Adam had been waiting for hours now, in a dark upper room of
a Paris flat
block. His rifle resting against his angry chin. He was waiting for the pope.
And he was going to shoot the pope. Right in his head.
He took a last puff of his PCP laced cigarette and opened
the blinds slightly to get a better view of the road below and to let out the
sweltering heat of the French summer night. He could see the flickering of
candles metres below, the people clumped neatly together in rows, it was the start of
an improvised vigil to mark his Excellency’s arrival. Here Adam saw the sunrise
of an entirely different, bleaker ceremony, the beginning of the sacrament of
execution.
At eleven-thirty the Vicar of Christ would travel along the Champs-Elysées
in his pope-mobile, towards the Notre Dame cathedral to hold midnight mass.
There Adam would take aim with his precision fifty calibre rifle and in one
bloody squeeze of the trigger blast off the pope’s head. It was a good plan,
and Adam understood that this simple action of projecting hardened metal
through an old man’s skull could change the world.
Adam would dip his own semen in the bullet that would kill
the pope, and as it soared through the electric sky the potency of the bullet
and that of his own seed would become one, in a cataclysm of destruction. The
flecks of semen being driven into the pope’s brain and mind with the speeding
bullet. Only this deed could reverse the tyranny of the evil pope, his shooting
would be a profane act of intercourse. The penetration of the bullet exposing
his virginity as a fraud and flooding the cavities of his papal mind with
semen.
Adam had time to kill, it was not yet ten, but he knew also that he had the pope to kill and this thought made the minutes flow, as if
the gravity of the deed he was about to perform was dragging him at pace
through the silken minutes.
He felt as if this night was a fiesta, a great feast, as if
god himself was in the sky playing Spanish guitar, over the warm coffee black
night-time atmosphere, the streetlamps whispered words of encouragement, the
heat rising from the concrete road spoke words of love. And he knew that as the
old man approached all these signs would reach a crescendo, and in one
tumultuous squirt he would fire his semen bullet into the pope’s brain and
infect his mind with death and truth. In those last seconds the Vicar of Christ
would know his destiny, know the black uncertain hole he was doomed to be cast
into, taste the semen of his conqueror in the back of his throat. And he too
would see that the aesthetics of the situation were that of a perfect act of
death-love-making.
