A Sanbenito for Sister Mike!
A Fr. Dan Kelly™ Online Serial Novel
Chapter 3
The 4,735th Last Temptation of Fr. Dan!
Upon finishing most vigorously rogering Sr. Mike in the library, Fr. Dan acrobatically leapt from the chandelier into his awaiting pants. Sr. Mike cooed with the pleasuremoans of a woman aglow in elephantine satisfaction.
"Farewell, my priest," she called to him, her left foot dangling a six-inch heeled pump between the chandelier's two biggest crystals. "Within my secret garden, you have woven a garland of victory,"
"And how!" shouted Fr. Dan, and with a wink and a thumbs up, he was gone.
Fr. Dan ran through the school in 20 paces , knocking over any teacher, child, or soda-pop machine idiot enough to get in his way. There wasn't time to drive to the Vatican, even with the Barracuda's vaulting mechanisms, rocket jets, submarine conversion capability, catapulting device, helio-blades, metamorphingpowerbattledroid powers, and time and dimensional warping nucleoginandtonic generator. Breaking through the double doors and into the crisp air, Our Priest placed two fingers into his mouth and blew a shrill whistle only dogs, blind women, and Martians could hear.
The silence was at once rent with a sound like a thousand seraphim casting 10,000 demons into the pit. The sun was blotted out, darkening the sky and sending the temperature down to 25 degrees Fahrenheit (-3.888888888888889 Celsius). Frost painted the trees and plants, and Fr. Dan's breath came out in thick grey clouds. All present thought that perhaps the Day of Wrath had at last come, and fell prostrate, beating and cutting at their flesh with broken potsherds and rubbing their faces with ash, dirt, gravel, and used gum. But it was not the Day of Wrath—for that wouldn't happen until August 23, 2016 (Fr. Dan checked his Apocalypse Watch to be sure), no, this was one more most awesome day of Fr. Dan's Heliorectory!
Neither plane nor helicopter nor satellite nor SUV nor mecha-robot nor Japanese flying cat bus, the Heliorectory served as Fr. Dan's sky HQ. He took care not to reveal it too often, though its immensity—larger than the Pentagon and infinitely more agile—made this difficult when the cloaking devices were on the fritz, as they apparently were now. Fr. Dan would have to discuss that with his engineer, Mr. Toy. Among the civilized, the Heliorectory was simply unsettling and awe-inspiring to behold, while in certain Pacific Islands where the Heliorectory had been viewed, it enjoyed the reputation of a god. These flyovers forced Fr. Dan to return with crack teams of Dominican Rangers, who divested the Islanders of such primitive notions while converting them to the One True Faith. Perhaps the religious awe invoked by the Heliorectory wasn't such a bad things, mused Fr. Dan as he beheld its shining black hull fronted by two immense silver crucifices. If a flying battlecruiser brought more to Christ, so be it. The Heliorectory hovered, and a staircase extended from the front of the ship like a segmented tongue. Fr. Dan climbed the hundred steps in triple-time.
*****
Inside his aptly named cockpit, Fr. Dan fiddled with the large lever before him. A gigantic claw extended from the belly of the Heliorectory, picking up his prized Barracuda without a scratch on its highly waxed and polished body. Fr. Dan chuckled as he withdrew the vehicle into its docking bay. "Claw" was a misnomer since the car-retrieving device was designed to look like the Hand of God. Many a time Fr. Dan would fly amongst the clouds, extending the hand and using the Heliorectory's speaker system to blast Handel while pointing at and admonishing the fallen. Once he had the Hand of retrieval painted a Zulu hue and flew above a Ku Klux Klan rally, wrenching their flaming cross from the earth and causing the anti-Catholic untermenschen to tinge their bedsheets yellow. The Barracuda retrieved, Fr. Dan turned the control of the heliorectory over once more to his Franciscan robot, Brother Klanko.
"WE... ARE... MOST... PLEASED... TO... SEE... THEE... THEE... THEE... FR... DAN..." Recently given an Emoto-chip®, Brother Klanko's jagged toothed jaw broke into a smile, as his single LED eye bounced left to right. Brother Klanko's stutter was an indulgence when Fr. Dan built his faithful friar robot. It seemed right, and more than a little amusing to him. Brother Klanko was a robot of peace now, but it wasn't always so. Fr. Dan flashed on a memory when Klanko's sensitive inner circuitry was compromised by his seventh worst foe: THE ELECTRONIC SATANIST! Klanko's hardened steel jaw ran red with blood as he chomped off the heads of any who dared enter his confessional that day. Fortunately, they were all very bad people.
Klanko's smile faded. As a mournful violin played across the Heliorectory's speaker system, black oil tears streaked down his metal face.
"What is wrong, my molybedium friend?" asked Fr. Dan. He knew the answer. Miss Klinko, his robot maid, and Klanko had an ongoing flirtation, but no matter what Klanko did, it never seemed enough. "Girl troubles?" He chucked the robot beneath the chin, opening a scab on his third knuckle.
"MISS... KLINKO... IS... NOT... NOT... NOT... CONVINCED... AN... EMOTO-CHIP... IS... ENOUGH... NOR... AM... I... I... I..."
"Not enough? Why, Klanko, you're every bit as much of a mammal as me, except you are hairless and incapable of nursing your young with healthful breast milk. What would make you whole? What, dear android friend, what!?!" Fr. Dan kneeled beside his robot chum and hugged him. Parts of his own body being bionic in nature made him think of Klanko as a very ugly metal brother.
"IF... I... ONLY... HAD... HAD... HAD... A... HEART!" said Klanko, dribbling still more fluid from his eyenode.
"Is THAT all!?!" said Fr. Dan. A look of steely resolve assailed Our Priest's face for the 500th freaking time. He grimaced and palpated his massive chest. "I will never forget how you laid down your robo-life for me in our battle against the Secular Humanist! Never! If you need a heart, dear mechanical comrade... take MINE!" Fr. Dan thrust his fingers into his chest, broke through his rib cage, seized the thick cardiac muscle, and wrenched it free—veins and all—in great gushing torrents of blood! Grunting, Fr. Dan pushed aside Klanko's habit and opened the sliding panel covering his robot innards. With a wish, hope, and prayer, it was done. Klanko had a human heart. Fr. Dan's mighty heart! A smile broke across his robot face and he robot sang robot songs of robot joy! But he became concerned...
" HU-MANS... DIE... WITH... NO... HEARTS... WITH... NO... HEART... HEART... HEART... FR.... DAN... DIE... NOW...?"
Fr. Dan threw his head back and laughed heartily even as the arteries and veins convulsed and spurted gore from the gaping hole in the center of his chest. Then, behold! A miracle! Fr. Dan's healing factor implemented itself, and TWO newer, stronger, thicker hearts grew back in the old one's place. Klanko was wonderstruck as the final wound sealed over liquidly. Again, Fr. Dan was whole! Fr. Dan's smile was brighter than 10 million suns as his robot friend gaped in disbelief.
"Ah, Brother Klanko. Know that NONE can defeat Fr. Dan Kelly... NOT EVEN FR.DAN KELLY HIMSELF! HA HA HA!!!"
Laughing, the man-priest turned on a Prada-shod heel and left the cockpit.
Fr. Dan stopped laughing immediately. Striding—for he never simply walked anywhere, only strode—through the Heliorectory, he barrelled like a titanium juggernaut for the Heliorectory Heliogym for a Helioworkout. He was feeling rather flabby as of late, and sought to sharpen his battle skills and instincts. Too late! All the basketball courts and weight rooms had been reserved for a corporate party—damn budget cutbacks!—leaving him with only the squash court and steam room. Most hateful of squash, Fr. Dan stripped bare at the doorway of the gym and walked with bullish hoof-poundings through the party. The gathered assemblage gasped at this perfection of virility and physicality, the heterosexual women and homosexual men cast their undergarments at him, the homosexual women and heterosexual men considered lifestyle changes, and those into bestiality wished most dithyrambically that Our Priest was an Irish Wolfhound. Ignoring these lesser beings, Fr. Dan entered the steam room and sat down on a ledge, knowing it would clear his mind and help him discover how to oppose this new threat.
"I must put on my thinking cap," thought Fr. Dan. Clapping his hands, two Altered Boys appeared with his thinking cap: A large Viking helmet with two sharpened horns, a satellite dish, twin red police lights, a series of Klaxon horns, a spiralling hypno-disk, and three chickens twirling, twirling, EVER-TWIRLING on rotisserie skewers. It was quite a ridiculous sight to see even Our Manfully Jaybird Naked Priest wearing the cap—but woe be to he who dared laugh. Fr. Dan assumed the position of Rodin's Thinker, and when that didn't work, he assumed the pose of Botticelli's Venus, Michaelangelo's David, Picasso's Guernica, and Mondriaan's Composition with Red, Yellow and Blue. He was about to achieve another of many brilliantly conceived thoughts in his life, when he became aware of a presence... nay, TWO PRESENCES! ...in the steam room. Fr. Dan girded his loins—for that was all he had at hand—for battle.
*****
"SHEEEEEEEEERAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" The cry was fearsome yet feminine. Though prepared for attack, Fr. Dan felt a stiletto heel at the end of a shapely, coffee-colored leg rip open his face's most recent cheek scars. His primitive survival instinct instigated hard-fucking with his martial arts training, and Fr. Dan deftly seized the leg , tossing the sumptuous Nubian maid attached to it to the side. But the distraction was enough so that Fr. Dan was only able to bat aside 19 of the 20 ninja throwing stars hurled at his abdomen. Thanks to years of Charles Atlas and Joe Wieder training, Fr. Dan had achieved the ability to not only catch projectiles with his abdominal muscles, but to spit them back at their originator. But even here the Native American girl hurler of pointy stars evaded the returned missile with the suppleness and agility of the lemur, though she brimmed with far more concupiscence than that Madagascan jungle primate. Fr. Dan watched her arch through the air flexuously, momentarily distracted enough so that the third girl (THIRD!?! Fr. Dan was astonished at this trinity of sexually delicious huntresses' virtuosity in masking this third presence from his keen Spader Sense™!) stalked him from behind before ramming four kris-style blades into his throat! Briefly, through the steam's haze, he saw the beautiful yet remote girl who had done the deed, a Gitane emerging from her full cruel lips. She was gone in the next heartbeat.
"GLURRRGGGGG!!!!" gurgled Fr. Dan. Yet even as his thick syrupy blood flowed like iron wine, he rolled his head about, snapping the blades through pure neck muscleage—a technique taught him by Buhram, the last of the strangling Thugee cult! Though a Roman Catholic to the bone, Fr. Dan said a silent prayer of thanks to Kali, wherever in hell she ruled. Pinching his nose and puffing out his neck, the broken blades popped out of Fr. Dan's throat and impaled themselves in the steam room walls.
Then, all was hellishly quiet—a terrifying quiet. The quiet before the screaming, poisonous Venusian ammonia monsoons Fr. Dan encountered on his recent space adventure to the planet of the Morning Star. Steam room mists crept about him, obscuring his cybernetic infrared vision... something the female hashshashin no doubt knew would be in their favor!
Fr. Dan reached into his mouth with his right hand until his fingers found the thin katar dagger topped with a jeweled engraving of the Hindu god Ganesa he stored between his esophagus and windpipe for such emergencies. His left hand crept downwards and, lifting his scrotal sac, he retrieved the pack of Camels he kept there for such emergencies. Then his secret robot claw hand emerged from his ass with the bottle of Jack Daniels he kept there for such emergencies. Lighting a cigarette, drinking deeply of the whisky, and picking his fingernails with the katar dagger, Fr. Dan felt ready.
"End simulation," he bellowed. The steam room emptied of its humid fog, revealing the three girls. Each was dressed in the style of a Catholic schoolgirl: silver cross necklaces dangling at their throats, pleated tartan skirts, crisp white blouses, blazers, ties, and white knee socks—though in place of Mary Jane shoes they wore black patent leather pumps with impossibly high heels. But the heels weren't the first indication that the girls' fresh-faced and wholesome loveliness was only a cover for the pretty poison within. No. Like spikes on a blooming cactus, the girls were armed from their dazzling white teeth to their perfectly polished nails. Each carried a combat dagger at her left side, a service revolver at her right, and a bandolier of cartridges that strained against their ample chests. They cleaned their individual weapons, eyeing Our Priest carefully. Even faced with such firepower, their comeliness would stupefy a man. It was also taboo: for not one of the girls had seen her 18th birthday. To look upon them with lust in one's heart was to be damned to hell forever... yet one would be condemned with a smile that wouldn't leave one's face even after a thousand years of succubus penile torture.
"Excellent work, my Unholy Innocents..." said Fr. Dan, smirking before taking a drag off his cigarette.
The dourness of the three melted away, and they looked to each other and at Fr. Dan eagerly and earnestly.
"But..." he said as the smile vanished. So too did the three girls' smiles vanish.
"Jasmine, your heel strike was well-landed but imprecise," he said to the African girl, pointing to his face,"Do I not still have my eye? For shame..."
The girl looked down, angry but admonished. The daughter of a Harlem voodoo priestess, Jasmine Daktari had been abducted from her New York home by Ugandan cultists who worshipped her as a reincarnation of their ancient fertility goddess. Later trained in killsport by Idi Amin's death squads, she had seen and done much that would cause strong men to cower... but the priest's words held peculiar power, because they came from the only man who had ever defeated her.
"And, Raven, it goes without saying that while it is only to be expected that I, Fr. Dan, could easily bat aside 19 throwing stars, the 20th barely penetrated the third level of my kevlar skin. Forbear!"
"Yes sir..." she said with a curtsy, causing an Uzi to drop from a concealed location. She looked mortified and quickly restored the weapon to its original placement. The daughter of a Cherokee woman and fugitive Russian KGB wetworks specialist, Raven Insatia was later raised by a Transylvanian wolf pack for reasons that are actually, surprisingly dull and not worth mentioning here. Still, her time with her wolfen kin left Fr. Dan with the double-duty of teaching her how to kill AND proper social graces. She was fortunate then that Fr. Dan was not only an assassin of the first stripe, but the writer of a book on etiquette now in its 16th printing. Predictably, knowing she had displeased Fr. Dan, she began to gnaw nervously at her index fingernail. Fr. Dan glared again.
"And what did I say about biting your fingernails!?! It's unhygienic, I say! DAMNED unhygienic!"
Raven stopped at once.
"And you, Monique," he pointed at the cruel blonde, sitting carelessly against the wall with no regard for her posture, reading Candide, and drinking Beaujolais between hits off her Gitane. Fr. Dan snatched the cigarette from her and stubbed it out on his tongue. "Smoking is for losers. There's a reason I've had five sets of lungs replaced! And this!" He snatched the copy of Candide from her, causing her to gasp and then pout prettily. "What have I told you about the works of this... this... DEIST FROG!?! Ecrasez l'infame!" Fr. Dan held the book below waist level and micturated upon it, the wrath of his urine dissolving the sinister paperback. The very French Monique Feral ceased to pout and began to growl. Her red lips parted to show extended canines, a remnant of the lycanthropic were-nature she inherited from her memere. Fr. Dan met her gaze, and though it took time, she eventually looked away. Fr. Dan allowed himself a secret smile at her pugnacity. Indeed, the French girl was his favorite. Soon they would all finish their training with him and enter the field with an experienced agent—perhaps a word with Il Papa would allow them to serve with Sr. Mike. For now they were beautiful and deadly, but undisciplined. He would whip them into shape soon enough.
Though proud of his body, Fr. Dan became aware at last that he had been standing naked before them the entire time. Blushing, he grabbed for his black silk robe and cinched the belt. With a flourish he adjusted his ascot and lit the pipe he ever carried in his robe pocket. Rich, maple-tinged smoke filled the room.
"Now, though I have enjoyed and admired this little exercise, it's time I returned to business at hand," said Fr. Dan.
"Ah, les frère maçon, non? 'Ow I long to have zee aproned bastards feel zee steel of mah blade!" said Monique in a bad French accent as she fondled her dagger.
"And how did you know this, Monique?" said Fr. Dan, arching an eyebrow. They all gasped and looked at one another uncomfortably. Caught! Caught like lynxes in a lynx trap by his uncanny mind!
Raven looked downwards. "I... I... used my hacking skills to access your field reports, Fr. Dan. Forgive me! We look up to you so, and we want only to help!" She gazed at him pleadingly, tears in the corners of her eyes. Fr. Dan touched her cheek and smiled.
"Be not afraid, Raven. I am only expressing my awe at your abilities. But from hereon, my business is my own. It's more for your safety than anything else. As hardened as you may think you all are, there are things I have seen, heard, touched, tasted, and smelled that are best left unknown by the young and unprepared. Only once have my personal journals been "hacked" by a foolish young man in Austin. Six months later he was still screaming in the bughouse after reading of my battles with dread elder god Chöugwffløflühgg, the Many-Tentacled One in his underground nightmare city of Hwffl'ley'lo'lo! Hoo boy, that was a pants-wetter, let me tell you."
The girls all shuddered, even Monique.
"Rest assured, when the time comes, you will hear my call, and you will perform admirably. Of that I have no doubt."
The girls beamed at him, but then their faces slackened, and they began to writhe and run their hands up and down their ambrosially erotic young frames!
"Hellfire and dalmatians!" thought Fr. Dan, "I forgot to check the time! Stupid stupid old man!"
"Fr. Dan, do you think when this is all over, you might want to nibble on a little... forbidden fruit?" said Jasmine, slinking over to Fr. Dan with a maturity disturbingly displaced in one so young. Monique and Raven likewise slinked, the natural if by now annoying result when any human being is enclosed in a hot steamy room with Fr. Dan for too long, his testosterone and pheromones teasing and pricking the senses and sexparts like a swarm of sexy killer bees.
"Must... remain... strong..." thought Fr. Dan, simultaneously thinking that Humbert Humbert hadn't gotten a even break.
"Well, maybe just a little taste of devil's food cake won't hurt a guy. Heh heh heh... But..." he felt virtuous once more, "No no no! I must resist! A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips!" Then he felt even sexier considering the innuendo of that last statement. "Welllll... Perhaps a little longer on the lips. Wouldn't want to deprive the little ladies of any pleasure. Heh heh heh! Come to Papa, sweetmeats"
Fr. Dan's eyebrows arched evilly as he grinned like a fox in a hen house made of real hens, his eyes glittering like perverted sapphires. The boys downstairs got to work at responding to the girls' preda-amatory attentions.
Meanwhile, Lucifer watched and heard it all on Frankenstein Earphone Radio and Eyesight TV, cackling madly. "I have you NOW, Fr. Dan!" said the Fallen One as he twisted his handlebar mustache. "I've read the Bylaws for Priestly Conduct, and this... THIS sin would not be forgiven by..." He cringed while saying the name. "Jeeeeezussss... even at his drunkest during an marine's bachelor party... ESPECIALLY SINCE YOU HAVE FAILED TO INVITE HIM! BAH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!! My goodness I am EVIL!" Satan danced with glee. "Go on, Fr. Dan," said the Ape of God, "Take a bite of forbidden fruit and let the forbidden juice run down your chin! Have some forbidden cheese and crackers and forbidden wine while you're at it! Bah-ha-ha-ha!" Satan continued to cackle and dance a little jig. Picking up an Allen wrench, he continued to assemble the Hööngi Chair of Eternally Bitter Sorrows he ordered from Ikea just for Fr. Dan upon his fall from grace.
Approaching Our Priest, the three jailbaitworthy minxes touseled the hair all over his body, and nibbled here and there. Fr. Dan felt himself slipping into a vaginal abyss—still metaphorically by this point—but a vision of the Holy Mother appeared before him and only to his eyes.
She was dressed in celestial blue, a crown of five stars glittered above her head... and she was sorely weeping for him... She also carried the biggest fucking rolling pin he had ever seen... and boy howdy did she look pissed. She ran at him rapidly, holding the rolling pin above her head so that it jostled her crown of stars. Screeching a blood-curdling war cry she began to bring the rolling pin—which now was covered in diamondback rattle snakes, flaming railroad spikes, and spurting hoses of hydrochloric acid—crashing down upon his head!!!
"Yahhhhhhhhhhh! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! DON'THITMEMOMMY!" Our Priest prayed for strength, the vision disappeared, and his old fellow immediately wilted like old celery. He knew what he had to do.
Fr. Dan jumped up and stomped upon the floor, sending the Heliorectory into a screaming dive, coming within ten feet of the ground before Brother Klanko seized control again, sending the Heliorectory soaring back upwards like some insane metal bat. The change in gravity threw the tempting, tempestuous maidens of mayhem backwards, flattening them against the rear of the cabin. When the Heliorectory righted itself, they fell to the ground, hair covering their eyes, which stared in amazement.
"BACK DAUGHTERS OF SODOM!" Fr. Dan raised his hand and glared with the fiery eyes of a prophet of old. His face gleamed with white-hot righteous wrath; bolts of lightning shot from his eyes, ears, and nostrils; swords of fire shot from his mouth; molten lava squirted from his pores; etc. etc. etc. Then his visage softened, and he kneeled down to help all three up with one swipe of his perfectly developed arm.
"Sorry, girls, take a number. And that number is 18 years old." He turned away and walked to the steamroom's door, still shaking a bit himself. Gathering himself after practicing heavy breathing exercises and thinking of dead nuns, Fr. Dan turned about and sternly, though not unkindly, pointed at the girls with a massive index finger.
"Now. Back to the training room. Set it for Danger Level 6—"MAIM." I'll be up to check your progress against the Psychopathic Alligator Mandroid Robots. If any of you is missing so much as a fingernail when I arrive, ask for God's mercy, because you won't get any from me."
The young Valkyries left, heads lowered and pouting sulkily, slightly miffed and dejected, but always in awe of Our Priest and his firm yet learned hand. Fr. Dan watched after them with a grim smile. They were wild, undisciplined, and dangerous in all ways—the Unholy Innocents—but they had the raw material necessary to serve on His Holiness' Sacred Service. A year under his tutelage and they would be honed like fine Toledo steel throwing knives, at the ready to be drawn and tossed at the enemies of the Triple Tiara.
For now, he mostly needed a cold shower of liquid nitrogen.
Somewhere in hell, Satan screamed in frustration, both at Fr. Dan's resistance to temptation and a missing screw for the Hööngi Chair of Eternally Bitter Sorrows. Fr. Dan would be corrupted soon enough. He had no doubt of that. But as for the screw... IT WAS TOO LATE TO GO TO THE HARDWARE STORE! The nettlesome Hööngi Chair of Eternally Bitter Sorrows mocked him bitterly with its lack of ready to assemble closure.