Ruprecht Murdstone Media Mongol, President of Lupine News Corp, owner of The Times and now captive of the Order of the Bloody Stain of Saint Hymenos the Benighted, had a plan. It had been long forming in his brain as he lay still, feigning unconsciousness in the Capital City All Saints and Sinners Hospital. It was a daring and clever plan. Like all daring and clever plans it was doomed to failure.
Ruprecht had noticed that when Dr. Benway and the medical students made their rounds twice each day Sister Fist would rise, leave the room and stand guard outside the door, leaving only the always sleepy Sister Tempest to watch over Ruprecht. He knew the exact time by the sound of the Bells, ‘Dragons Tooth’ and ‘Tinkerbell’, in the Blimp Cartel Clock Tower - one at 7:14 am and the other at 4:32 pm. Sister Fist was running interference and it was clear from the conversation that she was assuring Dr. Benway that Murdstone was fine. “Fine, just fine” he heard Sister Fist say. Of course he was fine thought Ruprecht, his wound was just a scratch which was covered by a single band-aid. “We gave him a sedative and he’s sleeping peacefully, the poor dear, and after all that trauma and gore,” he would hear Sister Fist say.
“Fine work, keep it up Sister,” Doctor Benway would say as the students grumbled about wanting to see a necrotic festering bullet wound with perhaps lovely complications and then -- the goodie of all goodies – a real autopsy on the patients bloated and gangrenous form.
“Aw,” he had heard a young girlish voice, definitely a med student, “I was so looking forward to poking and jabbing Murdstones seeping wound. All in the name of medicine of course.”
Ruprecht’s clever plan was to distract Sister Tempest by jumping up suddenly, while Sister Fist was out of the room confronting Dr. Benway and the students. Then, he would jump Sister Tempest and bash her into unconsciousness with a bed pan. Then as Sister Fist came to Sister Tempest’s aid Ruprecht would grab the ever waiting syringe of sleepy time drugs and inject it into Sister Tempests arm causing her to collapse, after which he would slip out the window and ease himself to the ground and take a pedi-cab to some safe place. Not to his office at The Times, The Order would be watching his office. But someplace really safe and secure. Someplace The Order would never look. The family mausoleum in the sub basement of the Art Décolleté Times Tower. He rested a bit as he considered his perfect escape plan.
To any sane person, drugged or not, the plan was insane, goofy, or just plain nuts. First the bedpan was of the flimsy plastic kind and attempting to smash a spider would result only in a slight indentation in the bed pan, as the spider got really pissed and decided on which of her many forms of revenge to lay upon her attacker. Second he lacked something to distract Sister Tempest with, since he lay only in a hospital “gown” as they called it, that was two sizes too small and which was split up the back revealing most of his backside and a really ugly wart. After he had wishfully dealt the blow of submission to Sister Tempest, there would be Sister Fist to deal with, and she was one ugly mother, or Sister as she was properly called. Then there was the problem that he was on the 13th floor, not to mention that he had no cash for a pedi-cab in a city in which those who hailed a cab and had no cash were beaten within an inch of their lives under the long recognized rules of the Pedi Cabbies Guild and Gun Club as reflected in City Ordinance 12984, subsections (n) through (p). The plan was a joke to any sane onlooker.
So at 4:32 as Tinkerbell sounded, and Sister Fist stood outside the door, Ruprecht prepared to sprung into action. Or at least he tried. He tried leaping from the bed, but he was restrained by a catheter stuck into his ‘you know what’. He and Sister Tempest were equally startled. The he jumped again pulling the catheter free and releasing the well overloaded bag as well its contents of which began shooting across the linoleum floor. Sister Tempest, knowing better than to sound a warning while Dr. Benway and the student were within earshot, stared at Rupricht. She rolled up her sleeves and then slowly approached her patient. She cornered him next to the bed. Thwap, her feet went shooting out from under her as she slipped on the yellow fluid covered floor. Thwack went her wimple covered head as she hit the iron headboard. Thud she went as she crumpled to the floor. Sister Tempest was out cold.
“Ha ha,” said Ruprecht to the now limp form of Sister Tempest. He raced for the syringe just as Sister Fist opened the door, and closed it quickly. Sister Fist immediately realized what was afoot. Sister Fist glared at Ruprecht and made him suddenly loose heart and feel very small. Like a little child caught wetting his bed, which he actually … well not legally … had just done. With lightening quick reflexes, honed in The Order’s Academy of Kung Foo and Pai Gao, Sister Fist grabbed the syringe and took it from Ruprechts hand. Ruprecht retreated once again to the corner of the room. Thwap, Sister Fist’s feet went out from under her as she slipped on the smelly ugly yellow fluid now covering the floor. However she quickly righted herself and again advanced toward Ruprecht. Ruprecht knew his goose was cooked. Then foosh, Sister Fist slowly turned and sank to the floor, a syringe sticking out from her behind.
“Ha, take that,” whispered Ruprecht. Now to the window he raced.
He threw open the window breathed the clean air of freedom and was promptly drenched by a soapy wet mop in his face. The startled window washer stared into Ruprechts face, and Ruprecht stared back like the crazed man he had become. Ruprecht leapt into the window washer’s basket like a demon possessed, and so scarred the window washer that the washer leapt into the hospital room. Ruprecht loosened the ropes and down went the basket, landing with a thud on the oleanders and rhododendrons at the ground level. Leaping out of the basket, Ruprecht ran to a waiting line of Yellow Pedi Cabs and leaped into the first one.
“I’m sorry this is my pedi cab,” said a matronly woman of advanced age and dressed in a threadbare muumuu. Ruprecht looked and could not believe his eyes, it was his mother, who had been having her annual charity visit to the hospital. On the first Tuesday of the month the hospital offered a free clinic to the indigent and Mrs. Murdstone, nee Underfoote, had. as usual retuned bottles on deposit, to scrape the money together to make it to the hospital and return.
“Mother,” said Ruprecht in his best plea-full voice, “please take me to the Times Building.”
His loving mother looked him in the eye, and after a short pause said, “Its gonna cost ya!”
Mother Superior Adel Flossberg, lay resting on her straw pallet in her cloistered cell in the eastern wing of the Temple of Mothers of Earth Druids. Within the confines of The Temple she was safe to speak the real name of The Order. They were safe from the prying eyes of the Lindens and their Babalonian Tyrany, their Pax Secundum Vitae. The Order was safe to practice the old religion, safe to throw off the sham and shame of conversion to the false religions to survive and wait for their time in the moon shine again. She thought of the long long line of generations of Mother Superiors, of all those who went before her kowtowing before the Lindens, secreting the ancient ways in vile popular religions, of their struggles, sacrifices, and sometimes glorious martyrdom in Her name. Biding their time, always waiting and planning for the fall of the Lindens and the return of the true king, and a return to the pure ways of her ancient sisters.
It was getting late, and she had so much work to do. In the distance in the chapel she the could hear the sinful girls of the lower division of the School for Wayward Girls gathering to sing the sacred hymns. Ah! she though, the sacred and the profane. How angelical the voices of the little girls, how spiritual their sound. How vile their little sinful thoughts, and their sinful blossoming bodies. They began to sing Adel’s favorite hymn.
“Guerra! Guerra! La galliche selve
Quante han quericie producon guerrier.
Qual sul gregge fameliche beleve,
Aui Nuovoa Roma van essi a cader!
To battle, to battle, In the forest of Gaul
Brave warriors outnumber the trees.
As hungry wolves fall upon the flock,
We shall strike at the soldiers of New Rome.”
Adel, as her spirits began to soar to the music and her hot blood began to pound in her dark heart, raised her eyes to heaven and swore against the pax secundam vitae – the famed universal peace of Second Life. “New Rome, Second Life, you will fall! As certain as She who’s name cannot be spoken, we shall rise and with her armies we will strike the Nuovoa Roma push it to its knees,” she screamed. Adel knew that in a week the blade of purity and compassion would cleave the evil ones and restore the True Faith and the True King. A frenzied smile fell upon Adel’s face as she became transfixed by the music from below. Adel’s eyes were vacant. Her breathing became rapid and shallow. Her hands and body began to tremble. She fell upon the floor, shuddering and drooling and in a paroxysm of blood lust and love for woman kind. She was truly mad.
“Sangue! Blood! The Gallic axes
Are bathed in the blood of New Rome.
As over the bloody waters of the Liguri
It gushes with a deadly sound.”
In the adjoining Cell sat Sister Chalmydia. She too heard and thrilled to the hymns. ‘Sangue,’ what a lovely word thought Sister Chalmydia. She had been reading the latest issue of Saints and Sinners Magazine. The centerfold had been of Saint Aphrodesius The Blessed Obstacle. Sister Chalmydia loved the turn on – ‘two long island iced teas and a bath in warm mineral oil.’ The Sister felt so warm and tingly at the thought of Saint Aphrodesius, so relaxed and all slippery and warm, as she read of the saint rising from her bath, refreshed, spiritually nourished, and ready to save her order from the roman onslaught. Such was the power of her sacrifice, and blessings that the hideous and frightful death of Saint Aphrodesius, by the act which cannot be said, and by a whole legion of roman soldiers, should make the Sister should feel so complete, so blessed, and so tingly. The thought of the Roman monsters delayed in their final assault on the Veil of the Temple, which was woven from blue, purple, crimson and white glass beaded thread, and embroidered with succubus and incubus coupled in the old way, by the sacrifice of one sister using her faith and womanly wiles, excited Sister Chalmydia in mysterious ways. She was proud be serve She, from whom all is given and to whom all must be returned. The Saint had delayed the vile army of pillage, and other saintly sisters had spirited away the Veil of the Temple. Only Adel knew where the Veil was kept, but the Sister was certain that the day would soon come when The Temple would return to the moonlight, and The Veil would once again wrap its purifying soft cold folds around the lithe naked bodies of the new succubis and incubus in a land cleansed of all error and unrighteousness.
Sister Chlamydia turned the page and almost reached for a moist towelette at the sight of Roue’ LaMott, Sinner of the Month. A young stud from a construction gang building a palazzio on some misbegotten island. She ran her index finder over his six pack, and his rock hard buns. His lithe naked body provocatively leaning against a wheel barrow with a plumbers friend in his hand as if to say ‘come and get it.’ My, my she thought, now that’s a package I’d sin for. After all, The Order encouraged occasional sin, for it made the acts of forgiveness and repentance so much more meaningful.
Ruprecht had noticed that when Dr. Benway and the medical students made their rounds twice each day Sister Fist would rise, leave the room and stand guard outside the door, leaving only the always sleepy Sister Tempest to watch over Ruprecht. He knew the exact time by the sound of the Bells, ‘Dragons Tooth’ and ‘Tinkerbell’, in the Blimp Cartel Clock Tower - one at 7:14 am and the other at 4:32 pm. Sister Fist was running interference and it was clear from the conversation that she was assuring Dr. Benway that Murdstone was fine. “Fine, just fine” he heard Sister Fist say. Of course he was fine thought Ruprecht, his wound was just a scratch which was covered by a single band-aid. “We gave him a sedative and he’s sleeping peacefully, the poor dear, and after all that trauma and gore,” he would hear Sister Fist say.
“Fine work, keep it up Sister,” Doctor Benway would say as the students grumbled about wanting to see a necrotic festering bullet wound with perhaps lovely complications and then -- the goodie of all goodies – a real autopsy on the patients bloated and gangrenous form.
“Aw,” he had heard a young girlish voice, definitely a med student, “I was so looking forward to poking and jabbing Murdstones seeping wound. All in the name of medicine of course.”
Ruprecht’s clever plan was to distract Sister Tempest by jumping up suddenly, while Sister Fist was out of the room confronting Dr. Benway and the students. Then, he would jump Sister Tempest and bash her into unconsciousness with a bed pan. Then as Sister Fist came to Sister Tempest’s aid Ruprecht would grab the ever waiting syringe of sleepy time drugs and inject it into Sister Tempests arm causing her to collapse, after which he would slip out the window and ease himself to the ground and take a pedi-cab to some safe place. Not to his office at The Times, The Order would be watching his office. But someplace really safe and secure. Someplace The Order would never look. The family mausoleum in the sub basement of the Art Décolleté Times Tower. He rested a bit as he considered his perfect escape plan.
To any sane person, drugged or not, the plan was insane, goofy, or just plain nuts. First the bedpan was of the flimsy plastic kind and attempting to smash a spider would result only in a slight indentation in the bed pan, as the spider got really pissed and decided on which of her many forms of revenge to lay upon her attacker. Second he lacked something to distract Sister Tempest with, since he lay only in a hospital “gown” as they called it, that was two sizes too small and which was split up the back revealing most of his backside and a really ugly wart. After he had wishfully dealt the blow of submission to Sister Tempest, there would be Sister Fist to deal with, and she was one ugly mother, or Sister as she was properly called. Then there was the problem that he was on the 13th floor, not to mention that he had no cash for a pedi-cab in a city in which those who hailed a cab and had no cash were beaten within an inch of their lives under the long recognized rules of the Pedi Cabbies Guild and Gun Club as reflected in City Ordinance 12984, subsections (n) through (p). The plan was a joke to any sane onlooker.
So at 4:32 as Tinkerbell sounded, and Sister Fist stood outside the door, Ruprecht prepared to sprung into action. Or at least he tried. He tried leaping from the bed, but he was restrained by a catheter stuck into his ‘you know what’. He and Sister Tempest were equally startled. The he jumped again pulling the catheter free and releasing the well overloaded bag as well its contents of which began shooting across the linoleum floor. Sister Tempest, knowing better than to sound a warning while Dr. Benway and the student were within earshot, stared at Rupricht. She rolled up her sleeves and then slowly approached her patient. She cornered him next to the bed. Thwap, her feet went shooting out from under her as she slipped on the yellow fluid covered floor. Thwack went her wimple covered head as she hit the iron headboard. Thud she went as she crumpled to the floor. Sister Tempest was out cold.
“Ha ha,” said Ruprecht to the now limp form of Sister Tempest. He raced for the syringe just as Sister Fist opened the door, and closed it quickly. Sister Fist immediately realized what was afoot. Sister Fist glared at Ruprecht and made him suddenly loose heart and feel very small. Like a little child caught wetting his bed, which he actually … well not legally … had just done. With lightening quick reflexes, honed in The Order’s Academy of Kung Foo and Pai Gao, Sister Fist grabbed the syringe and took it from Ruprechts hand. Ruprecht retreated once again to the corner of the room. Thwap, Sister Fist’s feet went out from under her as she slipped on the smelly ugly yellow fluid now covering the floor. However she quickly righted herself and again advanced toward Ruprecht. Ruprecht knew his goose was cooked. Then foosh, Sister Fist slowly turned and sank to the floor, a syringe sticking out from her behind.
“Ha, take that,” whispered Ruprecht. Now to the window he raced.
He threw open the window breathed the clean air of freedom and was promptly drenched by a soapy wet mop in his face. The startled window washer stared into Ruprechts face, and Ruprecht stared back like the crazed man he had become. Ruprecht leapt into the window washer’s basket like a demon possessed, and so scarred the window washer that the washer leapt into the hospital room. Ruprecht loosened the ropes and down went the basket, landing with a thud on the oleanders and rhododendrons at the ground level. Leaping out of the basket, Ruprecht ran to a waiting line of Yellow Pedi Cabs and leaped into the first one.
“I’m sorry this is my pedi cab,” said a matronly woman of advanced age and dressed in a threadbare muumuu. Ruprecht looked and could not believe his eyes, it was his mother, who had been having her annual charity visit to the hospital. On the first Tuesday of the month the hospital offered a free clinic to the indigent and Mrs. Murdstone, nee Underfoote, had. as usual retuned bottles on deposit, to scrape the money together to make it to the hospital and return.
“Mother,” said Ruprecht in his best plea-full voice, “please take me to the Times Building.”
His loving mother looked him in the eye, and after a short pause said, “Its gonna cost ya!”
Mother Superior Adel Flossberg, lay resting on her straw pallet in her cloistered cell in the eastern wing of the Temple of Mothers of Earth Druids. Within the confines of The Temple she was safe to speak the real name of The Order. They were safe from the prying eyes of the Lindens and their Babalonian Tyrany, their Pax Secundum Vitae. The Order was safe to practice the old religion, safe to throw off the sham and shame of conversion to the false religions to survive and wait for their time in the moon shine again. She thought of the long long line of generations of Mother Superiors, of all those who went before her kowtowing before the Lindens, secreting the ancient ways in vile popular religions, of their struggles, sacrifices, and sometimes glorious martyrdom in Her name. Biding their time, always waiting and planning for the fall of the Lindens and the return of the true king, and a return to the pure ways of her ancient sisters.
It was getting late, and she had so much work to do. In the distance in the chapel she the could hear the sinful girls of the lower division of the School for Wayward Girls gathering to sing the sacred hymns. Ah! she though, the sacred and the profane. How angelical the voices of the little girls, how spiritual their sound. How vile their little sinful thoughts, and their sinful blossoming bodies. They began to sing Adel’s favorite hymn.
“Guerra! Guerra! La galliche selve
Quante han quericie producon guerrier.
Qual sul gregge fameliche beleve,
Aui Nuovoa Roma van essi a cader!
To battle, to battle, In the forest of Gaul
Brave warriors outnumber the trees.
As hungry wolves fall upon the flock,
We shall strike at the soldiers of New Rome.”
Adel, as her spirits began to soar to the music and her hot blood began to pound in her dark heart, raised her eyes to heaven and swore against the pax secundam vitae – the famed universal peace of Second Life. “New Rome, Second Life, you will fall! As certain as She who’s name cannot be spoken, we shall rise and with her armies we will strike the Nuovoa Roma push it to its knees,” she screamed. Adel knew that in a week the blade of purity and compassion would cleave the evil ones and restore the True Faith and the True King. A frenzied smile fell upon Adel’s face as she became transfixed by the music from below. Adel’s eyes were vacant. Her breathing became rapid and shallow. Her hands and body began to tremble. She fell upon the floor, shuddering and drooling and in a paroxysm of blood lust and love for woman kind. She was truly mad.
“Sangue! Blood! The Gallic axes
Are bathed in the blood of New Rome.
As over the bloody waters of the Liguri
It gushes with a deadly sound.”
In the adjoining Cell sat Sister Chalmydia. She too heard and thrilled to the hymns. ‘Sangue,’ what a lovely word thought Sister Chalmydia. She had been reading the latest issue of Saints and Sinners Magazine. The centerfold had been of Saint Aphrodesius The Blessed Obstacle. Sister Chalmydia loved the turn on – ‘two long island iced teas and a bath in warm mineral oil.’ The Sister felt so warm and tingly at the thought of Saint Aphrodesius, so relaxed and all slippery and warm, as she read of the saint rising from her bath, refreshed, spiritually nourished, and ready to save her order from the roman onslaught. Such was the power of her sacrifice, and blessings that the hideous and frightful death of Saint Aphrodesius, by the act which cannot be said, and by a whole legion of roman soldiers, should make the Sister should feel so complete, so blessed, and so tingly. The thought of the Roman monsters delayed in their final assault on the Veil of the Temple, which was woven from blue, purple, crimson and white glass beaded thread, and embroidered with succubus and incubus coupled in the old way, by the sacrifice of one sister using her faith and womanly wiles, excited Sister Chalmydia in mysterious ways. She was proud be serve She, from whom all is given and to whom all must be returned. The Saint had delayed the vile army of pillage, and other saintly sisters had spirited away the Veil of the Temple. Only Adel knew where the Veil was kept, but the Sister was certain that the day would soon come when The Temple would return to the moonlight, and The Veil would once again wrap its purifying soft cold folds around the lithe naked bodies of the new succubis and incubus in a land cleansed of all error and unrighteousness.
Sister Chlamydia turned the page and almost reached for a moist towelette at the sight of Roue’ LaMott, Sinner of the Month. A young stud from a construction gang building a palazzio on some misbegotten island. She ran her index finder over his six pack, and his rock hard buns. His lithe naked body provocatively leaning against a wheel barrow with a plumbers friend in his hand as if to say ‘come and get it.’ My, my she thought, now that’s a package I’d sin for. After all, The Order encouraged occasional sin, for it made the acts of forgiveness and repentance so much more meaningful.
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