A Sanbenito for Sister Mike!
A Fr. Dan Kelly™ Online Serial Novel
Chapter 1
Old (Parochial) Skool
Fr. Dan Kelly tooled his jet-black, customized '70 Plymouth Barracuda down I-94, zipping it between the other cars like a queen among lesser chess pieces. The 'Cuda roared like an angry Tyrannosaur with sharp-filed fangs, bearing down on a fern-munching brachiosaur, and the engine's rumble sent waves of pleasure through his holy man parts. He'd retooled it for that very reason, as a sort of after-dinner mint to the rough angry sex he'd recently had with the young ladies of St. Sabina. He smiled wistfully as he remembered his twentieth climax with the final girl. She was newly arrived to the school, and had whispered to him that she did extra well on her SATs to guarantee she might meet the Man Mountain Priest that was he, Fr. Dan. Then he recalled where he was heading, and the smile collapsed from his face.
School duty.
School duty was a blow-it-out-your-ass assignment from Bishop Eichhmann; something he stuck underlings with when they particularly displeased him. Ministering to Molokai lepers would have been more pleasant. As the Vatican's best operative, Fr. Dan knew he should have been doing "callings" in the former Soviet Republic with rappling hooks and concussion grenades, retrieving secret documents of an age-old treaty between the Czars and the Holy See, signed in Rasputin's own blood. Instead, because Bishop Eichhmann frowned on priests openly snatching '06 Cabernets at his secret Swiss chalet, Fr. Dan had to act as a virtuosity collander at some shithole Chicago Archdiocese grade school. Especially this shithole Chicago Archdiocese grade school--his alma mater.
Too many memories, all bad. The hazings, the beatings, the assaults...why had all his victims asked for it? Sure, he could blame the booze, the LSD, the crystal meth, the mainlined blood of St. Philomena snatched from the reliquary--but he knew who the real villain of the piece was. That's right: the victims. They were asking for it, all of them. Literally asking for it.
Why DID they actually ask for it?
"Fr. Dan? Would you kindly use my teeth to open your beer bottles?"
"Fr. Dan, will you bind me in duct tape and leave me in the middle of nowhere?"
"Fr. Dan, will you make me a woman?"
"Fr. Dan, will you make me a man?"
"Fr. Dan, will you help me raid the graveyard, so I can actually make a woman?"
Stupid hopped-up bastards. After commencement, he used 33 cigarettes to burn out each face in the class picture.
*****
Fr. Dan screeched into the school parking lot, entering the last parallel parking spot with a bootlegger turn. A sign nearby stated: "RESERVED FOR PRINCIPAL DZORGAK" If the Vatican parking sticker didn't shut up any potential complaints from Herr Principal, Fr. Dan's "ASSKCKR 1" license plates probably would.
Fr. Dan looked at the school through the front windshield. A ripple effect in the glass made the ugly institutional beige building even uglier. One of Christ's nice guy statues, flanked by Missus God (aka the BVM) and Cuckold Joe stood by the entryway. "When were they going to distribute the statues of the REAL Christ?" Fr. Dan wondered. Enough sloe-eyed Aryans with Clairol hair. Contemporary descriptions, available to anyone who visited the Vatican library, showed that Christ was the biggest Jew that ever lived, looking a lot like that wrestler, Goldberg. It took 30 centurions to wrestle and pin down J.C. to that cross--and he killed two more with his teeth after the nailing in. The Catholic Church's ranks would swell knowing that Jesus kicked ass and took down names, but until the last generation of old lady Christians died, with their sacred image of a sexy and sensitive savior, the Steroid Christ would have to stay a Vatican secret.
Fr. Dan beat a battle-scarred forehead against the steering wheel. Memories of abuse and psychological mindfuckery he could handle; the secret shame that the place still stood after his commencement assault he couldn't stomach. Stupid bastard. He forgot to tamp the explosives. Freaking amateur. One wall collapsed, on the far end. Brother Murray's smirk from the stage burned through to the back of his brain. "Fell asleep during chemistry that day, eh, Kelly?" Fr. Dan gave the apparition a well-known Italian salute and exited the car. Fr. Dan approached the entryway, not once taking his eyes from the school. The school motto was still etched in stone: "If you come through here, you be killed!" It sounded prettier in Latin. With no hesitation, Fr. Dan crossed the lot with powerful strides, the loose stones of the asphalt cracking beneath his boots.
*****
The classroom smelled of textbooks and that stuff they spread on vomit before sweeping it up. Vocation Day. Jesus, thought Fr. Dan. Even as much as he pissed off Eichhmann, what the hell was he doing here? Fr. Dan was the Vatican's premier specialist, called upon to retrieve, reconnoiter, and remove the Holy See's problems--the ones the Swiss Guard and Jesuits couldn't be bothered to dirty their hands with. He remembered that for all his superiority to the average human, he remained a priest first and foremost. As such, he had duties to meet, no matter how meager.
Vocation Day though.
Fuck a dog in his brown eye, thought Fr. Dan as he prepared the slides for his presentation.
Came the time once a year when Fr. Dan was called on to visit the reeducation centers--sorry, the parochial schools of the World--asking, suggesting, forcefully hinting to the kids that they might have a "calling" to serve Our Heavenly Father and his Mother Church.
Fr. Dan cracked a smile at that. He pictured the pretty, sloe-eyed Warner Sallman Christ tapping a kid on the shoulder--as if to ask if the seat next to them was taken--before calling them to the rectory or nunnery. It always raised a chuckle from the priest. It sure as shit wasn't how he'd been called.
Truth was the Vatican and the other powers that be scrambled to grab the choicest kids before the CIA, NSA, SEALS, Green Berets, and corporate police forces. Most enlistment and indoctrination were done by night, at the foot of the child's bed. The choice kids were easy to spot. They didn't hide and piss themselves beneath the sheets. The smart kids, the real hellfuckers, were never in bed when the priests showed up. Sometimes they watched from the closet, seeing who the hell was in their room, assessing the situation, sometimes knowing why we were there, but waiting to see what we had to offer.
The best of the best were the ones to watch out for. Deacon Hayte lost an eye when one little shit rigged his stuffed rabbit to frag at the first exposure to Deac's flashlight beam. Hayte didn't hold it against the kidlet. He knew the risks. Instead of strangling the peewee with piano wire, he took him under his wing. The kid did wet work in the Far East now, all of 16 years old, and the best little torpedo the Vatican had known since Acolyte Murphy in 1986.
After the crop's cream was skimmed, operatives like Fr. Dan visited the schools to see what could be strained from the scum. After all, there was always space for apparatchiks who took care of the Church's public face and fronts--functionaries who asked few questions, but kept the gears of the lower bureaucracy turning. The schools were also carnival duck ponds from which mindtooled assassin patsies and sex slaves might be found--might be. He knew it was important, but acting as a poontang spy collander was niggling.
Vocation Day. Shit, Fr. Dan thought again as he placed a Pall Mall between his lips and lit it. He inspected another slide and his eyes widened. A cruel smile pulled tightly across his lips. Holy shit, was that Cardinal ______? The name and face would be familiar to anyone reading the day's papers, but they might not have recognized the grimacing face, registering the effects of high holy communion sodomy he was receiving from a man in a gorilla suit with a champagne bottle. Fr. Dan slipped the slide into his pocket, deciding to secretly mail it to the Times. Bastard had it coming after he'd covered up for all those bad priests. Fr. Dan had done a thing or two in his time, but kids were verboten. Well, maybe that one 15 year old in Malay... Bastard! You paid for that, he told himself. The scar still throbbed where the girl's father had slipped his butterfly sword. Even the hunk of bullmeat that was Fr. Dan's John Thomas could not withstand the keen blade. Fortunately, the Vatican's scientists were able to regrow him a new one: better, faster, stronger.
For the first time Fr. Dan truly looked about him and saw the classroom in its tiny totality. He was larger, far larger than before, but even for a second-grade classroom, it seemed no smaller than he remembered it. It was ridiculous, but Fr. Dan suddenly felt it was a direct fuck you to his adulthood. The school's refusal to diminish itself from the hugeness he carried in his memory.
"Be small!" he bellowed at the chairs and tables.
The chairs and tables impolitely refused. They were smaller, but they had a solidity that belied their size and chilled Fr. Dan down to his toebones.
"Fuck you!" the chairs said silently. "Your youth is gone, old man."
Taking the nearest chair in his mighty paw, a cherry-red Fr. Dan swung it over his head as if it were a cat and he was trying to lose warts. The chair wooshed as it sliced the air.
"GRREEEEEE-AGGGHHHH! BUNDOLO!" screamed the Man of God.
Fr. Dan let it fly on the third pass. With a loud crash the blackboard on the opposite wall shattered upon impact. Shale fell clattering about the chair, which now had a single leg embedded deeply into the cinderblock wall.
"EXPLETIVE!" thundered Fr. Dan, mere human profanity collapsing beneath the weight of his rage.
"I'd wash that mouth out with soap," said a sultry voice from the doorway. "But I can think of other things I'd rather it be doing."
At the door stood a tiny nun, but this was no aged and mummified crone. It was Sr. Michael, black ops specialist. Her habit was made of shiny black latex that made no secret of her woman shape. Her wimple barely contained a mane of shining brown hair. She looked every bit her recorded 300 IQ points, but her pure carnal femininity could not be contained by her habit or her owl-like glasses. Fr. Dan chuckled.
"Sister Michael... If I didn't have a presentation to make in the next few minutes, I'd run ransack over you like Attila's elephants."
She affected an innocent pose, a single finger beneath her chin. "Dost thou desire her foully for those things that make her good?"
"Shakespeare... Very pretty. Protestant bastard didn't know what he was missing," Fr. Dan said, he walked up and drew the nun to him with his muscular arms. "Hey, little sister," he whispered, "Poppa's here." He kissed her roughly again and again.
She melted against him, and gave as good as he did. He could feel the power of her whipcord tough and .001 percent body fat frame grinding against him with carnal knowledge that could raise Lazarus. With his guard down he knew she could snap him like a piece of chalk with her martial arts training in pencak silat. Good, he thought, that made it even better.
After 17 minutes they broke away from each other and inhaled deeply, not having breathed during the course of their smeary osculation. Being superior humans, the bruises about their lips, faces, and throats healed rapidly.
"Damn, woman, Christ chooses his brides well," said Fr. Dan, still gasping for breath, his massive chest heaving. She too heaved, her breasts throbbing like twin Mustang propellers.
"Just hope my husband doesn't get home from work too soon," she replied with a wicked smile.
Fr. Dan returned to his preparations. She helped him lay the standard "Receiving a Calling or Just Hearing Voices?" pamphlets on each chair.
"Eichhmann's pissed at you again, eh?" she asked.
"Indeed," answered Fr. Dan. He took a cigar from his pocket and withdrew his silver Zippo bearing a gold crucifix inlaid with rubies. Upon close examination, one could see the enraged and rippling Christ straining against his bonds, extended middle fingers on each hand. A gift from the Jesuit General. Sr. Mike snatched it and the cigar from his hand.
"Allow me," she said. She held the Zippo to her fulsome mouth, and with amazing speed her tongue flicked out, opening and igniting the lighter in a Jerry Lewis conflagaration. Fr. Dan watched mesmerized as she wrapped her lips about the cigar, inhaling deeply and thus expanding her chest like twin frightened puffer fish. She looked at him lasciviously as her sweet red lips caressed the Cuban, gazing a half-lidded gaze at him mimicked but never accomplished by porn starlets the world over.
Fr. Dan never desired a woman more foully before. "To the teacher's lounge!" he screamed. "I must have you amidst the cigarette smoke and stale bagels!" Again they kissed, perfervidly and pervertedly.
"Sister?" a small voice asked.
They broke from their lip union and looked to the doorway. There stood a small boy, dressed in the school's uniform and poorly coiffed in a bowl haircut.
"Damn children," thought Fr. Dan as they broke from each other and dusted themselves off.
"They ruin everything." He returned to his preparations, accidentally pulling down a map of the world before finding the cord for the damn projection screen. Sister Mike walked over to the boy and leaned forward, hands on her knees.
"Yes, Danny, what is it?" she said with more compassion than Fr. Dan thought was due the little interloper. In the old days they would strung him up by his thumbs while having him recite the Apostles Creed 100 times. Damn creeping liberalism. It would be the death of the Mother Church. That and condoms, thought Fr. Dan.
"I... thought he was hurting you," said the boy. He eyed Fr. Dan suspiciously. Fr. Dan met the boy's look, and while most children would cry and cower before the Brass-Knuckled Priest moreso than on their first visit to Santa Claus, this boy did not. He was nervous and wary, but unafraid. Fr. Dan was uncharacteristically impressed. He was worth further observation.
"He was hurting me, but in a good way, Danny... That is... Oh, you'll understand some day," she said, tousling his hair. "Now take your seat."
The other children slowly filed in, one by one. They too looked at Fr. Dan, but only when his back was turned. Those he returned a gaze to would quickly look away, pretending to be fascinated by the wood grain of their desktops. After locking the door. Sister Mike took her seat at her desk, and Fr. Dan cleared his throat angrily to signal he was about to begin.
"Look at this," Fr Dan said in an audible aside to Sister Mike while gesturing at the children. "Bottom of the barrel! This is what they give me! The creme de la crap!" Fr. Dan hammered his mighty fist onto her desk, breaking the enamel. The children snapped up in their seats as one, their young eyes wide open with fear. All but the boy... the boy... He looked back at Fr. Dan with the eyes of a small wolf.
Fr. Dan strode up the center of the classroom. He withdrew a riding crop from his boots and smacked his hand with it to accentuate each word.
"Who here can tell me what a 'calling' is?" he asked. The children retreated into themselves.
"I had best see some hands raised today..." said Fr. Dan. "ELSE I SHALL CUT OFF A FEW AND NAIL THEM TO THE BLACKBOARD!!!"
Every hand in the classroom shot up in Nazi-like salutes.
Excellent, thought Fr. Dan, today's young Catholics are every bit as malleable as those before them. Fr. Dan softened his features, smiling. He kneeled down before one angelic girl. Moisture tinged the outsides of her eyes. She was afraid, yet fascinated by this monstrous Man of God.
"Yes..." he turned his head to read the name on her notebooks. "Yes, Marie, what do you think I mean when I refer to a 'calling'?"
"I think... it means... that God calls you to serve him?"
Fr. Dan beamed at the girl, extending a hand to touch her cheek.
"Very good, Marie. You're not so very unintelligent after all," said Fr. Dan. "And how does God call you?"
Marie's face twisted into a confused expression. She looked down at her folded hands.
"On..." she said, "On the phone?"
"Heh heh heh," a dark chuckle came from the back of the room.
Fr. Dan jumped to his feet. Launching himself upwards with his steel-spring coiled calf muscles, he flipped through the air above the children, causing them to utter a collective, "Oooooooohhhh!" Fr. landed with cat-like grace in a three-point position before him, the boy. Again, the boy stared up at him, unafraid.
"Something funny, young man? Something you find AMUSING!?!" shouted Fr. Dan. "Are you saying Our Lord Jesus Christ the only Son of God is incapable of using mankind's greatest invention, the telephone!?!"
The boy's face, once innocent and unsullied by care, became blackened with a contemptuous scowl. Fr. Dan smacked his desktop with the riding crop.
"I WILL NOT ABIDE SLACKERS, FOPS, AND GADABOUTS, BOY!!! HOLD OUT YOUR HANDS FOR IMMEDIATE CATHOLIC REEDUCATION!!! SISTER MICHAEL! THE YARD STICK!"
A pig-tailed girl sitting nearby, obviously the teacher's pet, ran up to the Man Mountain Priest.
"Here, Fr. Dan, here! let me help you! Use mine!" She handed him a long thin piece of marked wood. Fr. Dan seized it, then looking at its markings, hissed at the girl as a spitting swamp adder. He smacked the device against a nearby wall, decimating it into splinters.
"Damn you, vile moppet! That was metric! You offend me! You offend our Dear Lord and all that he did for you on Golgotha! Thrice-damned be ye!" He pointed at the girl. Black thunderbolts shot from his index finger, sending her screaming down to hell.
"Fr. Dan! Here!" Sister Mike tossed him her yardstick, which twisted in the air with a high whistling sound. This was no ordinary yardstick, though. While marked with the proper English measurements of the length of the King's thumb to the tip of his nose, the yardstick was constructed of titanium steel. A cadre of Japanese swordsmiths had lovingly crafted this device for years, giving it an edge capable of slicing atoms into nothingness. Fr. Dan caught it and held it aloft like St. George. Today no dragon's would be slain, only second graders. But... Fr. Dan looked back at the now empty chair. Where was the boy!?!
"DEAH TO THE ENEMIES OF FREEMASONRY!!!" The boy, now wearing gloves, fez, and ceremonial apron, fell upon him from the ceiling. "DAMN MY EYES!" thought Fr. Dan as the boy flicked out twin butterfly knives and buried them in-between his shoulder blades.
"By Hiram Abiff and the three Juwes, we will fell you first, papal puppet, and then remove your pope and damnable Jesuit General! By the Lost Word, I slay thee! From Hell's heart, I spit at thee!" The boy shouted, plunging the knives into his back again and again. They were as mosquito bites to Fr. Dan, but in time the Freemason, obviously a well-trained assassin, would find his atomic heart! Curses!
Was this the end of Fr. Dan!?!