St Muckymuck, Season 2: Feast Day Preparations, part III

St Mocheomoc High School football pitch

In the stands facing the football pitch sat a petite, lithe, cat-like elderly woman dressed in all black.  She sported sunglasses due not only to the bright Scottish sun which cascaded upon her, nor was it only due to the fact that she was legally blind, the result of a botched cataract operation, but the glasses were also an essential tool in her lifelong espionage career.  She tapped a jewel on the frame of the specially designed glasses and a finely detailed photograph in the highest resolution imaginable was taken and downloaded onto her personal MI13 page.  There was a whirring sound and beep only the woman could hear.  Two seconds later, her mobile phone rang with the “Hornpipe” from Handel’s Water Music.

“Emma here…you got the pic?...no…he’s completely unaware…he’s busy inspecting the football field grass as it’s just been mowed…yes…yes…”

ST MUCKYMUCK

Season 2

WRITTEN BY STEVEN GORMAN

WHAT YOU ARE READING 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.

Down on the field was an average sized man dressed in his everyday black bishop’s uniform but sporting an enormous golden lame mitre, which brilliantly caught and reflected the powerful sun like a beacon.  In his right hand was a majestic staff with a grand crook on the top of it.  Since it was fashioned out of gold, it, too, caught the celestial rays of the sun and directed them into the stands where Emma sat.  She pushed a jewel on the opposite side of her glasses and within nanoseconds the lenses became two shades darker.

The retired Archbishop of Kilcathclyde, Clementino Biscotti, called out to a skinny, very effeminate but handsome fellow riding a lawnmower tractor.  It bore the crest of the Archdiocese of Kilcathclyde: two crossed ice cream cones floating over a frying pan.  Biscotti was swiping the pitch grass with a very shiny black show.  “You’ve missed a spot here, Mr. Leach.”

The man started the lawnmower and then moved it across the area indicated by the Archbishop.  Then he turned it off.  Biscotti moved over several years and repeated the action.  “You know, I thought you had finished too quickly when you came to get me claiming to be through.  Did you go over the grass in both directions, as instructed?”

“Yes, Your Grace, of course I did.”

“Of course you did, my foot,” said the Archbishop, scraping the grass again.  “Look at this.  Here’s another spot.”

The lawnmower whirred into action and Mr. Leach ran it over the area.  When it stopped, Biscotti spoke as though uninterrupted.  “Perhaps the blades need sharpening?”

“Perhaps,” sighed Mr. Leach.

“Look, yet another spot.  Really, Stacy, I could just whack you with my stick!”  he said, brandishing his golden staff.

“Promises.  Promises,” murmured Leach.

“Now, see, here, Stacy, this is no time for euphemism.  As the president of the Ordained Against Field Supremacy Society, I cannot tolerate such things standing erect amongst the grass.”

“Yeah, OK.  Whatever,” he replied.  “Just because you’re the referee for this match doesn’t change the fact I’m I charge.”

“Well, that is neither here nor there.  Right now, I’m on top!”

“…yes…yes…for lunch?...on Tuesday…why, yes, I would be delighted….Oh, I agree, it’s been far too long…I’m looking forward to it already…OK, see you then.  Ta-ta, Bessie.”