Tooler is watching Dimitri through gimlet eyes. Then he’s back in the bog, running alongside the ass and cart, knocking over the stacks of turf, tumbling headlong into…what was it the nuncio had said? It was his due? The children were of no consequence? It was difficult to remember…had Dimitri been there all the time? Was the nuncio here now? Somewhere? The pain ebbs and flows, a full moon tide every time he approaches with another implement…well it just goes to show you can’t always trust your brother…
The funny thing is they’re looking for someone they tried to lose themselves….
Dimitri is standing inches away from him now. “I think he is gone….I liked this one as well. Such a pity.”
Two people, dressed in black, wearing helmets, stand in the grounds of the Papal Nuncio’s residence. Is it Daft Punk? They sidle up to the back of what appears to be the living room. Everyone loves a good sidle. It’s an old Georgian building and the living room has four wall-to-floor windows and a double glass door in the middle. The punks hide behind a shrubbery and peer over to see what’s going on. Whoever is inside is having a party – to their surprise Master and Servant by Depeche Mode is blasting out. The Nuncio is sitting on the couch, drink in hand, a cigarette burning out unnoticed on the ashtray beside him. He is tapping away with one hand on a laptop that’s open in front of him. He stops typing, picks up the fag and starts to pace around the room in time to the music. He has his back to the French windows as our unwanted guests push them open and enter the room. Raider number one, for it is she/he pulls a regulation special branch pistol and points it at him. He stops in his tracks, bolt upright with shock.
“The safe..the safe..in the kitchen..”
“Have a seat mister…er…nuncio.. – Raider number two is obviously the diplomat.
Number one pushed him towards the couch the couch, he stumbles, falls backward over the back of it and rolls out towards the door.
“Ah holy fuck will you get him away from the door, get him the fuck away from the fucking door….”
Number two lurches to get him, the Nuncio starts to make for the door, half crawling, half running.
“Stall the balls there mister or I’ll have to shoot you…”
He keeps moving, punk #1 shouts in frustration, and points the (what he assumes to be) unloaded gun at him and pulls the trigger but…it’s…. the bullet hits the bishop square in the back of the head, the force of the impact throwing him out the door onto the patio at the back. He lies face-down as the heavens open into a torrential rainstorm, thunder and lightning crack the skies asunder.
The punks stare at each other, visor vision. The Pope is watching them from high above the mantle. The lightning flashes and lights up the room repeatedly. Now our two protagonists are sitting side-by-side on the couch drinking the holy whiskey, helmets still on.
“That’s fucked up. You loaded it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t load the fucking gun. Do you think I’m crazy?”
“I think we’re both crazy but if it was a competition I’d say you’re well ahead at this stage, by some distance.”
“It wasn’t loaded when I gave it to you earlier. I swear to fuck.”
“I never killed anyone before. Unintentionally.”
“Why do I feel so calm? Am I in shock? What do we do? Where are we now?”
“We get rid of it.“
“It?”
“Him.”
“It. Shit.”
“He’s lying outside in the pouring rain. That has to count for something. Maybe he’ll wash away.”
“We can clean up here. I know someone who can help, someone who’s in the business.”
“We’re all in the business.”
“Now we can try it ourselves and make a dog’s bollix out of it or we can get some professional help.”
“OK.”
Punk A pulls out their phone. “Jinx, we’ve got a situation here..”
Punk B is looking at the laptop. “Listen to his… In all honesty I can no longer defend the actions of you, the Bishops or the various priests who are being implicated on an almost daily basis in scandal after scandal. I have spoken to you before and at length about these issues, yet you continue to ignore me. I find I can no longer follow the official line in regard to any of this. We cannot continue to defend the indefensible. As of tomorrow I am no longer prepared to make further media comment or appearances and if I do not hear back from you by the 25th I will tender my resignation and go public in… “
“This kind of makes it worse..”
“How so? He’s still dead. He realised the jig was up , that’s all. He was covering his tracks…Depeche Mode…who woulda thunk…”
Raider one picks up the laptop, carries it out to the patio and smashes it off the ground repeatedly.
“Nobody needs to know.”
Shortly thereafter Jinx appears through the patio doors. He doesn’t waste an time.
“Right, where’s the body..”
“Did you not step over it on the way in..”
But there’s nobody there. No body. Literally. They search the grounds but there’s nobody anywhere, The blood’s seeping into the flagstones…..
“Right Tooler we better call it in.”
Tooler kicks Dimitri with such force, such pent up venom, that he snaps his neck in an instance with a satisfying crack. Our Sino-Russian friend tumbles back, a broken puppet freed of his strings. A dear departed friend.
“I never stopped taking the herbs you evil little shitbag… I ate rats…the rats be eating you now buddy..”
super world indie tunes 