pope go brr

Thank you, child of Christ. I'm sorry it took a while to respond.

----

You have been asking Francis about the popemobile for some time now. Each time, he becomes cagey and distant, like when you ask him about the Dirty War.

One day he asks, "Why would you want such a thing?"

The question takes you by surprise. It had never occurred to you that he might not enjoy riding in the popemobile, that tending God's flock might be frightening rather than invigorating. "I could help," you say.

Francis looks troubled, and says no more.

----

One Tuesday after Mass, Francis summons you to St. Peter's Basilica.

It is before visiting hours, before the masses of gathered faithful come to pay their respects, before the disorganized scene you've always seen. This is quiet, more peaceful, holy. You try to express as much to Francis, who says, "It is always holy, my child."

"I know. But..."

"One can forget how."

The two of you continue on, silent, thoughtful. He pauses occasionally to speak to a custodian or security guard in his melodic Italian, asking after their children, wives, personal lives. When you're quite sure none are listening, you ask, "Is this about the Popemobile?"

He smiles slightly, in the knowing way that lets you know you have guessed correctly. "Do you know its history?"

You shake your head. Briefly he tells you about the palanquins that used to carry popes, their replacement with standard cars, standard cars' replacement with bulletproof ones. Standing before the tomb of Pope John Paul II, you consider the full weight of what he's saying.

"The Romans, pagan though they were, had some wisdoms," he goes on. "The memento mori, among them. We kept some remnants from them, being as we are in Rome. The popemobile is one such remnant, a reminder that I will die, not that I am alive."

With that he leaves you in the silence of the Basilica, to ponder the echoes of his departing footsteps as he returns to his chambers to get ready for the day.

----

The next time Francis is scheduled to go in the popemobile, you beat him there by five minutes, managing to look calm and composed by the time he arrives.

He says nothing, though you can feel his smile gracing the top of your skull. With deep casualness, he informs the driver that there will be another riding with him today.

Thank you for the kind words.

It can be hard to run this blog sometimes.

You find Pope Francis nesting in the belfry, surrounded by wooden debris. He has been missing for a few days, and the entire Catholic world is in shambles. Pope-catchers roam the streets with comically large nets, searching and crying out his name in vain. You wondered why he would do this to his beloved Catholic people, but now, after stumbling upon him, you understand.

“Jorge! Congratulations!” you exclaim, immediately falling to your knees beside him and pressing your hand flat against his distended belly. He hisses at first by instinct, but quickly adjusts to your presence. You let him sniff your hand. “You must be so blessed!”

“Indeed I am blessed, my child,” he says, but his eyes are sad.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Aren’t you honored to be blessed with the Lord’s child? It must be another incarnation of the Savior, and you will go down in history as the Virgin Jorge, like Mary before you.”

“That is true, but, like Mary before me, I must be destined to lose this child to an unbearably cruel death,” he says. “The Lord demands a crucifixion, or some other awful end, for this innocent child…” He studies you, and his eyes gleam. “Unless…”

“Unless what, Father?”

“You are an innocent child yourself, aren’t you, Y/N?” he asks.

“Indeed,” you say. “I am a Tumblr user, and therefore have taken a solemn vow of chastity.”

His mouth splits in a tiny grin - it’s gone in a moment, but you catch a flash of his teeth. “Then perhaps one can be substituted for another.”

Before you can react, he springs toward you, his gnarled hands outstretched. With preternatural strength, he pins you to the floor by the neck with his left hand and reaches out with his right toward the pile of fallen wood beams in which he made his nest. He assembles something out of the wood as you splutter and writhe in his grasp. In only a few seconds, he has finished a life-sized wooden cross. You realize what’s happening and struggle, but your strength is gone, and your lungs lack the air to scream. Frantically, he nails your hands to the handmade cross. With your free leg, you manage to kick the bell, and a flock of crows scatter from the window. It is a meaningless gesture; he captures your last free limb and finishes his gruesome work.