Chapter Six

Claustral Prior Bones stood at the doors of the monastery, a monastery which Callitus Nathaniel Oostendorp no longer recognized. The outside walls had been painted in some sort of mural, showing misshapen animals of some sort in weird landscapes. (Were they deformed humans?) Some seemed to be in the act of copulatus. The colors as well as the scenes were disturbing to the aging Callitus, but none of this disturbed him as much as the sight that greeted him when he got close enough to clearly see Bones himself.

There was his chosen one, his golden boy, standing on the steps of his formerly noble monastery. He was dressed in pantaloons which had been cut off, above the knee. His upper dressings were nil. He was bare chested, bare backed, and barely aware, it seemed. From the corner of his mouth hung a huge piece of what looked like rolled-up vellum, smoking with such an intensity that the entire air around him was black with soot. Bones appeared to be somewhat. . . disoriented.

"What in the name of all which we hold Holy is going on here, Prior?"

"It is festival time, Nathaniel. Hey, can I call you Nate?

"The project is completed and we are celebrating! Come, join me in a fine taste of this new herb which Prior Fez has discovered and found a way to cultivate!"



It came to Callitus as in a dream or a vision. The project was doomed. His trusted and appointed servant had become intoxicated with both power and, apparently, something even worse. Callitus Nathaniel Oostendorp shoved aside his Prior, stormed up to the tower of knowledge, took a flaming torch which was ensconced in the hallway, and set fire to the draperies and scrolls and every wooden piece of furniture in the massive room.


* * * * *

And so, the great dream of Pope Kurt was lost.

* * * * *


That is, until one day when a young descendant of the family heirlooms, weary from writing code for 48 hours straight, began to rummage around in the attic. He was looking for his Geek Chicks in Leather magazine he'd hidden the week before, so that he might take a break.

In a dark corner of the attic, he tripped over an old box and out fell a manuscript. . . .




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