Codename: Mascara, part 7

WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS:

IRRELIGIOUS, IRREVERENT, AND IRRELEVANT.

THE PEOPLE, PLACES, AND EVENTS CONTAINED IN ST MUCKYMUCK ARE COMPLETELY FICTIONAL.  ANY AND ALL RESEMBLANCES TO REAL PEOPLE, REAL PLACES, AND/OR REAL EVENTS PAST, PRESENT, OR FUTURE IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.  

IN FACT, ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ANYTHING AT ALL WILL BE REMARKABLY COINCIDENTAL.

Friday: 9:35 AM.

Kilcathclyde Archdiocesan Office

On Friday morning, the weather could not have been any different than the previous Monday.  The rain was falling in buckets and the vicious, infamous Scottish winds were howling and making the rain blow sideways.  Emma stepped out of a blue van this morning, wearing a thick rain coat and carrying an enormous pipe wrench in one hand and her trusty toolbox in the other.

She met the same police officer again but the weather was so fierce that there was no scolding for the parking space and no producing of documents.  In fact, they both waved to each other and the police office kept driving.  The butch security guard was as pleasant as always when Emma said that she had received a call about the plumbing problem in the Archbishop’s toilet.

“Right,” said the guard in her very high-pitched voice.  “I’ll have to get the keys for the Archbishop’s suite.  They’re kept in a special place.  Just remain here and I will retrieve them.”

While the security guard was away, Emma scanned her desk.  There was a photograph of a very attractive blonde girl on the desk next to the computer monitor.  Emma was taken aback.  “Victoria?” she said aloud, picking up the picture.

When she placed the picture back on the desk, she knocked a mid-sized box onto the floor – it made a rattling sound when she picked it up.  She read the label:

The Most Right Reverend C. A. Biscotti

            7 Scarlettfriars Street

            Kilcathclyde

            KL66 6LK

She shook the box, which rattled further.

“Found them!” said the security guard reappearing from a hallway.

Emma moved deftly back to the front of the desk.  “Right – here we are.  Follow me!”

“Listen,” said Emma.  “I happened to notice that package there for His Grace.  Would you like me to take it upstairs and put it on his desk for you?”

“Why, that would be most helpful.  Thank you…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Earl…name’s Earl McKinnon,” said Emma extending a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Earl,” said the security guard.  “I’m Jo…Jo Perkins.  My full name’s Evelyn Margaret Jo Perkins but I go by Jo.”

“I noticed that photograph on your desk there.  Who is that charming creature?” said Emma, pointing to the picture.

“Oh, that’s my partner, Tori.  Isn’t she beautiful?”

“Partner?” said Emma, an eyebrow raised.

“Yes, we’ve been together for five years this September.  I do love her so,” said Jo, picking up the picture and admiring it sweetly.  “She’s Dutch.”

“Yes, very lovely the Dutch,” said Emma, the eyebrow still raised and gazing curiously at the photograph.

“Have you been to Amsterdam, Earl?”

“Oh yes, I was there during the war.  Of course it wasn’t as beautiful then as it is now.  The whole city was a shambles.  We spent nearly all the time sticking our fingers in the dykes to prevent them from running all over the place.”

“You don’ say,” said Jo.  “You were very brave lads.”  She replaced the picture on the desk and invited Earl to follow her.  They went up the lift and down the now familiar Archbishop’s corridor toward the two large mahogany doors.  Jo unlocked the door and bade Earl inside.

“No Mr. Leach today?” asked Emma.  “He’s the one who rang me.”

“Not yet.  He and the Archbishop come in late on Fridays,” said Jo.

“Oh, I see,” said Emma, setting the package down on the Archbishop’s large desk.

“Right, well, I best be getting back to my desk.  If you’ll be needing nothing else, I’ll leave you to it.”

“Ah, right.  Where’s the toilet?” asked Emma, surveying the office carefully.

“Oh, it’s over here.  Only you wouldn’t know it.  It’s kinda hidden,” Jo said, going to the left side of the fireplace and pressing on the paneling.  The door to the toilet now opened “It’s in here.  Right.  There you are.  I’m off.”

“Thank you, Jo,” said Emma.

“You’re welcome, Earl.  Nice talking with you,” said Jo, politely.

“And also with you,” said Emma, bowing slightly.  Jo left the office, closing the door behind her.  “And most illuminating,” she continued, under her breath.

She quickly picked up the parcel she’d brought up from Jo’s desk and entered the Archbishop’s very private bathroom.  It was as decorated and decadent as his office.  Burgundy and crème marble lined the floor.  There was a grand vanity on the right with two sinks made out of gold embedded in it.  There was not one but two gold and crystal chandeliers hanging from a ceiling that was a mile above the floor and which had a mirror adorning every inch of it, like the office.  Off to the left was a round, gold bathtub nearly four feet deep with burgundy and yellow gold towels stacked neatly beside it.  Eight people could easily sit on the row of seats that ran around it like a Jacuzzi.  Next to it on either side were matching showers with glass and brass doors and gold faucets.  Everything matched perfectly.

The toilet was behind a door straight ahead and was gold also, matching the sinks, tub, and showers.  After photographing the entire room, Emma sat down and eagerly grabbed the package.  She tore into it and opened the box.  Three bottles of pills fell out onto the burgundy marble floor, echoing loudly as they rattled and rolled under the commode.  Emma looked around for signs of Jo – but everything remained quiet.

She examined the bottles and saw a prescription label:

C.A. Biscotti.  Take two tablets approximately four hours before activity.  If priapism occurs, consult a physician immediately.  100 mg. Viagra.

Emma smiled, “Excellent!” and placed the bottle in her toolbox.  She quickly repaired the problem with the toilet – all it needed was a gasket in the tank, she giggled as she worked.  She was coming out of the bathroom, the door closing behind her automatically when she heard a key entering the lock of the office door.  With the stealthy speed of a cat, she hid behind a large chair adjacent to the door.  Two figures swept into the room, the Archbishop in full regalia, including his usual mink miter, followed by Stacy Leach.

“Numpty Tartar Sauce wasn’t at the presbyteral council meeting today and we need to know why, Twinkie!” said the Archbishop, handing his staff to Leach.

“Yes, sir,” said Stacy.  The Archbishop moved to the light switch next to the radiator that Emma had repaired a few days previously.  The wall whirred open to reveal the three mirrors and vanity as found by on Wednesday.  Emma heard the soft click of a switch and heard the familiar song:

            I’m a girl and by me that’s only great…

She watched the Archbishop as he pranced and gazed at himself in the three mirrors.  “Twinkie, do you think this chasuble makes me look fat?”

Leach moved over to the Archbishop and surveyed his backside, “Not at all, Snugglebum!”  And he swatted the Archbishop on the behind.

Emma gasped rather like a child on Christmas morning about to tear into her biggest present.  “Excellent!” and she snapped a photo as Leach swatted Snugglebum’s snuggly bum a second time.

“Let’s play!” said Leach.

“Now?  Do you think we should?” asked the Archbishop, turning around.

“Yes, don’t argue,” said Leach, in a surprisingly masculine tone while locking the office door.  “You’ll face discipline for that remark.”

With that, he grabbed the Archbishop and pulled him over to the vanity and sat down.  He jerked His Grace over his knee and lifted the chasuble and alb underneath revealing a hefty and somewhat reddened backside.

“What have I told you about questioning me?” said Leach, swatting once.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry!” cried the Archbishop, penitently.

“You’re sorry, what?” Swat.  “What?!” Swat.

“I’m sorry…sir,” said the Archbishop his miter still firmly in place.

“That’s right, Snugglebum.  How many times…” Swat.  “Do I have to tell you…” Swat.  “…to address me as…” Swat.  “…Sir?...” Swat.  Swat.

Neither of them noticed as Emma’s special spy specs clicked and caught the episcopal spanking.

“Operation Mascara Phase III is a raging success,” she murmured under her breath.  One last click.  “A spanking good job!” she said, chuckling as she joined the song.

            I enjoy being a girl!

©2010 Steven Gorman.  All rights reserved.