Bongiovanni, newly elected to the She-Pope’s drifting court, suddenly wakes on the bed of his Borgo Pio apartment. He turns his head to the right, framing the chair where his cardinalitial cassock lies, deflated like a dead ghost. Accessories are in their place, beside it: the sash, the cross, and all the arsenal, including service machete and electric whip, which the motherfucker uses like a water diviner bobber to locate three-breasted whores. Better cunt than water, he croaks each time, whenever someone gets curious noticing the strange tool in its holster. Better three than two, he usually adds then, the face of the interlocutor of the day turning even whiter—he really enjoys that.
The cardinal turns his head to the other side, toward the spread-legged girl next to him, decorated by narrow collars to her neck, wrists and ankles, bonded by next-gen-Inquisition magnetic devices.
“Witch!” Bongiovanni spits between clenched teeth, poking at the girl’s nipples with incandescent tweezers and letting his tongue hiss like a drunk snake. The meridium ball installed like a heretic holy wafer inside the woman’s mouth, locked by jaw fissors, stops her from screaming, but her gaping eyes speak at least four different languages, and they could swear in Aramaic. She has seen darkness, the thickest and fattest, even though it is only midday, and the tired sun of Rome, with its orange rags, is slowly illuminating one of her tits like a stage spotlight.
The girl shakes her back to free herself, with what little energy is left in her body, moaning in desperation like a cow sinking in a river, her three large, precious tits bobbing.
Uxor V3; that’s how that genetic mutation could be classified. Pretty common. The third tit, the apocalyptic tit, making its way between the original two like a molecular Bernini baptistery.
Bongiovanni laughs out loud; he will keep torturing the witch until nightfall, before dressing back and showing up at court, at San Pietro. The She-Pope takes a headcount of her lieutenants every night, and she slaughters two, randomly picked, to decorate with organic capitals the new colonnade of the plaza. Only yesterday, they glassified Monsignor Gomez’s buttocks, turning them into a pair of amaranth footrests for the two fountains, which festively squirt surrounded by Renaissance armchairs. One of the many propaganda places, in the city, where you can attend to the drowning of women still bearing a uterus, women who did not give a damn about the thirteenth commandment. Thou shalt not dump any more shit on this planet, we’re too many.
Bongiovanni points his Cloud-7-watered eyes on the red-haired whore. The vision is clear, now, much clearer than before. Thanks to that bastard Rosario—the one-eyed boy, the priests’ brigand—who always knows how to find new stuff to widen his awareness, to break the back of boredom, to screw with the endurance of a marathon runner. Despite his white hair.
The cardinal licks his lips; the microscopic, luminous highways of his brain turn alive with desire, with the chassis of inner drives switching on their headlights. Everything turns blue.
He wants to shave the girl, spread on her holy oil, laurel, salt…and stuff all her doors of pleasure with honey, strawberries, and wine of the She-Pope’s underground keeps—apocalypse-tight grounds. Bongiovanni always has a good stock of those delicacies, and he possesses cutting-edge tools, like his proto-dripfeed—sort of mechanical millipede clinging to his scrotum, shooting into his testicles small, comfortable, timed doses of absinthe and adrenaline. Sometimes he thinks of that device full of little legs as a pet. He has grown fond of it, by now.
The vision gets clearer and clearer in the cardinal’s mind, by now on the trampoline tip of his personal Eldorado. He waves his arms, up there, balancing, ready to dive headlong into the boiling broth of depravation.
Madame Rousseau’s large oven—his housekeeper, waitress, and expert cocksucker; the stew of the red-haired girl, smoking on the dish its aroma of youth; the dessert of tits, for the grand finale: three cream puffs filled with honey and ground chestnut. Eating, savoring the victim’s screams, recorded on the entertainment system, and continually played back, like a Janis Joplin song.
But then Bongiovanni loses control and ruins everything. Cloud 7 is a beast you cannot train, worse than easy-knife French whores. While Madame Rousseau bends in front of him to slide the red-haired girl stew into the oven, the holy man cannot resist that still-living flesh that moves and wags so close; he shoves the woman into the oven, wedging her in with her buttocks up, and using his machete he begins feasting on that housekeeper’s ass, tasting like clean bedsheets.
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