A Sanbenito for Sister Mike!
A Fr. Dan Kelly™ Online Serial Novel
Chapter 5
Götterdammerung on the Red Planet in Six-Inch Radioactive Spiked Stilettos!
Fr. Dan struggled to revive himself through pure Liddyesque will, eventually beating unconsciousness into submission. As the black murk that covered his mind whimpered away, he looked about and saw that he was in multi-locked chains, wrist, neck, and leg irons, and a straightjacket woven from threads of tungsten steel. Unlike a lesser mortal, his first question was not, "Where am I?" but "Who dares cast Fr. Dan in bondage without providing a safety word!?!" Not that he concerned himself with safety words, that big, butch bastard. Hell had yet to forge the dominatrix that could make Fr. Dan cry like a little girl.
Our manpriest struggled within his hard metal cocoon, breaking a lock or warping the steel here and there. Yet, the accursed contrivance held firm! Worse yet, in the restraints, Fr. Dan felt terribly sexy. As his powerful Jemson tented, or more accurately DENTED, the molybdeum boxer shorts he wore, he felt vicious, jagged steel points digging into his manhood!
"Arrrrrrrr!!! Bastard heavens! A penis maiden, such as that used by deepest South America's !Chun'gra'gra people to worry their captives to death. From the hallucinations of winged hamburgers I see before me, it is obvious too that the the needles are tinged in toad venom! My unknown host has indeed thought of everything! Too bad I must rudely reject his hospitality! Ho ho!" Fr. Dan potently roared. He then gnashed his teeth with grim disdain, biting off a portion of tongue and swallowing it. "Fool!" He thought. "You might need that should no one return to this cell in a fortnight! I have no guarantee of sustenance or reprieve, nor even parole or a work release program!" Fr. Dan wisely packed away his meaty tongue, conserving it for later nutritional value. "The part that tastes is the tastiest part!" He had learned that wise maxim at seminary. Others laughed, but Fr. Dan ensured that his stomach was always ready to digest the body which surrounded it. If naught was left of Fr. Dan but an eyeball and a single finger fed by his liver, lungs, skin, and hair, that eyeball would guide that finger to the softest part of his opponent's flesh, gouging and beckoning him to Gehenna as it wound through his guts.
"Now, NOW I will dare ask, WHERE AM I?" Fr. Dan inched to the window like a worm-man and gazed out. Twin moons spiralled overhead, and the red sky, whether it was morning or night, gave him no delight.
"Good St. Dominic de Guzman! I AM TRAPPED ON MARS!!!" Fr. Dan roared. Fr. Dan hated Mars, as any good Catholic should—though they are not allowed to reveal why under pain of excommunication, or death, or MORE excommunication! So, don't ask.
"MARRRRRSSSSS! MARS! MARS! MARS! MARRRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSS!!!" Fr. Dan yawped to the red planet's crimson skies. "NYAGGGHHHH!!! MARRRRRRSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!" His head banged against the concrete walls, causing them to ring like a massive stone bell as he pinballed betwixt them. Fr. Dan knew that his shouting would bring his captors, whomever they might be, but he cared not. Be they 50 foot tall Fangonians from Fangosylvania with their 100 foot tall fangs or be they the sexually insatiable Vellumian Peckerbeasts from the mystic Valley of Orp, Fr. Dan would be ready to give them what-fer. If only... If only he wasn't in this fice-damned cell. But... how to escape!?!
He knew it was a desperate measure, but Fr. Dan decided to use his Celtic Battle Cry. While it wasn't all that dangerous... for HIM! Fr. Dan had to be sure he really needed the Celtic Battle Cry. Once let loose, it would require another year of charging before he could do it again. Actually, that wasn't true. Fr. Dan simply hated to repeat a trick. Like making a coin disappear before a five year old, the Celtic Battle Cry would cause all easily impressed souls nearby to ask him to do it again, and again, and again, until they figured it out or Fr. Dan became overcome with boredom.
"HOO-HOO-HOO-HEEEEEEEEE! HOO-HOO-HOO-HEEEEEEEE!" Fr. Dan hyperventilated like a woman in labor, something he had experienced when the Lord transformed him into a girly-girl for undercover work. He enjoyed being a woman, but that didn't make him weird or anything. The multiple orgasms weren't as intense as his holymangasms as Fr. Dan, but there sure were a lot of them, and the ability to not have to make up his damn mind about what movie to see or what restaurant to go to that night without a long drawn-out discussion was liberating indeed. He also liked looking at himself naked. As for birth, he didn't see what all the fuss was about. He had passed more formidable, and living, kidney stones as a man.
"HOO-HOO-HOO-HEEEEEEE! HOO-HOO-HOO-HEEEEEEE! HOO-HOO-HOO-HEEEEEEE! MmmmmMMmmmMMmmMMmmmMMm... Numnumnumnumnum-numma-num... Numnumnum-numma-numma-num...." Always it started with the humming, for Fr. Dan needed to be in perfect harmonic alignment with the universe's secret chord, which only he heard. It was a low H, a googol's worth of octaves below low C. Fr. Dan pricked his ears for the chord. After removing his penis from his ear, Fr. Dan inhaled with hurricane force, vacuuming his cell of all dust, bones, furniture, and air present.
Then... HE BELLOWED!
"Episode 1 — Telemachus STATELY, PLUMP BUCK MULLIGAN CAME FROM THE STAIRHEAD, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressing gown, ungirdled, was sustained gently-behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: — Introibo ad altare Dei. Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely: — Come up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful jesuit..."
The battlecry roared from him, rattling his sharp white teeth as it exited his mouth, his vocal chords admirably massaging each word with a whisky tenor. He was glad he had practiced the battlecry for that Books on Tape series. Yes, nothing could stand up against this, the Celtic Battle Cry. Grown warriors crumbled before it, choosing death rather than sticking around until the end, which often took several days. Unless, of course, Fr. Dan was busy or something really good was on the TV, in which case he would put down the battlecry, vowing to return to it again. But this time... he endured! By the time he finished the last few words of the battlecry, "Yes, I will, yes." his straightjacket and the bars and walls of his prison had disintegrated to something less than nothingness to reveal... A BIGGER CELL!
"Nertz!" hollered Fr. Dan, holding his mighty head in his mighty hands while falling to his mighty knees. "NERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTZ!!!" At least he was free, and so he launched forward like an iron gazelle and chewed at the bars like an aluminum beaver.
It was tough work, but he escaped. Damnedly, all the bellowing, chewing, nertzing, etc. brought his captors at long last. He recognized them immediately: More than 5,000 Digitalians! Beings that resembled 300 foot tall human arms that worked out three times a week, terminating in a head like a barbarous human hand. Each knuckle had a human-like eyeball, save that it was bloodshot and filled with rage. Each head-hand held in its hand-head a gigantic sword, save for those who paired up to hold an even more gigantic two-head-handed sword. And let's not even get into how absolutely terrifying the ones holding the THREE-handed swords were!
Each Digitalian shook with anger and gazed upon Our Priest as one who had sought vengeance for countless eons only could. Indeed, Fr. Dan recognized each Digitalian as a mortal enemy, remembering every slight he had visited upon him. He had killed the parents of at least 500 of them before their very eyes as Digitalian children; 500 were sole survivors, who saw him destroying their village, eating all their women and raping all their cows (righteously, of course). Another 500 had experienced the shame of seeing their Digitalian high school sweetheart going to the prom with the Savage Priest rather than them. Our Priest then used their sweetheart for sex before moving on to the next Digitalian maiden... Not that that stopped their sweetheart from pursuing the Shaman of Brick all the more, doing his homework and taking shit from him when they could have been dating a sweet Digitalian like them who would be considerate of their feelings and not treat them like garbage. The remaining 3,500 he owed money, but, for them, these Digitalian warriors, born to do battle on cold orange Mars for all eternity, it wasn't about the money... IT WAS THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING! Fr. Dan gritted his four rows of perfect teeth into a death's head grin and balled his hands into fists, staring into the eye of each knuckleheaded warrior before him.
"YOU JUST DIALED M FOR MOTHERFUCKER, BOYS! SO, FUCK YOUR MOTHERS, YOU MOTHERFUCKING MOTHERFUCKER DIALERS!" he yelled, disregarding his usual stipulation on tongue manure, and he launched himself at them, ripping open his Roman collar and tailored black shirt!
Fr. Dan was gloriously resplendent as he laid low Digitalian after Digitalian, sometimes using his fists, other times grabbing a sword, and still other times using a dead Digitalian to pimpslap his brothers. At times he would force a Digitalian to SLAP HIMSELF TO DEATH, adding shame to it all by asking the helpless hand creature, "WHY are you hitting yourself, Digitalian!?! WHY are you hitting yourself!?!" By the sweat of St. Thomas' of Aquinas big fat ass, he slew them all in short order, indeed obliterating their entire race. Ordinarily, Fr. Dan frowned on genocide, but he knew there was a time and place for it! After he figured out where the neck was on the last Digitalian, he snapped it and began to run apace through his prison.
Was there ever angrier a man than Fr. Dan at that moment? No, there was not! Never ever!
No!
No! No!
No! No!
No! No!
No! No!
NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
No-no-noey-no-no!
No means no!
No!
No sir, goddammit, sir!
Fr. Dan's anger was so absolutely and ponderously enormous, it pushed out of his skin and formed its own, even bigger body. His anger stood at 12 feet and resembled a wadded piece of black gum with arms and legs and embedded with hard nuggets of rubber. There was no identifiable feature on Fr. Dan's anger, solely a huge eye at the center of its chest—a right eye—topped by a furry eyebrow as thick as Fr. Dan's own.
"Where we go, Fr. Dan!?! I KILL!" said Fr. Dan's anger, its sweat sizzling upon its hot black flesh, making the sound of a kitchen at Ponderosa.
"Patience, my angry anger friend. Your thirst for death will be sated with the lemonade of battle! My, you seem taller since last you pushed from my flesh! perhaps I should be worried..."
"MYARRRGGGHHH!" cried Fr. Dan's anger. "KILL! GIVE ME KILL! KILLKILLKILLKILL! WANT KILL, NOWWWWW!!!" The anger began hammering at Fr. Dan's chest. Any ordinary chest would collapse into pick-up sticks, but Fr. Dan's man-titties withstood the onslaught. He laughed at his anger! It was so huge, so overwhelmingly big and scary, he wondered why he didn't let it loose more often, just so he could have a day off. But anger without intelligence was a dangerous thing, and Fr. Dan considered his next step. Immediately, he manhandled the angerbeast, and began stuffing him into his mouth.
"Get back inside me, you!" said Fr. Dan around mouthfuls of squirming black anger. "There is work to do, and I will not be weakened by your gallivanting around like a Gene Kelly of mayhem!" He choffed heartily on his anger, which tasted like spearmint.
"NNNYYOOOOOOGGGGHHHHH! WANT KILL! WANT FREEDOM, PLEASE! WORLD BAD! KILL WORLD, MAKE THIS WORLD BETTER PLACE FOR YOU AND ME!!! HYORRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!" The anger of Fr. Dan writhed and howled as it slipped down his gullet. Before its complete consumption though, it snatched at a lily growing in a pot on a nearby wall. "I AM GOING, BUT YOU WILL DIE INSTEAD, FLOWER! RAGGGHHHHHH!" As the flower was mulched in Fr. Dan's anger's humongous fugging fist, it screamed. When the last petal fell, Fr. Dan swallowed hard, then dandyishly dabbed at his lips with a perfumed kerchief.
"Delicious! Never has my anger made a better meal! And now, yes, now to work!"
Fr. Dan ran foolhardily, smashing headfirst through vaulted doors, seizing and rending into wet dog food any who stood in his way, until... He met the biggest most mightiest door of them all, carved from the planet Neptune, and on which was written, "NO ONE! NO! ONE! NOT EVEN FR. DAN CAN GET THROUGH THIS DOOR! FUCK YOU!"
"HAHAHAHA!!!" Fr. Dan fell to the ground, grabbing his belly and uttering manly gales of laughter. "IS FUNNY! HAR! HAR! HARHARHAR! GRRRR! THIS DOOR ANGERS ME WITH ITS IMPUDENCE!!!"
Fr. Dan pulled an eyelash from his eyelid and hurled it at the gigantic door. It shattered and collapsed in a thunderous roar as if it had been a crystal rose dipped into liquid oxygen.
"FONGU!" shouted Fr. Dan, shaking his fists overhead and grinding the bits of door to dust beneath his boots with crispy breakfast cereal sounds. He entered uninvited, and found himself standing in a large dark room, the walls and ceiling of which extended to forever. He had the impression of standing in an enormous hall, but one without a coat tree or mat for muddied shoes!
It was quiet. Not too quiet, but quiet enough. Fr. Dan lit off several sticks of dynamite that he carried for such occasions. They exploded loudly, reverberating and echoing through the immense dark chamber in which he stood. Nothing happened as the sound dwindled away. Fr. Dan jumped up and down.
"Kabooooom! Kablooey! Kapow! Ha ha! Here I am, filthy underling creatures which I will moosh to jelly! Moosh! Moosh! Come and get me with your psychotic laser beans and poisoned peccary guns. I am ready! Here! I will make it easier!" Fr. Dan ripped off his clothes and stood naked as God had made him—though he was much smaller back then, BUT NOT BY MUCH!
"I am naked, mung-savage untermenschen who would mistreat women, children, and piglets! Come and get me!"
Fr. Dan waited, but there was no answer. His muscles twitched and shuddered seismically, making a sound like grinding teeth, or rather teeth ground to dust with a mortar and pestle. Fr. Dan saw that a full-on assault was not coming, so he decided to lure the enemy to him through artifice.
"Miaou!" meowed Fr. Dan. "Je suis un chat francais! Miaou! Miaou!" He fell to the floor and began padding along, taking time to clean himself by licking a palm and rubbing his face with it. The French cat disguise was indeed cunning and arch, and done without fear of being raped by an amorous skunk. But still, no danger was evident.
As he had long feared: Fr. Dan's enemies found his weakness! Fr. Dan felt cold fear grip his sweaty heart and trembling loins, and threw his hands up to his face, which appeared as the face of one expelled from the Garden of Eden for not wearing shoes, socks, or a shirt. How could he fight danger when there was no danger to be fought!?!
"Eeyaggghhh! Danger! Danger! Kumbaya!!! Rarrrrgggggh!"
Fr. Dan punched at the air, in case he had missed something. His Thor-like hammer blows created mini-sonic booms as he did so.
"Nngh! Nngh!" he grunted, lunging and swinging at nothing.But the air offered him no challenge, though he did manage to obliterate the millions of microorganisms inhabiting the air and made it clean enough to perform eye surgery in the large room. Fr. Dan changed tactics and tried to strangle the nothing, but his fingers found no footing. Kicking the nothing, headbutting the nothing, shooting the nothing, and ravishing the nothing were all equally ineffective. Christ! Fr. Dan hated psychological impasses!
"Blast and hell's sexy vampire cheerleaders! Trapped in a Sartrean metaphor!" he thundered. "To be stuck in an inescapable death trap on Mars is bad enough. 'Tis only another opportunity to overcome evil and show off how marvelous I am." He stroked back his forelock with his hand. "But this... this... CLICHE, offends my senses like mustard gas emanating from a lurid rose! What did I just say? Who writes this crap?"
"I do," said a voice from the darkness. Suddenly, a man of some 5 feet 9 and a half inches in height, wearing glasses, a cheap blue suit, and an unsmiling face, walked towards Fr. Dan from the darkness. Fr. Dan crouched into a Yeti evisceration stance, learned during his training with the Gurkha soldiers of, um, wait a minute, let me look it up... Nepal.
"Rarrrgh!" said Fr. Dan, who became steadily less eloquent as this story progressed. "Who goes there? Identify yourself or I will bash you with Abominable Snowman force!"
"Silence, Fr. Dan," said the squint-eyed man. He ran his fingers through his hair and then rubbed his eyes. "God, this was so amusing at first. Now it's become a series of ridiculous hyperbolic descriptions and pulpish vignettes. I mean, the milieu is not without its charms, but I think it shows how my work has become static and reduced to adolescent power fantasies as I approach middle age... It's sad, really. Sigh... Leslie has already had three books published. I've had offers, but... I dunno, maybe I'm too distracted... Or perhaps I'm just making excuses..." The man rubbed his chin and looked off in the distance rather than making eye contact with Fr. Dan.
"Cease!" shouted Fr. Dan, still balanced on the one big toe, prepared to strike. This one was small, but he might conceal great power. Oooooo... Fr. Dan hoped so! "Stop talking like a blogger, little man, and identify yourself!"
"You know who I am," said the man, peering at Fr. Dan with eyes that had nothing remarkable about them.
"I suppose I do, but the thought of such an obvious plot twist... The introduction of the writer himself. It's so... so derivative of Vonnegut," said Fr. Dan, lowering his guard.
"There are only so many ways to tell a story following traditional narrative, my friend. Unless I were to suddenly switch into a post-modern Barthelmesque prose form... the seagulls will always be watching."
"Ah, I see," Fr. Dan sighed, transmogrifying into a Tyrannosaurus Rex that watched the sun set with the intent of a suicide. At the card table, Hitler and Santa Claus ceased to play whist and gently wept. The volcano, breathing fire, at last rained tobacco leaves upon the young lovers, cutting them into shreds as thick as a child's finger. The Great Chart flew overhead, showing the world's statistics in its boredom. At this, the President nodded. "Je suis un chat francais," he whispered... then stuck his tongue into the Secretary of State's ear. Elsewhere, Sitting Bull smoked his pipe, and pondered the coming apocalypse.
"No, I do not think I would like that at all," said Fr. Dan, regaining the proportions of a very large man in priestly black. "I prefer my tales to have at least a semblance to reality; even the highly unrealistic ones. I worry for you though, lad."
"Worry? For I? For me?" said the man. "Is it 'For I' or 'For me'? Wait, what is?"
Fr. Dan continued. "You are far too reliant on your early influences, my boy. Lovecraft echoes throughout this work. Granted, his mythos is a well that can never be drained, but his writing style was an worthy imitation of Dunsany, Machen, and Poe. Note too that the opening of this chapter was written as you read through Edgar Rice Burroughs in December."
The man sat down and crossed his legs. Fr. Dan did likewise.
"I'm sure you failed to note, however, that I've drawn upon such disparate influences as Penthouse Letters and Les Chants du Maldoror. Take for example your congress with that stuffed whale," said the man, grinning.
"Ah, but that was merely your reflection of the echo of that classic surrealist text in that photo you found on that plushie site, sirrah." Fr. Dan smirked. "The seraphim will not be pleased that you walked the electronic corridors of sin—however improbable that sin might be.
"You fuck stuffed whales!" said the man, gritting his teeth. He pointed a finger at Fr. Dan. "You do! You do! Perhaps you should consider your presence as an attempt to rectify myself with the religion I was brought up in, as its paradoxical influence upon me slips away. It is filled with much hypocrisy, priest, many contradictions, as are you. If this is cliche, then it is an exorcism. Like Fr. Damien in The Exorcist, the demons will flow into you! How you like them apples, bitch!?!"
Fr. Dan leaped to his feet, as did the man, except they were his own feet. The man's feet, I mean.
"We always knew it would come to this," said the massive shaman, who performed a series of rapid tai chi movements that snapped, crackled, and popped stereophonically.
"This to come would it knew always we!" retorted the man, "It never stops, damn your priestly eyes, Fr. Dan! The conflict and violence burns through my buzzing brain like fattened flies on discarded alley meat" The man dropped back into a number seven stance. He eyed Fr. Dan through the gunsight of his upraised fists. "I must warn you, sir. I am trained in the art of hapkido."
"Damn you for a fop and a dandy, sir! Bridle at the scent of a real man!" screamed Fr. Dan.
Then Fr. Dan roared toward the man like a freight train carrying 100 concrete cars loaded with trucks made of lead and bearing several tons of iron ore in their trailers. The ground shook with seismic vibrations at each footfall, and the sun hid its face. The man did not move, and Fr. Dan felt pity, for the man was such as a jake-legged swarf besides his priestly mightiness.
Contact!
The man poked a gloriously perfect finger strike through Fr. Dan's chest, causing all the unseen angels of the Lord to sing HOSANNA and all of Hell to quake in immortal sweaty terror! Thus his finger didst emerged from Fr. Dan's back, impaling Fr. Dan's still beating heart, still breathing lungs, still digesting stomach, and still bile-secreting liver. The man pulled the guts back through the gory hole in Fr. Dan's torso and showed the mess to him, darkly and prettily glistening. Fr. Dan gaped and felt the icy digits of death upon him—for real this time!
"You see? YOU SEE!?! You are NOTHING without me! NOTHING, brutish clergyman!" The man slapped Fr. Dan's innards back into his chest and commanded his blessed barrel-chested torso to be healed.
"My Lord and my God!" said Fr. Dan.
"Yes... I suppose so, Fr. Dan. Yes," said the man. He extended his left hand. Fr. Dan took it and gently kissed his wedding ring.
"Now... Quit fucking around and get on with this story!" yelled the man. Suddenly, he grew to 30 feet in height, pointy horns some six feet in length sprang from his forehead, black flames shot from his mouth and ears, and his eyes became like black holes dark as ravens and black panthers in a coal mine. Then the earth opened up and swallowed him whole. He spun like a tornado as he entered the sudden sinkhole, and he cackled and shrieked with frabjous joy.
*****
Fr. Dan was still groggy from the blowfish venom in the baptismal pool. The last thing he remembered seeing was the naked Bootsy Collins robot, laughing at him as he fired rocket grenades at Our Priest from his modified guitar cannon while playing the bass line for "Dr. Funkenstein." The taste of the desert was still in his mouth. It tasted strangely chocolatey.
"Ah! Der gut Vater ist avake! Velcome to consciousness, Mein Herr. It will not be a pleasant state, I assurrrrrrrre you." The rolled "R's" were unmistakable. Baron Von Warzenkopf! The evil scientist whose evil science was more evilly scientific than all other evil science put together! His aged evil head bobbled and floated in evil water in its evil tank, while his evil metal claws clanked as he evilly rubbed them together in evil glee. Beside him, the deformed creature known only as The Wad laughed maniacally, if the wet floppy gurgling sound made by his blown-out larynx could be called laughing. His face resembled a piece of bloodied steak crushed beneath a tractor and infested with maggots, while his body was a pinnacle of physical development, though warped in a way that could never be called human.
"Warzenkopf and the Wad! I should have killed you twice last time, you demon-possessed pig-fucking bitches! You are indeed harder to slay than... than... I!" Fr. Dan, struggled against his bonds, rattling the chains with a might that would collapse battleships, but they held more firmly than his right biceps. "Would that I were free, oh prelates of peccancy, then you would indeed get a drubbing that would cause the souls of Limbo to wail!"
"Ach! But vat is stopping you, Vater? Like und zo..." The Baron pressed a button on his armor, and Fr. Dan's bonds melted away. He was preparing to leap forward and impale the Baron with his tongue, when the wall behind him opened up revealing... a beauteous buxom bosomy blonde in a basque in bed!
Lick lick lick! Fr. Dan's tongue flicked about his head with sex hunger. The Baron would have to wait, for this particular siren's charms were such that even the holiest of holymen could not resist her holiest of holies. Fr. Dan heaved forward like an gigantic bosom, loosed from its boulder-holder.
"Arf! Arf! Awooooooooo!" he barked, his head turning momentarily into that of a wolf's. Flying through the air, he jumped beside the bed, ripped his clothes off, and made to reach for the pliant female flesh. But though his manhose jerked and twitched as a hyperkinetic ostrich neck, Fr. Dan found himself... CONFUSED! The need wa there, but how did he go about fulfilling it. It was right on the tip of his tongue, among other body parts, but Fr. Dan could not remember how to perform the act of physical love! The beautiful bountiful boobular blonde bobbed and bucked like a bucking bronco in bed, begging for his broadsword, but Fr. Dan only stood there, stockstill. He opened his mouth, knowing that he always instinctively had the right words to separate a woman from her hang-ups and morals, and expected a panty-dissolving waterfall of poetry. Instead, he stammered, and his voice an adolescent squeak!
"S-s-s-so... do, uh, you, uh... You know... Uh, do you like... Want to uh, heeheehee! HeeeeEEEEE! Uh... Are you... um, like seeing anyone..? heeheeheehee! HeeeeEEEEE!" Fr. Dan looked at the woman with sad and drippy puppydog eyes, but it was too late. She was now pretending to read a magazine. Fr. Dan's eyes turned to flame. Regaining his composure, he spun around and bellowed at the Baron and Wad.
"My God, vile animists, what have you done to me!?!"
"Is it not obvious, Vater?" said the Baron, gurgling in his floatation tank. "Your lack uff comprehension uff der female form? Your eagerness, yet confusion as to how approach or... how you say.. 'shtup' her? Mein scientists haff made you... a VIRGIN!"
"NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" screamed Fr. Dan impotently. It was true. Though his mighty prod throbbed and ached, Fr. Dan had no idea where to put it in, on, or about the beauteous Roxy. The ear? Or... or... perhaps between the toes? He didn't know! He didn't know! He could not even give himself the sweet relief of self-love, for it was forbidden even to him!
Fr. Dan wept, shuddered, and cowered. What would he do next!?!
