Deep within the dimly lit council chamber, Msgr Frederico Fabrizzi was collecting dossiers on traditionalists. These documents were essential in the battle against the Catholic Church that was being waged relentlessly by Modernists.
This particular morning, Msgr. Fabrizzi had been busy with his underlings in collecting - nay, distorting and down-right lying about the activities of St. John Chrysostom's Parish. Extinguishing his last cigarette on an exquisite mahogany writing desk, Msgr. Fabrizzi finished his cognac with gusto and strode towards an elevator which proceeded to bring him up thirty or so feet to street level.
Exiting the unit, the cleric proceeded down a long corridor lined with paintings by Italian and other European masters. Within a few minutes he was strolling through grounds familiar to millions. This erstwhile enemy of Catholicism was in none other than St. Peter's Square!
Entering his limousine, provided by the Secretariat of State, the Monsignor drove through the bustling streets of Rome to meet his good friend, Archbishop Rupert Weakling. The Archbishop, in Rome for his ad limina visit with the Supreme Pontiff, His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI, had excused himself from the meeting on the grounds of claiming a migraine. Not wishing to press the point with the de facto schismatic American Bishops, His Holiness had decided (after firm prompting from certain cardinals) that the Archbishop's presence was not essential to the discussion on the Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle that was to be the main topic for the Bishop's Conference's working lunch with the Vicar of Christ.
Fabrizzi, a fanatical gnostic with a particular hatred for the papacy, eagerly embraced his friend:" Welcome to Italy, Rupert". The two men had been friends since the Council. There, they had started off as nominal Catholics with liberal inclinations. By the time Fr. Weakling had returned to America in 1966 (after touring Europe for six months with assorted "friends") he was a die-in-the-wool anti-Catholic. It was at that time that Weakling wrote several progressive articles on situational ethics and began teaching at a seminary. He had been told that pastoral work was definitely out if he wanted to be a bishop - and did he ever!!
Fabrizzi too had undergone a major transformation. Coming from a staunchly Catholic family, he broke with the Church after Humanae Vitae. The lead-up to that break had been precipitated by a favourite uncle "marrying" a heretic in a registry office. Henceforth, Fabrizzi would be a vicious persecutor of traditional Catholics, hounding them out of parishes and "renovating" as many churches he could get his hands on. Some even joke that he outdid Henry VIII and Calvin in destroying altars. Be that as it may, the two friends embraced and proceeded to the five star Hotel de Russie bar for a good chat and quite a few drinks (courtesy of Archbishop Weakling's diocese collection).
The two apostates strode into the bar and began ordering drinks. Weakling relaxed with whiskey, whilst Fabrizzi favoured his cognac. Both men were in their golfing gear and would soon be heading out to play 18 rounds, something the two did way back in the sixties. "How was your flight, Rupert?", asked Fabrizzi. "I have to admit it was a bit bumpy on the flight from London, but the flight to London from New York was smooth", replied Weakling. "The only problem is the shortness of the flight. By the time you really begin knocking them back, you have to land again". "Well, you can't have everything. Besides, you have some penance to do", replied Fabrizzi. The two fiends (yes dear reader, fiends) laughed uproariously; the alcohol already beginning to affect their minds. "Tell me, Freddy: who's this 'Fr. Dominic Vobiscum' that I have read so much about? Is he really such a pain for the Italian bishops"? "Don't mention that name to me! Just thinking about Vobiscum makes me sick.
"This guy's a fanatic. He only says the Tridentine Mass. What for? He's such a goon", snarled the Monsignor. "And he's dangerous. People are beginning to listen to him. He's also in contact with some of the worst integrists in the world"."It must be tough for you FF", sighed the Archbishop, gulping down his third drink. "Well of course its tough! Here we are, about to converge with Anglicanism and Lutheranism and this guy comes out and starts to undermine everything we've been working for. I don't know why the Pope won't get rid of him".
"Let's play some golf", grunted Weakling, starting up from his chair. Marginally intoxicated, the Archbishop bumped into a mini-skirted waitress, knocking her tray to the floor with a loud crash of dishes and cutlery. Mumbling an apology the Archbishop and the Monsignor retired from the dubious bar before the manager could see who it was. The two men staggered into a Vatican limo and sped off in the direction of Rome's golf course that catered to the jet set.
Inside the car, Fabrizzi was comforting the Arcbishop about the pestilential traditionalists. "So I hope you feel better now, that I've spoken to Cardinal....", said Fabrizzi. "Sure, Freddy, replied Weakling, he's a good man and in this way, those traditionalists will never get to the Pope. Anyhow, with all the projects Ratzinger is involved with, he'll never get round to supporting the traditionalists - at least I hope so."
"The key is to convince the Pope that they are divisive, anti-ecumenical, anti-semitic, and especially against bishops! If we can do that- he'll be scared stiff. Remember Rupert how some of your bishop friends brow-beat Montini into "forbidding" the Tridentine Mass?"
Weakling, feeling a bit more comforted, lent back and switched on a CD of some 'Hip-Hop'. Atrocious computer generated sounds filled the car, accompanied by a dull metronomic drum beat. This was Weakling's way of trying to ingratiate himself with the apostate youth of his diocese; to take up the cult of man through the promotion of frightful jungle rhythms.
1 comment:
I must say I look forward to these posts as the writing is as good as it gets and the humour quite snappy. The reality is though... it's not fiction.
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