St Peters Piazza, The Vatican
A fter waiting for so many hours, the masses were shocked to see the new pope. Why so young? Why so neat? Why wearing white? Who was this guy?
Silence fell upon the piazza, all but the sound of clicking cameras. Soon, the image of the new pope standing on the balcony would spread on social networks. Soon, people would make fun of him. That young man called Angelo.
“Cheers!” Angelo said, waving a bottle in the air.
Was that scotch?
All over the world, people couldn't believe their eyes. The masses down there in the piazza continued taking pictures, mouths gaped, offended, and rubbing their eyes in case they were imagining this.
Did the new pope just say cheers?
“You know what this is?” Angelo pointed at the bottle, swaying a little to the right.
No one answered him. Even those who’d end up booing couldn’t speak. This couldn't be happening.
“This is scotch.” He pointed at the bottle, then he began talking to the bottle as if it were a person. “Scotch, meet my fans.”
Murmurs slowly passed through the crowd.
“And this?” Angelo pulled out an iPhone. “Is my Facebook Page. Click like, people, in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
The murmurs escalated, a tinge of anger, a tinge of unspoken tension.
“Got Instagram, too,” Angelo said. “But Facebook bought Instagram, so there is no point in liking it too.”
An offended man burst out in anger from the crowd. “Who are you?”
“Where is the new pope?” an old woman shouted.
“My name is Angelo Cardone,” Angelo spoke, resting both hands on the balcony’s edge, allowing the scotch bottle to drop and smash. “It’s more of mobster’s name, but I’m your new pope.”
Muffled shrieks scattered across the piazza.
“I’m not here by choice. I’m the chosen one,” he said.
“Who the hell chose you? Get off the podium!”
Angelo’s beady eyes blinked, his body swayed, and he almost fell over upon the crowd. “Let’s not talk about hell, not so soon.”
Though most people insisted on him leaving, a few actually laughed at his remark.
“Listen people,” Angelo said. “I’m not drunk.”
The crowd began to boo louder.
“Seriously, I’m not. I was just fooling you.” Angelo straightened up. “I was just testing you.”
The voices lowered. More people got curious.
“But imagine that terrorism in the world had spread so much, that a day came when a drunk terrorist stepped up and stood in the pope’s place,” Angelo said.
The crowd began to actually listen.
“Imagine we keep on flying white doves and answering bullets with prayers and peaceful statements,” Angelo said, his voice playful but authoritative. “Imagine we keep on forgiving the sins committed against us, and never shout back. You know what happens then?”
Angelo suddenly had the crowd’s full attention — and the man in black standing behind him.
“You will end up with a stranger on this balcony, probably a terrorist, imposing their ideology on us,” Angelo said, and the crowd listened. “And now, my beloved citizens, do I have your attention?”
A low sound began to escalate into a rocking cheer that shook the earth.
“Forget about the weaker pope before me. Forget about a pope who’d end up killed in the hands of the Chessmaster.” Angelo raised both hands in the air, like a magician with a spell that’d bind the world together. “I’m here to change that.”
“Yeah!”
“I’m here to stop terrorism.”
“Yeah!”
“I’m here to tell you how to end this mess, once and for all.”
Riotous cheers from the crowd.
“I’m here to kick ass!”
This last word took the crowd by surprise. Only a few cheered back. They weren’t used to such words. To such bluntness. But it’d also touched a suppressed part in them. And ever so slowly, the crescendo of voices gathered and cheered. Like a disease, the enthusiasm for fighting fire with fire spread. All it needed was a new man, a supposed idol, to speak it out loud.
Angelo smirked at the crowd. The man in black ferociously clapped his hands behind him. It was only a matter of hours before the world would witness a day unlike any other in the history of mankind. A day where madness would reach its zenith.
Angelo began his speech…