Posted 11 April 2012 - 01:42 PM
The Bishop prepared the special bullet proof protection he was supposed to wear. He heaved the thick vest over his frail shoulders and admired himself in the mirror. He knew he was walking to his death out there. He would exit the church, two cars would roll up, bullets would spew from their windows, and he would be gunned down in broad daylight. His body would be carried to the local hospital, where he would be declared dead. Granted, the real Bishop was already dead, and it would be that body that would arrive at the hospital. But it was still necessary to put on the performance, to rile the people up, to cause a little menace. The last time the cartels shot a priest they used up all their political power covering it up; this would push them over the edge, a full on war with the military. Excellent.
A knock comes at the door.
“Your eminency?” a voice asks in weak Spanish.
“Hmmm, just a minute my child,” the false Bishop squeaks back in perfect dialect and tone of the real Bishop.
It was Sister Maria. She was ahead of schedule. The false bishop draped his vestments over the vest and concealed his plot. Poor Maria wouldn’t know a thing, and she’d be standing there as he exited his home. A stray bullet might mean two victims instead of one. He smiled; that might actually be better.
With his deceit covered, he slid the door open and Maria entered, the black habit obscuring her figure. And she was wearing a veil for some reason. The false Bishop’s mind began to turn as the woman stepped forward into his chambers.
“Your eminency, I come with grave news,” she has dropped the Spanish entirely now, and changed the conversation to English, “Today you will be killed in a most horrific fashion.”
“My child, how can you be so sure?”
The Nun’s hand whips a massive rifle seemingly out of hammerspace, and presses the barrel end against the Bishop’s chest.
“Because thou art an abomination; in the name of the almighty I accuse you of, attempted terrorism, murder of a chosen voice of god, and of impersonating a cleric. For these crimes I shall due my duty and send thee to hell, Amen.”
Her face was now clear, pale and white, with fiery orange hair burtsing from the top of her head. Hardly a Sister Maria. The man in the Bishop's clothes laughs.
“You accuse me of impersonating a cleric, then what exactly are you doing?”
“I am a holy exorcist. That makes me a cleric; just not the cleric I appear to be.”
“It makes you a liar.”
“No, it—Shut up! Then un-shut-up and tell me where to find your compatriots so I can end your infernal club of ‘ac-tors’. Perhaps your honesty may spare you some hellfire.”
The false Bishop laughs.
“Oh you stupid little girl. I have been acting since before you were old enough to wet the bed,” his earlier squealing voice drops to a new more grizzled register, and he picks up a bible from the counter. He holds it open in his palms.
“and I will not have my performance interrupted by some naïve fundamentalist!”
He grabs a grenade that sat inside the hollowed out holy book, pops the pin and tosses it towards her. The wirey false bishop makes a surprisingly spry leap for cover. Helenas does the same.
The grenade explodes, taking half the room with it. Then Helenas stands, unfazed by a little light explosives work. However the actor in question has already fled. She had to stop the ‘assassination’. Even if that meant killing him and all his fellow actors by herself. Assuming they didn't kill her first.
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