Toss off your DaVinci Code ... cast aside Harry Potter ... for the TRUTH about the Catholic Church, here are the FACTS from the Vatican's own archives.
CHAPTER ONE - The Knowing and the Naked
Muffy Al'Wadi tossed as the searing desert wind rippled the side of her tent. Her damask sheets were moist with the juices of carnal love. The pungent, musky stench of the Vice President of the United States lingered, splattered on her velvet skin. It had been messy … but knowingful.
She knew, now she knew. Few others knew, only Paddy O’Finnegan of the Israeli Secret Police, Fifi Golightly, telex operator at the Cairo pumping station, Prince Ibn N'Gudu of tiny, oil-rich El Watusi, and Madame Madonna, mistress of the leading Rive Gauche brothel and confidante of kings.
***
He knew. No one else knew. He smirked. The knowing gave him knowledge. He knew, she didn't, he spat.
Vantessa shuddered as the sparkling phlegm ball spattered onto her waste basket and oozed lugubriously down the side, exuding the essence of Paddy’s overtly sensuous persona. Vantessa wanted to know. She would revivify her lascivious wiles and defile her erotic womanly femininity to suck the knowledge from him. Her loins eroginated with lubrication as Paddy sucked his lip and sauntered to her side.
"So!" He ejaculated, spinning her chair. The evanescent cascade of her golden tresses glinted with fire in the glare of her typing lamp.
"You startled me!" Her bosom heaved and thirsted for knowledge. She thrust her demure, yet subtly provocative, blouse up … up … up into his face.
"Sorry baby."
"Where have you …" she hesitated ... his left eye glinted ... her palms sweated ... his brow creased ... her knees went limp ... his head cocked to the right ... her lips parted ... his hand crept toward her ... her feet twisted outward ... his pelvis tilted ... her torso quivered ... his groin itched ... her nipples puckered ... his Y-fronts stretched. Immediately, they were wantonly entwined. Libido made flesh, enmeshed in a tempestuous, torrid (yet deeply meaningful) intercourse situation.
At the climax, his lucky chimp tail talisman fell, detumescent, from his neck. He turned over and fell asleep. Vantessa grabbed the typing lamp and brought it down upon his head viciously – yet with a certain tenderness.
***
A swollen, foetid, dismembered head rolled erratically down the north face of the Great Pyramid of Khufu and came to rest at Fifi's feet. She cackled in amusement. She also knew. But only she knew the extent of her knowing. Her knowing was good, it made her feel knowledgeable. The knowledge would help her, enable her to wreak her revenge, soon all would know, the world would know. Knowing was good. She smirked and spat into the vulture-scavenged left eye of the fly-blown head that sat, sand-spattered between her Reeboks. She threw back her lithe head, exposing the criss-cross scars on her slender alabaster neck and laughed a long, violent, screeching, mournful, revengeful, scornful … knowing laugh.
***
CHAPTER TWO – The Naked and the Knowing
Madame Madonna fondled the Bishop as her scarlet tongue unthinkingly moistened her plumply purple lips.
The Prince pawed the Queen and drooled, his face a grimacing mask of concentration.
She knew. She had gained all his knowing but she must not know that he was knowledge-empty. She must believe he knew more -- or he would become as valueless as the shares in El Watusi Oil he had sold to the Vice President that morning. He smiled, but found it painful to smile and grimace at the same time.
She felt his pain and lisped with the lisp that made her so smutty in bed "What ith the matter my thweet dumpling?" Her flimsy veil trapped the spray, illuminating the elusive opacity of the shimmering silk.
No other room in the world contained two people who knew. She was proud. Proud that the Billy Graham Suite in her bordello contained more knowledge than the Oval Office or the Kremlin or Downing Street. She was so happy she could kill ... only the suspicion that this "Prince" Ibn N'Gudu draped in her boudoir might reveal unknown knowledge dampened her desire to do him to death. That ... and the unfinished game ... she hated to dispatch a victim before mating him.
Only his potential residual knowing and his smooth, black, upright rook – thick at the base, thinner in the middle and with a poutingly engorged bobble on the top, standing ready to plunge into any opening in her defences – protected him from joining his dimwitted brother's headless corpse under her mattress.
***
Vice President von Bulow boarded Air Force Two. His secret mission had garnered three souvenirs: Muffy’ stained panties that he would wear only for cocaine parties at the Republican Convention; a tight wad of El Watusi Oil shares bulging in his pocket; and, the most secret secret of all – stored in a cold, tiny, silver capsule that had to be painfully removed and reinserted on each visit to the pissoire.
Inexplicably, visits to relieve himself had become very frequent – and were accompanied by intense burning – after his tempestuous evening with Muffy. Also, smelly yellow puss was seeping from somewhere, staining his Vice Presidential underwear proudly bearing the Great Seal of the United States seeming to give the noble Eagle a crusty beak. As well as the pain and puss, there was an unusual itching surrounding his entire genital area. What could it be? Hay fever?
As the tarmac sweltered at Charles de Gaulle Airport von Bulow drifted in and out of sleep as his lazy eye gazed out over the runway.
The rising heat caused a shimmering existentially metaphoric haze in the Paris dusk ... almost a mirage ... Oh the hot desert night! ... Muffy's pale mounds in the moonlight … nipples like Champagne corks … Turkish delight between his teeth … 10 Viagra tablets caught in his throat … sand in his sandals … the aroma of the souk … the spitting of the camels ... the camels ... the camels.
In his reverie, through the window he could almost smell camels, almost hear their clip-clopping hooves dashing across the runway ... almost see their riders firing assault rifles at the plane ... almost feel a heavy footfall coming up the gangway ... almost hear his Secret Service guards gurgling and drowning in their own blood as their throats were slashed from ear to ear.
"Zionist dog!" A beturbaned figure loomed over him, the burning breath from his flaringly Arabic nostrils singed von Bulow's cheek.
The rough-skinned Bedouin ignored the Vice Presidential protestations as he tore off the Vice Presidential boxers with the crusty-beaked Eagle, yanked the Viagra-free Vice Presidential member to its full length, took a look ... then a second look, put the wire-cutters back into his camel’s false hump, reached instead for the nail clippers, snipped a little snip, hid the slug-like result in his cheek and strode – manfully (yet, somehow, strangely, aroused ... with a stiff protrusion in the front of his jalaba) – off the plane and back to Duty Free (there was a sale on Old Spice).
Stunned, as he casually perused his blood stained (but still itchy) groin Von Bulow suddenly realised … it wasn't a mirage any more!
***
EPISODE THREE – The Eczema and the Esctasy
Just an hour away by Concorde (if it was still operating) or three months by bicycle, two women, anonymous in fluorescent yellow burkhas, met secretly in the bustling heart of Islamabad bazaar. Fifi slipped Muffy what looked like a halal cocktail gherkin (mottled green, spotted, bent) but was, actually, the (formerly) throbbing love-wand of Prince Ibn N’Gecko with a tiny silver capsule pushed inside it.
They laughed, knowingly. His head was in Cairo, his body in Paris, his penis in Pakistan. And by now, Madame Madonna would have killed his identical twin brother, Prince Ibn N’Gudu – leaving no marks – by hammering 32 huge chess pieces up his fundamental orifice!
***
As usual, Paree was gaily decked with crack whores. While the cheaper brothels were packed with UN diplomats and Greenpeace activists, the Billy Graham Suite grasped the future of the world by the Balzac.
Madame Madonna’s burly, aromatic, semi-naked thug Mik al-Jakeson forced the struggling Prince to kneel before him. Impeccably defined muscular arms pushed the Prince’s face into the loincloth that tightly wrapped itself around al-Jakeson’s vivacious buttocks, forcing the Prince to breathe through tightly curled raven pubic hair carefully tonsured into the shape of his hero’s (an American popular singer) nose – as a result, it was largely shaved, giving the Prince a nasty razor burn.
Madame Madonna hoisted up the rear of the Prince’s golden robes and shrank back in disgust, “Yo! N’Gudu ... you hairy-butted bastard! Never heard of an Guatemalan arse-wax?”
Her lisp had disappeared! Impostor!
The rough insertion of the first pawn was a bumpy surprise, N’Gudu yelped like a whelp.
“Plenty more a’ comin’ you towel-headed asp-wrangler!” Now her French accent had vanished – replaced by the horsy whinnying of the British Upper Class.
It was, unmistakeably, the most hideously malevolent woman in the world … Camela Parker-Bowles! (no relation).
The second pawn was shoved coarsely and crassly. Mutely simpering, he gazed up, up, through the blossoming line of fuzz that reached to al-Jakeson’s belly-button, over the ripplingly tanned six-pack, between the bradpittinous pecs and beyond the natalieimbruglious neck. Mysteriously, the bodyguard winked and grasped him tenderly to his lithely loosening loincloth.
The Prince felt a little brown bottle against his nose hiddenly tied to al-Jakeson’s scrotum. He inhaled deeply of a pungent, sweet, yet acridly odd smell. As the third pawn plopped inward he felt a shuddering glow stampede through the entirety of his beingness.
What a rush!
Then came the fourth, the fifth, the sixth … by the 16th pawn he was groaning and squirming vociferously with his ravenous tongue probing al-Jakeson’s prickly humid clefts.
“Madame Madonna” mistook ecstasy for agony and continued to propel longer and fatter chess pieces into the Prince’s gapingly enamorous entrance/exit.
After an hour and 31 ruthless rammings, “Madame Madonna” paused, exhausted.
Prince Ibn N’Gudu, intimate orifice tender, swollenly distended, nerve endings inflamed, rectum stretched beyond rationale, achingly begged, piteously screamed, howled pathetically …
“One more, there's one more … the black rook!” He sobbed … “the one with the bulbous apex and sharp ticklish crenulations! … PLEASE!! GIVE IT TO ME BABY!! ”
Now he understood why his 132 brothers and 99 sisters so enjoyed “camel-fucking.” He had fucked camels but found it rather unrewarding … he hadn’t considered allowing a camel to …
“Dry your eyes mate,” said al-Jakeson dexterously lifting the Prince to the bed – having whacked the “Madame’s” equine head senseless with a 12th century Persian ormolu dildo. “I am thine loyal slave. Your grandfather, King Osama Khomeini saved my grandmother from John F. Kennedy’s sexual advances. My family are ever in your debt.”
(Al-Jakeson had been absent from history class on the day children were told how the Prince’s father - a peasant-blooded racing-scorpion breeder - ruthlessly massacred King Osama Khomeini’s entire dynasty and illegally replaced him on the El-Watusi throne.)
With engineering precision al-Jakeson unscrewed the top of the remaining black rook. From it, he withdrew a small silver capsule and placed it in his mouth, lubricating it with salty mucus, “This may sting a little.” He drew back the Prince’s pachydermous foreskin, prised apart the urethral entrance and decorously inserted the capsule into what the Harem called “the Bulging Bedouin” then massaged it down gently, gently, even more gently … from tip to base, tip to base, tip to base … down, down, down.
A minute later, his colossal trunk spattered with a Hoover Dam-burst of gooey iridescent droplets, al-Jakeson had to re-insert the capsule and repeat the procedure.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
Finally, with the capsule safely in place thanks to a drop of Super Glue, the dimwittedly loyal bodyguard (bearing a strong resemblance to the late JFK) carried the Prince to his limousine.
Separating was hard. Very, very, hard. Hard as really old wallpaper paste, or a much "loved" wad of Kleenex left under a teenage boy's bed for six months.
But, eventually, they managed to cut the Prince’s crustily encrusted robes and waving goodbye with pieces of gold brocade stuck stickily all over his tremendously tense torso al-Jakeson howled lustily while shedding silent tears as the limo sped away with hushed roaring intensity into the sunlit gloomy night.
***
CHAPTER FOUR – Long Ago, In a Forest Far, Far Away … A Flashback!
A cool summer breeze whispered through the verdant and deciduous foliage of the Swedish rain forest. Furry, virginal, naive creatures scurried to and fro. Frosty winter sunlight cascaded transubstantially betwixt the uppermost reaching tendrils of giant Norfolk pines, illuminating in patches the soft undergrowth of the fertile wood.
Small identical twins, flaxen-haired, naked as the life-force itself scampered blithely between unknowing ferns and over babbling brooks, communing with birds chirruping and fireflies speckling the air pursued by the gossamer-beating wings of psychedelic butterflies in the still midday. Crickets drummed the tympany section from the Pastoral Symphony -- or so it seemed to the man perched atop a bough of the mighty redwood sipping at a paper thimble of Turkish double-double half-caf-decaf skinny-2% soy-full-fat-foam-free lactomochaccino chocspresso with cinnamon and tequila.
From a saddlebag behind him jammed in the woody nest of an indignant squirrel, he pulled a pair of binoculars to his beady left eye and scanned the inflated greenery. A huge dilated pink buttock swelled into his field of vision seemingly slapping him in his good eye; he followed it as the child gamboled toward its mother who stood, beckoning at the bejewelled door of her gypsy caravan. The children ran to her giggling.
He reached again into the wild boarskin bag and swapped instruments, placing the telescopic sight to his eye, focussing the red crosshairs first onto the back of the boy, then between the shoulder-blades of his sister, then onto the mother's face, coming to rest where her two bushy blond eyebrows met.
A bead of sweat oozed from his left temple onto the gunsight ... he ignored it clenching his swarthy cheek and finger.
The twins cried piteously over the body of their slain matriarch as the young Prince Ibn N'Gudu swung down from his perch. They still wailed over the corpse as he reached it; they fell silent in wide-eyed wonder as the man set up a camera tripod and clicked the automatic timer on the instamatic then posed with right foot on the trophy's chest holding the rifle aloof in triumph. As the shutter snapped he smirked and spat into the tear-engorged left eye of the girl, splattering her identical brother with salty mucus. He laughed a laugh that echoed in the wood ... it was good! Another stuffed memento for his palace. He laughed again and smirked ...a laugh and smirk that imprinted themselves for all eternity on the evolving, maturing neurones of two small children, left alone in the primaeval forest to be raised by a kindly old chimpanzee.
Little did the Prince realise that the identical twins, nurtured by Gumba’s primatenous nipples, would thrive and grown into Paddy O’Finnegan and Fifi Golightly … his arch nemeses!
... TO BE CONTINUED!!