spout as his foes die effortlessly in his hands are taking their toll on his skin. He applies moisturiser every morning, an expensive French brand imported specially by the secret government agency he works for on the side. But it’s not enough. Never enough.
“Mental note. Research facial creams on the Internet. Perhaps develop a ‘Cruise’ brand. Ask Katie.”
He enters the lobby, his hands held before him, totally exposed to bullets aimed to kill but nobody fires. Tom Cruises mother raised no fool. His hands are red with the Popes blood, his tunic and face too. Although deemed unnecessary by his hired boffins, Cruise even went so far as to use the Popes blood as gel, creating horns from his immaculately styled hair.
Slowly he proceeds towards the exit and closer and closer to the rows of armed Cardinals, his winning smile on full display beneath the drying layer of blood. He reaches down to the belt of the closest, shocked Cardinal.
“I forgive you, even if your God won’t.”
Cruise removes the sidearm and places it to the forehead of its owner who remains ill at ease, contemplating the soul of someone who can bathe themselves in the blood of the most Holy man in the western world. He fires the weapon, killing the young Cardinal instantly and releasing the rest from their immobilising puzzlement.
Immediately Cruise has murdered three more Cardinals and devoured two of their hearts, the third saved for Katie Holmes who is going through the pangs of a publicity pregnancy. The rest of the army fire upon him but he moves like an alley cat, evading their every attempt at ending his life.
“The Cruise is totally cool”, yells Cruise as he completely dismembers another Cardinal, using his disembodied arms and legs to stage a mini-play in the heat of battle, confounding his enemies.
“Once upon a time Mr. Leg cheated on his blissful wife Mrs. Leg, surreptitiously sleeping with Mr. Arm. For years Mr. Leg hid behind a cloak of happy marriage, pretending to be the perfect husband and father, but forever being cursed with the gay disease.”
Cruise was erect, his penis the only original organ left in his body after twenty years of fighting for his country, battling the evil in the world, literally giving 95.7% of himself to ensure his neighbours kids and their neighbours kids are safe from scum. His penis contains over four percent of his entire body meat.
“The Cruise is totally not gay,” reveals the Cruise as he removes a Cardinals neck and swaps it with his balls, so that his dick looks like his head.
Outside, a squadron fears the worst and turn the tank on. The metal body heaves and kicks, the gun chamber rattling with the large explosive round.
Inside, The Cruise devours an entire Cardinal and drops his trousers to fart in the freshly eaten Cardinals voice. His butthole affects a slightly gay, Italian tone and speaks softly, though one would suspect Cruise to be under considerable pressure. “My breath smells like cheese,” announces Cruises poop portal and several of his opponents take note of the incident, admiring the talent.
The teargas unit waste no time and flood the floor with noxious fumes while Cruise is preoccupied with his ass. Silence falls with the gas and the unit hold their collective breathe. Moments pass without incident.
Instincts hold that no one can withstand such a barrage without a mask.
“Perhaps he is dead”, remarks one Cardinal.
“Perhaps”, echoes another.
The twenty men lean forward so as to peer into the gas, hopeful at spotting some sign, some notice that Cruise has entered the deathly mode. Two of them are dead in an instant as Cruise launches spears he fashioned from the bones of dead Cardinals in the minutes spent concealed in gas. A borrowed set of lungs hanging from his belt, the oesophagus in his mouth, Cruise throws three more spears, each one hitting their targets.
“The Cruise has a degree in biology, bitches”, and he lands onto the balcony, kicking and screaming.
The emergence of the teargas from inside the lobby alerts the tank crew that the last line has been breached, that Cruise has bested the Popes most experienced men. They each bless themselves, say a decade of the rosary and sprinkle holy water in front of the Vatican.
The superfluous men withdraw to a safe distance and the tank shudders to the optimum firing range.
“May God guide you to your target.” They fire.
Seconds later the missile returns from within the Vatican, Cruise riding atop it, the appearance of insanity in his dreamy brown eyes.
“The Cruise does not appreciate this.”
The missile enters the barrel of the tank as Cruise dismounts, flames licking from the barrelhead. The tank hatch rumbles comically.
An embattled Cruise struts around the ruptured tank.
“Who is next? Huh. Who wants to die next?”
He begins pointing at random bystanders. A mother of three.
“Is it you?”
The baby in her pram.
“Is it you, baby?”
“Or is it you, Cardinal?”
He snaps the man in two at the waist with his bare hands.
“WHO IS NEXT?”
The slaps of bare feet on marble alerts Cruise keen sense of smell.
“What smells like shit?” demands Cruise.
“I do” came the determined reply.
James tumbled across the hollow, dead body of his hero just minutes before, steam still rising from Benedict’s’ fresh wounds. Immediately James world was turned upside down, violently shaken and decimated with a potato masher. The room spun and vomit spilled from his loose mouth. It was as if, in that moment, he had died and discovered there was no afterlife.
The Popes wrinkled body grew cold in James loving arms as the sounds of a battle echoed through the Vatican’s chambers. Witty one-liners punctuated the untimely last gasps of innocent young men. Young men just like James, but who had gotten better educations and opportunities, or so James thought. Now, they were all dead or dying from severe violent poetry leaving James alone as the only pure soul.
“I will avenge you, my Pope. I swear.”
Moments later he stood before Tom Cruise, the Ultimate Action Hero, pointing his finger menacingly.
“Your soul will suffer in the ravages of Hell for what you have done, Tom Cruise.”
James moves forward, towards the Cruise missile.
“But before that, it is your body that needs to be punished.”
James drives his fist into Cruises chest with all the might gifted to him through a lifetime of prayer and devotion to the Roman Catholic Church. The bones in his hands shatter on contact. Cruise makes light work dismantling James body, repositioning his head so that it comes out of his ass, and his ass so that it is part of his chest. He swaps his balls for his eyes and places his dick into his shirt pocket so that it looks like a friendly little creature took to nesting there.
“I am sorry guy, but it wasn’t me that killed you. It was blind faith.”
He looks around at the damage caused, the utter destruction of an institution all for a simple bet between him and Emilio Estevez.
“Emilio, have we gone too far this time? A simple dollar bet. All this death.”
A helicopter sweeps down from the sky above him, Emilio at the helm.
“Hop in Cruise. I have a great idea involving a tsunami.”
And with a simple flick of his wrist Cruise disappears into the sky.