A Sanbenito for Sister Mike!
A Fr. Dan Kelly™ Online Serial Novel
Chapter 2
Caught by the Illuminuts!
...bellowed Fr. Dan, in as big a font as his vocal cords could muster. He screamed, he roared, as the miniscule Freemason plunged his butterfly knives into his dorsal region.
"PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN! PAIN!" he whooped and howled, frantically reaching backwards with his mighty oaken arms, cinderblock hands, and bull pizzle fingers to pluck the freemasonic spider monkey from his back. it was all for naught, as the tiny man extended bioengineered hooks from his feet, grasping the Man of God's back hair with the unshakeable grip of a crazy ex-girlfriend.
"Not so mighty now, eh, shaman? Where is your Stick-God and evening-gowned Pontiff to save you now? Baphomet will reward me with ten times my weight in gold and rubies when I return to the Lodge with your eight testicles. Then he will raise me to the 25th degree—Knight of the Brazen Serpent!" The Freemason continued to stab and cackle in his mouse-like voice. "And a knight needs a lady, no? Perhaps that fine piece of convent sweater meat will be the first of many concubines in my Eastern Star harem."
Still struggling to grapple with the minute infidel, Fr. Dan looked across a classroom of horrified second-graders to see Sr. Mike valiantly but futilely fighting 100 Shriner assassins. As they fought and spun about her with their scimitars and martial arts unseen outside their Shrine for hundreds of years, their fezzes flicked droplets of Christian blood here and there. The pain refused to stop, and Fr. Dan recognized from a new feeling of pain that the evil masonic dwarf had switched to gurkha blades. With his 666th stab, he leaned forward to whisper wickedly in Fr. Dan's angry burning ear. "Oh, she shall serve me many fine breakfasts in bed, papist watchdog... Yes, many fine pancake breakfasts... after we have... HAD THE SEX!"
"Naayyyyyy! Sr. Mike's Holiest of Holies is MINE!" Rage over the possible violation of his mate-prime was all Fr. Dan needed for his androidal adrenal glands to spew forth tumultuous tsunamis of strength serum. Adrenalin gooshed through him till it volcanoed from every pore! As the masonic midget stabbed him with both blades again, Fr. Dan commanded his back muscles to contract and snap the blades in twain!
"By G.A.O.T.U.! How can this be!?!' shouted the Freemason, gazing gape-mouthed at his broken pig-stickers.
"RARRRGGGHHH!" howled Fr. Dan. As the super-strength juice pulsated in him with the power of many angry suns, he twisted his head and arms backwards in an entirely impossible feat of physical stamina. Now the Freemason looked into Fr. Dan's deep obsidian eyes. A thin green stream of animalistic drool trailed down the side of the Meatpriest's mouth; his eyes glittered with fallen angel madness.
"RARRRGGGHHH!" growled the Fr. Dan-beast. His jaw detached from his skull like the python of the jungle primeval. His hands, now thrice larger as the androidal adrenalin expanded them like party balloons, slowly reached for the Freemason, who mewled as a kitten trapped in a weighted pillowcase.
"No! Nooooo! To be devoured by a Romanist! This cannot be!" screamed the Freemason.
Fr. Dan's hands enveloped the man's small body, clenching him so that naught could be seen but his eyeballs, which popped from his skull from the pressure. Had the man asked for absolution, Fr. Dan might have granted it, but his man-beast grasp was unforgiving.
"RARRRGGGHHH! growled the Fr. Dan-beast again, always ready with a quick quip. He forced the Mason into his gullet. Through the reticulated musculature of Fr. Dan's throat, the shape of the tiny Freemason could be seen. He appeared to be... praying... But it was far too late for that now. The road to hell was paved with good intentions, but Fr. Dan's alimentary canal was an unpleasant short cut.
Soon the androidal adrenalin wore off, and the civilized Fr. Dan of exquisite manners and dress reemerged. Though his clothes were rent asunder and his muscular frame, possessed of both bulk and speed, bulged forth unchecked, he stood as sure and steady as any man ever could. His senses returning to him, his first thought was for the beauteous Sr. Mike.
Across a classroom filled with quavering second graders, Fr. Dan beheld his female equivalent struggling womanfully with the 20 Shriners. Cruel sadistic leers crossed their demonic Anglo-Saxon features, as their pale white bodies writhed and postured like lizard-apes.
“God’s wounds!” hissed Fr. Dan, “They are more animal then man!” The thought of their mottled white flesh touching Sr. Mike’s, soiling what was left of her honor was more than he could bear.
But a note of pride SANG through him as Sr. Mike fought bravely against their simian-reptile advances. Using superior slice techniques and hammer strikes, Shriner bone cracked beneath her tiny fistlets of fury. Her fingernails, replaced with an bleeding-edge space-age plastic sharpened within a hair’s hair of slicing an atom, whistled first through the air and then through the jugulars of the terrorized Shriners. Threescore lay dead at her feet; another score had escaped rather than be burned by the intensity of her phosphoric bloodthirst; but 20 remained and stalked her with squiggly daggers and scimitars. These Fr. Dan recognized as Knights Templar—men sworn to liquidate their targets to the point of their own deaths... and beyond. At the top of her game, Sr. Mike could handle these with the mere snapping of her fingers, but weakened as she was by slaying 75 Shriner assassins already, here her defeat was writ in blood and viscera.
Fr. Dan reached for the small of his back. There, he wrenched the machete duct-taped to his back, a painful act which would cause most men to faint, but not, as we have come to expect, God’s Angriest Man. Within a span of time that seems long when one writes about it, but which took Fr. Dan’s superior mind mere nanoseconds, he determined that he would never reach Sr. Mike across the relatively short distance of the classroom. Dear God, but for a grenade launcher!
Fr. Dan looked down at the cowering second graders at his feet, clinging to him like Dickensian metaphors. He barely hesitated as he touched two of the children on the back of the neck.
Immediately, the children went rigid, their eyes glazing over even as their tiny corpuses stiffened and elongated. One after the other, Fr. Dan repeated this ninja nerve trick to the children at his feet, and one after another he threw their now perfectly aerodynamic bodies at the Shriners like thick javelins. Where once they were merely a drag on the Catholic school system, now they were sinister missiles in the service of God! The Shriners gibbered and shrieked as the heads of the second graders meatily buried themselves within their torsos. Involuntarily, due to the good priest's nerve pinches, the tiny ones' jaws began gnawing, gnawing, GNAWING at the Shriners' sticky black hearts. The Shriners fell like befezzed tap-dancing scarecrows in a repulsive dance of death! Fr. Dan rippled with righteous laughter, then stopped. Too bad the children would have to be put down. It was never good for young Catholics to know the taste of flesh. His laughter ceased, and Fr. Dan allowed himself to feel human emotion once more. With a grunting effort, he loosed a single tear as he thought of the masses he would offer for their innocent souls.
Fr. Dan strode across the killing field toward Sr. Mike. Bones and flesh crunched crispily beneath his motorcycle boots. As ever, the dead paved the escape paths of the quick.
"Nasty business this," said Fr. Dan replacing his 20 guns in their secret holsters. He grunted as he shoved the Mossberg shotgun into its constrictive skin pocket. "This is but bedtime preparation at Vatican HQ, but here... It wasn't supposed to happen here... Not until they reached 7th grade, during the Festival of St. Vitus. These pitiable wee ones... Not yet even trained in small ordinance." Grimacing painfully, he squeezed another tear drop from his left eye. It left a clean, wet trail through the blood, sweat, and photogenic muck caking his square-jawed face.
"They knew what they were getting into when they became Catholics, my priest," Sr. Mike said coldly, pulling a scimitar from a dead Shriners' face and using his masonic apron to clean the blood from the blade. "I only thank the Lord they had yet to reach the age of reason, and thus could die unconfessed. Today they play in the Lord's backyard."
"By Crom, you are right," said Fr. Dan. "Our Savior's invisible, flying Tilt-a-Whirl alone shall assure them they did not die in vain. I have become a marshmallowy old fool, good sister."
"Not every part of you has gone soft, has it, Father?" She pressed against him, her succulent womanflesh beckoning in rubbing language to what made him a man. Fr. Dan gazed longlingly at Sr. Mike. Her latex habit fit her like a first skin. Her full lips pouted like crimson jalapenos begging to be bitten, even though it would cause one to say, "OW! HOT!". Though more than a man, Fr. Dan was still a man, and as such he liked to do man things to women like Sr. Mike—especially heterosexual man things.
"Grrrrr..." growled Fr. Dan animalistically. "Fr. Dan like what he feel!" Then he shuddered, a chorus of Wagnerian horror filling his skull. God's Man pushed the nun away from him, and though she would cripple a lesser man for rejecting her favors, she understood.
Looking into each other's eyes they recalled their vows of chastity. Yes, though sexhog desire consumed them, their vows prevented them from consummating that love. With wet-eyed, slightly pained expressions, they stood apart, desiring to reach for and comfort each other, but knowing it was forbidden. Firehoses of desire oozed from them, their hearts splintering aloud as they recalled their vows... their damned vows... Yes, their vows of giving up post-battle coitus for Lent. In an hour they might ravage one another as horned beasts, but for now they had to wait in damp anticipation.
"Not to change the subject, but do you smell that?" A look of quizzical disgust crossed Sr. Mike's face. "Beneath the stench of evil, the scent of iniquity, and the fragrance of deceit, I mean."
Fr. Dan inhaled deeply. His nostrils flared like open manholes, activaiting the wolverine DNA spliced with his own. His eyes narrowed to thin angry slits, until he looked as if he was asleep and really, really angry. Kneeling, he thrust a forefinger into the chest of the nearest dead Shriner, withdrew a finger caked in green blood, and shoved it into his mouth. His eyes glowed purple as his saintly powers of soul-reading did their work.
"By St. Peter's bristly arm hair... PELAGIANISM!" Fr. Dan almost choked, the heretical word burning in his mouth like brimstone. To die as freemasons was repulsive enough, but to believe that Adam's original sin was not transferred to his descendants through the experiencing of pleasure during sexual intercourse, AND that good deeds rather than sanctifying grace and the supervision of a hierarchical clergy of priests, bishops, cardinals, and the Pope determined the soul's ultimate destination of heaven or hell... That filled Fr. Dan with as much blind, unreasoning, Augustine of Hippo-like rage as the next guy.
But that wasn't all. Tasting of the blood of another, then another, and then ten others, revealed differing but no less abhorrent heresies. Tanchelmism! Petrobrusianism! Monarchianism! Monophysitism! All tasted as rotten fruit and filthy cabbages to the Reverend of Revenge, but he sallied on until the list of blasphemies was complete. When finished, his anger bubbled like boiling cyanide, and his skin chaged from its usual translucent color to a shade of red found in the heart of the sun. Fr. Dan grabbed and clenched the globe of the Earth on Sr. Mike's desk. His muscles pulsated and throbbed, and in a second the globe exploded into cloud of cardboard dust.
"Not since the last coven I dismantled did I taste a quarter of the heresy I supped upon here! They were just teenagers, of course; dabbling in Albigensian rites to look "cool" and impress "chicks," but this... this does not bode well, good sister. I suspect the Dark Brotherhood is extending its reach in the Black Arts to increase their power." Fr. Dan sighed heavily. "I am weary, and in sensitive bruised hero fashion, I wonder what good I am doing in this world."
"Save one, I can think of no man put on this earth who has done more than you. Remember that despair is a sin too, Fr. Dan. But perhaps I can work some of that despair out. The hour has almost passed, and I have learned a great deal from the vatican's secret libraries since last we saw each other..." Fr. Dan looked back at her, meeting a smile he would call "wicked" if he didn't know of the absolute goodness of this Christian minx. He smiled back, then licked the back of his neck.
"I too have spent time... 'studying'," he said.
The good sister laid reassuring hands on the priest's massive, free-weight-crafted shoulders and began to gently massage, then furiously rolf them. Fr. Dan stretched his body out across her desk, as if he were a great big naughty, naughty boy about to receive a caning. Sr. Mike then pulled herself up into a hand stand and made him her pommel horse. She commenced to perform the routine that won her triple gold in the Olympic Games.
"Grunt," grunted Fr. Dan. "Grunt! Grunt! Use the heels of your palms. Oo! Down... down... down... Oo! Oo! Oo! Ahhhhhhhhh! Right there! Uhhhhhhh... Uh... Uhhhhhh... Unk! Unk! Unk! Ugggghhhhhh!" The Vicar of Valor became as chocolate pudding beneath the good nun's knowing fingers. He would reward her in kind, but not right now. Now there was work to do.
