The Schism: 3 or 4 Popes stand before you. (pt 1 of 2)

“I have already predicted your downfall. The cubes foresee a miserable failure for all leeches,” the original Pope said. He was still holding the stupid miniature set of variously shaped objects with 90 degree angles. He rattled it halfheartedly in threat of predicting even more dire events. His eyes were severely sunken in and he looked like he might drop over dead at any moment. “You might as well give in to the superiority of the one true religion. Repent!”

The second Pope scoffed. “You wouldn’t know what to do with a true cube if one was presented to you from the heavens. You dither around with blocks of all proportions.” He was swathed in ivory robes patterned in colored squares along the hems and styled himself as the Cube Pope, like the ponce he was. He was also fully lying on the floor with his hands crossed on his chest like a mummy.

“I have fish,” offered the third Pope hopefully. “If either of you would like to choke to death on it, well, that would be fine by me.” He was no longer wearing the ceremonial headpiece with elaborate beading, but it was on the floor next to him. His wrinkled hand was hanging over his ceremonial tank to let his fingertips fall in the water. A tropical fish nosed at his fingers in sympathy or some other, deep fish emotion.

All of the popes looked wretched and wilty from the antechamber where young Priests were waiting quietly to ensure their safety. Dignity had long since disappeared from the miserable hot house of the locked room.

It seemed that there was no path to peaceful resolution on the 35th hour of the Papal Reunification Enclave. The old men were getting wobblier by the minute– no one was allowed to sleep until the religious leadership had been determined. Their young bodyguards dozed against the wall and occasionally startled awake with guilty looks. 

That was irresponsible, of course, but they must be forgiven because the enclave was on a very good lock down. No one entered and no one would leave until one man had come out on top as the leader of the Tetramantic church. The schism had been an ongoing international disaster for 8 years and that was apparently the entirety of their grace period.

A quiet knock sounded at the antechamber. A flash of red robes could be seen, a Cardinal bearing refreshments. The room was hot and dark. The Popes welcomed the bitter drinks and managed a few more rounds of insults before they had to sit back down and rest their eyes for just one moment.

They dozed and roused with occasional jabs at each other. Pope Cube closed his eyes for just a moment to rest and then jerked awake guiltily. He opened his mouth to angrily deny that he had slept– and then he realized that everyone else was asleep.

Could he? Should he? His gaze darted between his sleeping enemies and the closed eyes of their bodyguards. The young fools, all sent by Cardinal Flox, were all asleep and unawares. It was a heaven-sent opportunity, pieces that had rotated into place perfectly.

If God was to strike the nonbelievers dead, well, then who was to argue with his appointment? The Cube Pope gathered his courage and a pillow (with which to smite the heretics) and crept closer to the bigger threat. He lifted his weapon aloft– and the Fish Pope snuffled loudly in his sleep. The Cube Pope felt his weapon slip from his grasp and land on the face of the Block Pope.

“Fire!” Roared the man, now awake and fiercely and ineffectually tearing the pillow off his face. “We are attacked, infidels and dogs are at the door! To arms!”

Everyone roused. There were a few moments of utter confusion and panic. One young man flung open the door to confront the supposed intruders. Another one grabbed a candlestick off the side table and swung it around wildly. The last fell over and crawled underneath the bench, exercising the sort of cowardice and poor planning that indicated he was surely destined for some high office one day.

The Cube Pope had backed away a few steps, just far enough that the startled bodyguards hopefully thought he had tried to come to the Block Pope’s aid. He was sweating rivulets. 

“...There is no fire,” the Block Pope said. He sat back down and panted around the room with bloodshot eyes. He picked up the murder pillow and frowned in confusion. “Wasn’t this on…another sofa?”

The silliest Priest lowered his candlestick, his round face flushed quite red with excitement. “Your Grace, are you-”

“I’m fine.” He snapped and adjusted his lapel, trying to bundle up some dignity.

The Fish Pope snickered to himself. “You fell asleep,” he said. “Had ill visions, did you?” He leered unpleasantly and showed all his yellow teeth. “Perhaps it’s a sign.”

“You both slept as well!” He blustered.

The Cube Pope made eye contact with the Fish Pope for a moment and had to make a quick decision. “We were both awake,” he lied, knowing the other man would never contradict him.  

Francesco Ferdinand the Fishy looked pleased to be, for the first time in his life, in an alliance with a sensible man. He babbled for a while.

The Cube Pope let the outer world go quiet and sink away so that he could examine the problem once more.

The main problem (of course!) was that the Cardinals were not going to release them until a single leader had been chosen, given the incipient fear of yet another Papal schism. A house divided into four parts surely could not stand. The other Popes didn’t know that, of course, not as well as Pope Cabernati Cube did. His loyalists had been bringing him whispers for months now about the foul permeation of a new ideology within the ranks, the traitorous and lascivious Tantramantics, who had perverted the holy scriptures into some weird slow sex thing that confused and upset him. They must be stopped at all costs! He was the one to do it. The other Popes were feeble-minded fools who had already strayed from the path once. They might be dangerously enticed by the illustrations in the new bibles.

He simply must come out on top to preserve the dignity of the faith. For that, the old men had to die. And to that end… the bodyguards must go. The one man still hadn’t returned, likely checking the outer rooms for intruders.

‘They don’t suspect us,’ he thought. ‘They were concerned about outsiders and sabotage. If I use the right pretense, they will leave us to privacy…’

He began to scheme. 

“This has been unproductive.”

He looked over at the Fish Pope in surprise. The man was struggling to his feet, using his scepter to brace himself. The crystal tetra fish at the head of the staff glinted ominously. “The stakes are higher than you know.” 

Pope Block looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Do you mean to imply that you have privileged information to share?”

“There have been whispers among my flock,” the Fish Pope said ominously. He leaned forward at what would be an impossible angle without his cane. “Word has come to the ear nearest to the Lord’s of a wolf in the flock.”

Pope Cabernati the Cubal hid a sneer. Surely not. No one would tell anything important to the foolish Francesco Ferdinand, Fish Pope.

“…perhaps we ought to discuss this in private,” said Cabernati, scheming. He arranged his face to show concern. “Young men, might you retrieve refreshments?”

“Of course, Father,” said one, and both of them left. 

At last! Now he only had to plan a murder. Two murders.

Hmm. He frowned and looked at the other old men. 

‘If only I had prepared something.’

“Now, as to the important discussion,” Cabernati said, stalling for time. Was there any good weapon around? There was that candlestick set… He started edging his way around the room as subtly as a man could when his joints crackled like popcorn with every step. “The things that we cannot say among the uninitiated…”

“I’m sure I know of what you speak, but for his sake,” Pope Block said, looking at the Fish Pope. “Perhaps some elaboration of the villains…”

“Yes,” Cabernati said, still a good ten feet from his chosen murder weapon. “The vile worms in the lower levels of our mighty organization.”

“Lower levels?” Pope Block said at the same time that Pope Fish said, “Within the church?”

Ha. They knew not! 

The other two exchanged confused glances. “...Who, exactly, are you talking about?”

At last, he had to reveal his hand. “There is a fourth sect growing secretly within our ranks,” Cabernati said gravely.

Pope Block rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows that, that’s not a secret-”

“They’re perverts!” he announced. His eyes went wild. He got so angry that he had to sit down and stop his creep towards the candlestick. “They have a profane book that they giggle over– it is foul–” He lost his ability to speak, incoherent with outrage.

It took a moment for comprehension to dawn. “You’re upset about the Tantrics?” the Fish Pope asked incredulously. He actually laughed out loud, wheezing and turning red. “That’s- ha! That’s nothing to do with us. Did you think– ha!” A horrible honking sound came out of his nose.

“They’re just perverts, it’s harmless,” added Pope Block. He giggled into his tremendous mustache. “In thirty years it’ll all blow over.” 

Francisco nodded wisely. “Sex is massively overrated. I personally think most people just pretend they’re all good at it because they’re afraid to be the only one who lacks skill.”

“That’s interesting,” Pope Block said, drawing his massive eyebrows down in intrigue. “Do you think-”

Pope Cabernati puffed up with rage. “You short-sighted, insolent–” He let out a scream of pure incoherent rage. 

“He’s so cranky!” Pope Block pointed with a crooked finger. “You’re just an old man who is angry about people having slow sex.” He laughed so hard that he leaned against Pope Francisco Ferdinand. 

“Fine!” He was shaking with rage and low blood sugar. “What do you think the threat is?”

“It’s Cardinal Flox,” Pope Block said at the same time that Pope Fish solemnly said, “Tetra Pak.”

The ranks separated and reformed: Cabernati and Block turned to face the Fish Pope, who appeared to see nothing silly in what he had just said.