The Pope’s Residency, The Vatican
T he young man waiting in the room seemed worried. He was handsome, fairly strong, and tall with thick, loose, black hair. His features screamed Italian with a dash of Greek sharpness to his nose. He was a beautiful man. Someone you would trust and confide in. He even looked sexy in a humble way. He could have easily been mistaken for a movie celebrity. Or a GQ male model. What he didn’t look like at all was the next pope.
“Are you ready, Angelo?” asked the man in a black suit, standing behind him. Yes, a black suit, not a cassock or clothes that in any way hinted that he belonged to the place. In fact, due to this one-of-a-kind incident, the Vatican was filled with men in black suits today.
They’d been there since the day the pope had been killed by the Chessmaster. No one knew what to call them, but the thronging masses who waited in St. Peter's piazza had heard rumors about a New Order. The Vatican needed stronger men who would stand up to the likes of the Chessmaster and every other terrorist in the world.
The Vatican needed bad asses to stand up to those who called themselves Wonderland Monsters, spreading havoc all over the world in the past weeks. Of course no one really said ‘bad asses’, but in every prayer, it was on the tip of everyone’s tongue.
“I’m not sure that I’m ready,” Angelo, the young man, tapped his fingers on the bible on his lap.
“You are, young man. It’s time,” the man in the black suit said. “I know it’s sooner than we thought it’d be, but it’s happening .”
“Yes.” Angelo sighed. “It’s happening.”
“For years and years we’ve been prepared for this moment,” the man in the black suit said. “And you’re the chosen one.”
“Am I?” Angelo looked reluctant.
“You are, my son.”
It embarrassed Angelo that everyone around him called him ‘son’. He was the youngest of them all, yet they’d chosen him for the hardest mission of the century.
“It’s time to stand up for what we believe in,” the man said. “The world does not need peaceful men anymore. It needs us. It needs justice. Swift justice. It needs you.”
Angelo looked wary. He didn’t exude the persona of the hero the world was waiting for, but he had no choice.
“Tell me when you’re ready to go out and talk to the world,” the man said, patting Angelo on the shoulder. “God in heaven, you’re shivering.”
Angelo said nothing. He told the man nothing about the goosebumps.
“I think we better delay your speech to the world,” the man said. “Just an hour or so.”
“I think so, too,” Angelo said.
“You need something to drink?” the man offered. “I know you love milk. All popes love milk.”
Now, Angelo tilted his head up at the man, shrugged, and said. “For what I’m going to tell the world now, I prefer whiskey. A bottle of scotch, to be precise.”