The Missionary Position

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Malone

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Sister Imelda looked up from her bible, the phone jammed between her double chin and her fat shoulder.

"The Bishop will see you now!"

Inside his office there was an overwhelming stench of Old Spice and something like decay. He read his sheet of notes, over and over, until it seemed as if he was in a trance, his head nodding but no reaction on his face. I felt that growing pain in my gut; a mixture of stress and gas. I was stiffling a fart, and the Bishop looked like he was nodding off. I was preparing to squeak it out when he snapped awake.

"Father Malone, please explain the swimming pool incident."

"Well, your Grace, the community project I had become involved in was designed to ensure that children of all backgrounds were able to enjoy the benefits of swimming. As a swimming instructor - a Flippermate as we were known -I dived in and as I surfaced young Josie's costume became entangled. She was trying to straighten it out, and as I surfaced my hand ... well ... my finger..."

"And the shower incident?"

"Ah yes, very different, your Grace. The showers are open to all users at the leisure centre, and young Josie saw a spider and screamed, and I - as a reaction - ran straight in. Such was my concern about her safety that my towel may have fallen, and my private parts..."

"And the sweet shop incident?"

"Well, I had bought a dozen sticks of rock for the orphans, and whatever young Josie felt pressed against her buttocks was not an erection, trust me on that your Grace. I can see a number of coincidences that might make you think..."

His raised hand told me that enough had been said. I fell silent. Maybe I should have protested further, but I didn't. Instead, I allowed him to spend a few moments with his eyes closed, thinking over how he would get rid of the problem; the problem that he saw as me. Then he spoke.

"Father Malone. The church is under pressure - great pressure - to be seen as working in the best interests of the children, all of them, even the poor ones. Whilst I don't see your situation as any different as many others that the clergy encounter, I do feel compelled to act on this occasion. We have, after all, just dealt with a number of high profile molestation cases, and with the Queen's Jubilee and the Olympic marketing opportunities, the Church can't be seen to be still molesting kids. I am sorry, but we have to hand you over to the authorities and insist on a full and aggressive prosecution."

"Hang on here, I might have been unlucky in certain situations, but I haven't actually..."

The Bishop slammed his fist on the table.

"Father Malone, shut up. Either you take the role of the scapegoat, or..."

"Or?"

"There is a missionary project that is somewhat unattractive to many of our Fathers!"

I didn't ask.

I didn't think.

I took the position!

Then I farted.
 
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Humorous and very well written - I like it. Keep it up.
 
lol :) good stuff mate, funny **** :) nice take on a story! nicely written, kept my attention, just one thing, maybe change the text to something other than the default, it just looks boring as we see it every day on nearly every post if you know what I mean? :)

Bookmarked!
 
I was packing my things in my battered suitcase when he entered my room, sitting on the bed without even asking. I wasn't going to miss him at all.

"So, Father Malone, I hear you're off to the back of beyond?"

"I am, Father Kelly. A change, as they say, is as good as a rest!"

He smirked. He obviously knew why I was off to the mission that no one wanted. For one second I felt very unchristian, and fought back the urge to land one on him. After all, what could they do to me next? Hadn't I already been given the job from the very bottom of the barrel?

He started talking.

"You know, Father Malone, I was instrumental in setting the project up. Of course, I was based here in Dorset. I never travelled out there!"

He almost spat out the word "there" with utter contempt. I balled my hand into a fist, and this time it took a few seconds to relax. As I did, I feigned interest in the start of the mission.

"Well, the town - I call it a town - has no industry and little infrastructure. It's remote, run down, decaying and ignorant. Crime is high - violence, drugs, prostitution, vandalism - and that's just the children. The Government has tried to forget it all. I think they hoped the people would either move away or die. The gangs took over, and lawlessness was the order of the day. Then the leader of the main gang was shot in the head. However, he survived, and that was his Road to Damascus moment.

"He found God, and decided to turn his back on crime. He worked to try and influence the others in the town to turn to Christianity, so they shot him again, this time in the chest. He survived, and this made his faith deeper, so deep that he decided that he would also start a community project to turn the fortunes of the town around. He sank all of his ill gotten gains from his past life of crime into the local football club. He combined Christianity with football in the hope of salvation for the local population.

"The locals didn't like his puritanical approach, so they hanged him. As things happen in this world, he survived, and that's when he got in touch with the Vatican, who for some reason passsed him on to Westminister, who passed him on to Bristol, who passed him on to us. We had no one to pass him on to, so I got him, and now it seems I am passing him on to you."

I shuddered. There was one part of the story that had sent a shock wave through me.

"Did you say football?"

Father Kelly nodded, and I swore, aggresively and loudly.

"I might as well convert to Islam! I can't abide football. It's a pointless, dull, idiotic game played by the demented and watched by the deranged. I might go along with the mission's work, but I'm certainly not doing anything with the football side of things."

Father Kelly laughed, a short but spiteful laugh, before he sneered, "You'll be doing the football alright, or you'll be on your way to your own funeral! Our man ... I mean your man ... won't take no for an answer. There was one Brother that went out there from the Seminary. He had a bad hip, a birth defect, and couldn't play. It didn't endear him to the mission! A week after he arrived they found him crawling along the road, outside of town. He'd been beaten, buggered and had all his teeth pulled out. There was a badly crafted tattoo of a ***** on his forehead; the kind of drawing a child does on the toilet wall. He's never spoken since the day they found him. He's in an institution now. He spends all day rocking and humming, and making little model animals out of his own excrement. Oh trust me, Father Malone, you'll be doing the football thing!"

I had finished packing, so I turned and stood in front of Father Kelly.

"You know, Father Kelly, for a moment there I was going to punch your stupid face in!"

He stopped smiling.

"However, I have decided that would be wrong. Instead, I'd like to give you something."

He still looked slightly uneasy, and as my forehead crashed into his nose, sending him reeling backwards in an explosion of snot and blood, he had good reason to be uneasy.

I picked up my bag and headed out the door.

I'd probably burned my bridges!
 
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Haha absolutely brilliant mate, completely fresh, funny and original well done my friend, bookmarked and looking forward to future updates
 
The train journey to London was uneventful; well, as uneventful as any journey once people see the dog collar! One elderly lady asked me to pray for her cousin, who was due to go under the knife for an in-growing toe nail. I nodded and smiled; what do these people want, miracle cures in exchange for me having a chat with God on their behalf. Then an old man asked me if I was okay, and did I know where I was going? I wanted to point out to him that I was priest, not a ******, but I just smiled and thanked him. Then a young girl with a short skirt and long face dotted with metal studs flopped opposite me and asked if the church would ever open its ears to philosophical debate. There was no one else around so I flicked her the finger and went back to my book. Mind you, I would have given her one, just to take that sullen look off her chops!

Once in Heathrow I was stopped three times and asked where the chapel was. With the first two people I just shrugged and smiled, but the last was so put out by me not knowing that I calmly but sarcastically explained that the Baby Jesus hadn't given me the map of every place of worship on the face of the planet, and that maybe if hey opened their eyes more than their mouth they might find the place themselves, and might also not be so ****** fat. Then I turned and headed towards check-in, vowing to lose the dog collar as soon as possible.

The girl at the desk changed her face from an impatient frown to a beaming smile when I approached. Maybe the dog collar was good for something, and it was: she upgraded me to Business Class, thanked me for choosing Aeroflot, and directed me to the Club Lounge. I only had 90 minutes before boarding, but in that time I wolfed down three bacon sandwiches, six pints of Stella, three large gin and tonics and half a bottle of red. Things were looking up.

On the flight I sipped champagne and flicked through the Russian phrasebook. I had a rough grasp of the language having spent some time as a chaplain at the UN headquarters, and had always had an interest in all things linguistic. I figured I'd pick it up again once in country, but looking though the book reminded me just how much I had forgotten!

As the in-flight map showed the plane creeping ever closer to Moscow, I started to wonder what might happen once I arrived. I had instructions to make my way to the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception of the Holy Virgin Mary, and I had a letter of introduction for the Apostolic Administrator, who would arrange onward travel. Onward to where I didn't know.

The stewardess approached and told me that we would be landing soon, and asked if there was anything I wanted. I ordered another champagne and a large gin and tonic. As she served them I took the opportunity to have a look down her top. She had a marvellous set of lungs on her, globular and smooth like porcelain, and as I sipped my drink I thought about her taking a shower, gently soaping them up until they were well lathered, and letting the hot water run down so the suds dripped off her nipples until...

The bump of the plane landing jarred me from my daydreaming. I tried to think of other things to force my erection to subside, and it took a deep consideration of the wounds of Saint Sebastian to make that happen! Once off the plane I was waltzed through immigration - another benefit of the dog collar - and was soon on my way to the Catherdral in a less than road-worthy taxi.

The Administrator looked less than thrilled to see me, and he read the letter in silence, before calling over an old man and young lady. They talked quietly, occasionally shooting looks at me, looks which made me feel very vulnerable. Surely the letter didn't explain why I'd been sent to the mission. If it did, I was ready to bet that my side of the story hadn't been conveyed. I did think about going over and trying to explain that I didn't finger the girl, nor expose myself to her, nor rub my erection up against her buttocks. Somehow I felt that the mystery of coincidence would be lost in translation. Instead I sat, nervously, awaiting their disapproval to build to a point that they would just wish me gone from their sight.

Eventually the young lady walked over and introduced herself. Her name was Svetlana, and she - along with her aging father - would be escorting me to the mission. She explained that we would go to a hotel shortly, where I could rest, and then we would take the train.

"Svetlana, how long is the journey?"

She smiled sweetly. "Seven days!"

"Seven days? What will we do for seven days on a train?"

She giggled, her eyes sparkling brightly. "We will pray!"

Then she walked away, her buttocks swaying with a sexual grace I hadn't seen in many years. Pray? I'd be doing something, but it didn't involve getting on my knees!
 
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The first day on the train was an eye-opener. When Svetlana suggested that we pray for seven days, she wasn't joking. We did stop after four hours for lunch. It was a fetid lukewarm radish stew with what I could only guess was donkey skin. It wasn't good, so I headed for the train toilet. Given that the journey was only four hours old, the toilet looked like an explosion is a sewerage works. The toilet itself was an oil drum which someone had cut the top off! It was jagged and rusty, as if they'd done the job with a knackered chainsaw. It had dried blood on it. I headed back to the cabin - essentially a gap in the corridor with three bunks - and vowed to not eat again for the journey. If I gobbled down Imodium and avoided food, I reckon I could hold my bowels until we arrived at the mission.

After lunch Svetlana's father made a big deal of presenting me with a red and blue football shirt. He explained it was the shirt of Khabarovsk, the club that was at the centre of the mission. I smiled and stuffed it into my coat pocket. We prayed for another four hours, before I declined to eat dinner. It looked like rat pasta with some of the radish stew poured over the top!

Sleep was slow to arrive and interrupted almost every 15 minutes by some halfwit staggering by.

The second day was worse than the first. I felt ill, hollow and trembling, and after an hour of prayer I excused myself and said I wanted to pray alone - quiet introspection - and headed off through the train. I sat alone on a wooden seat looking out of the window. An old toothless crone offered me some of her bread. It was stale, but seemed clean so I ate a crust.

I slept on the seat for a while, and then headed back. After a few more hours of prayer Svetlana and her father slept. I bought a bottle of warm water off a young boy and drank it down. It tasted vile, like pond water. I decided to urinate, and when I reached the toilet there was a slick of excretion across the floor of the train corridor. I opened the door, and the stench was so strong it made my eyes water. I stood outside and directed the jet of urine into the haze.

On the third day, I was in a terrible state. My head was pounding, my guts were burning, my skin oozed a sheen of sweat and my eyes twitched. I actually stayed on my bunk and prayed the whole day. It was easier than moving. As evening fell, Svetlana and her father slept. She turned, and her cotton sheet flopped away to reveal her *******, shuddering with every bump of the train inside her stained bra. I was transfixed, and in the gloom I found my hand going at my ***** as if there was no tomorrow. As I approached my peak I realised that I needed something to contain my discharge. The football shirt was the closest thing to hand.

On the fourth day I was awoken with a feeling of urgency. Something was leaking from my ****. The Imodium had failed, and I was about to explode. I jumped from the bunk, grabbed my coat and pulling it on over my underwear I headed for the Somme-like conditions that were the toilet. As I moved I prayed that someone had cleaned it up. They hadn't.

The aftermath was disgusting. I looked like a farmer had sprayed me with slurry. It was everywhere, on my legs, my feet, my hands, even in my hair. How had this happened? How can the human body create so much noxious waste. Naturally, there was no paper. I toyed with the idea of using my coat, until I remembered the shirt. I had stuffed it into my pocket the night before, trying to remember to rinse it before I had to wear it. It was the only choice. After I'd cleaned myself off I stuffed it back into my coat pocket. It needed burning, but I knew if I left it in the toilet someone would find it, and somehow Svetlana and her father would find out.

On the fifth day, I wept. Yes, I wept, all day. My companions kept asking what was wrong, but I didn't answer. I just wept.

On the sixth day I lay on my bunk, awaiting death. Surely no human could withstand this journey. Each time I closed my eyes, I was surprised that they opened again. Wasn't I dead yet?

On the seventh day the train pulled into Khabarovsk. I was weak, frail, twitching, smelly, dirty and in pain. My ringpiece was like a blood orange. My mouth was filled with ulcers. I was a husk. On the platform a man with a trumpet started playing 'Stranger on the Shore', and a gaggle of young girls in Khabarovsk kit waved a banner reading "Welcome to Farter Malone". I thought it was apt! A line of men in suits stood behind the girls. They didn't seem too friendly. Off to one side was a bunch of men who certainly weren't friendly. They glared at me for every single second as I staggered along behind Svetlana and her father.

The trumpeter stopped playing. I was facing the men in suits. One stepped forward. The whole train station hushed. Before he could speak, Svetlana called out in an excited voice: "Father Malone, let them see how much you care. Quickly: put on your shirt!"
 
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My room at the mission was like a cupboard; a really small cupboard. It was dark, gloomy, damp and it smelled of boiled radishes. That said, everything in the town seemed to smell of boiled radishes. The bed was a couple of planks covered with a stained sheet. The floor was both sticky and crunchy. The stickiness was seemingly caused by some substance that coated the bare floorboards. The crunchiness was added by the bodies of dead cockroaches. The live ones seemed talented at avoiding my step.

It was luxury, after the train. The first 24 hours were spent on the hard bed in silence. No one had been too impressed when I had - under great pressure - eventually produced the shirt, smeared with excretion and stiff with my seminal discharge. The men in suits had seemed insulted, the angry men seemed affronted, and the young girls cried. Svetlana had gagged, and her father produced a knife from his jacket. Luckily, I passed out on the platform at this point, and still have no recollection of my journey to the mission.

Eventually I was summoned to meet the man himself. I had expected some reformed gangster, aggressive and flash, but with a new vision base don faith. Instead, I was taken to a dark room, but this was so unlike my room it was untrue. The room was filled with high technology medical devices, obviously keeping whatever it was in the bed alive. A number of nurses in white starched uniforms bustled around, efficient and organised and doing what was needed.

Eventually I was asked to step forward, and I was joined by a man in a very slick dark suit who appeared as if from nowhere. His hair was jet black and greased back over his head. Even in the darkness he wore sunglasses. He spoke gently, calmly, and said, "Papa, this is Father Malone, who has come to us from England."

I smiled and nodded, but I wasn't sure if the man in the bed could see me. Then he raised his hand, a finger trembling as it pointed to me, and a weak voice gasped, "Is this the team's new manager?"

I panicked. What did he mean? Manager? Someone was having me on, surely?

"Manager my bollocks! You can stick that mate!" I blurted. The grip of the suit next to me was powerful, genuinely vice-like, as he steered me from the room. As we emerged into the street the sunlight hit my eyes. I was dazzled, and as his fist connected with my kidneys I toppled forwards. I didn't care. He could kill as far as I was concerned. Fate had brought me here, but death seemed a good way out at that very second. I waited for the next punch, the kick, the gun shot, but they didn't come. I lay still until it seemed like an age had passed, and when I slowly rose, I was alone.

I walked into the stadium. The gate was hanging off its hinges. The pitch was a mud bath and someone had been going around it on a horse, judging by the hoof marks. The stands were on the verge of collapse, a mix of rusted metal and rotting wood. I found a seat that seemed like it would bear my weight, and sat down. My head was numb. I struggled to think. I sat there for hours, not thinking, not moving, as the sun set.

I must have been dozing, because I was suddenly aware that someone was standing next to me. I looked up, awaiting the inevitable, but I saw a man who looked as inwardly broken as I felt. That said, his clothes were clean, his hair combed, his face shaved. His eyes, however, were filled with pain.

He held out his hand, and I shook it. As I did he said, "Boris Krasko".

I told him my name.

Then he said, "Manager."

I recoiled. "Look, you can what you want to me, you can shoot me, stab me, hang me up by the balls, but no, I'm not the ******* manager, okay?"

He smiled, and said, "I know this, because I ... as you say ... am the ******* manager!"

He explained that today was his first day. He'd been brought to the town last night, he'd spent the day reading reports about the players, and he'd been to see the old man on life support. He told me the whole story without showing any positive emotion. I asked him if he was happy with his new job. He shrugged.

"I owed people some money; bad people, and a lot of money. I had two choices. One was to come here. The other..."

It was obvious what he meant.

He reached in his pocket and produced a pipe, which he slowly and thoughtfully lit. Then he turned and said, "I will tell you something. I have worked in football? Yes. I am a manager? No. I understand that this is your first day too, at the mission attached to the club. Maybe ... we can work together?"

I explaind that I knew nothing about football, and hated the game with a passion. He just smiled.

"But Father Malone, if we work together, we have God on our side!"

I shrugged, and said, "Boris, let me tell you something. I don't believe in God, not any more."

He puffed on his pipe, and for the first time looked happy as he said, "Then we ... both of us ... are screwed!"
 
just read the first update, God, I laughed out loud about 5 times, luckily I have my own office so no one heard me or saw me, not that it would matter anyway! but its brilliantly written and witty, funny, everything, dont have time to read the 2nd update!

Will on Monday! keep it up mate! this is brilliant!
 
I awoke early the next morning, and after a quick wash in an old enamel saucepan of cold water, I took a walk around the mission. The sky was heavy like a dull bruise, and the dampness was evident in the chilly morning air. The place felt as if an illness had settled on it. No one was around. As I walked a scabby dog emerged from a pile of rubbish and followed me from a distance, as if he was puzzled by my presence.

I walked past the stadium and turned a corner - well, it was nearly a corner, formed by a pile of sacks that housed something that was both rotting and very pungent, and saw what I presumed was a derelict building. It looked abandoned, but a yellowish light spilled out from the doorway. I headed over, and found myself walking into a soup-kitchen.

The homeless, the unfortunate, the unwanted and unloved sat around grubby tables, heads bowed over bowls of a yellowish oil slick that stank of fetid turds. Behind a counter, an old woman with an ulcerated face winked at me and held up a bowl as an invitation. I smiled but shook my head. I'd rather starve!

Maybe, just maybe, I was wrong. I'd had this whole mission down as the misguided work of a career criminal who, upon facing death, had decided to play the odds and try to repent, albeit by building up his ego and financial portfolio by purchasing a football team to offer something to the community. Now I was humbled by the fact that he was obviously delivering something much needed to these lost and damned souls.

I looked around the room. In the far corner, an aging man with an eye patch took alternate sips from the soup and a bottle of something that was clearly an illegally distilled bottle of spirit. I wondered which would kill him first. Next to him a man with oozing sores and a dripping nose tried to spoon soup into his toothless mouth without removing the cigarette that hung from his lips. Opposite this pair a youngish man with a twitch ate regardless of the fact that he was urinating in his trousers as he sat there.

I looked around through the smoke and steam and swarms of flies, and each person seemed worse than the one I viewed before. It was like a soup kitchen for those in the seventh circle of ****. Okay, our benefactor was doing something for these people, but was it enough? Couldn't more be done? They needed food, yes. But they needed healthcare, they needed to be taught self respect, they needed dignity. I had, admittedly, fallen out of love with God during this who sorry debacle, but this sight made me realise that whilst I had lost my faith, I hadn't lost my compassion. These people were crying out for salvation!

I snapped back to reality as a scuffle broke out on the far side of the room. One man punched another to the floor, and then with a foot on his head to hold him down, he prised a crust of mouldy bread from his victim's wart-covered hand. As he ate his prize, the other man wrestled himself free and sank what few black teeth his jaw still possessed into his attacker's ankle. The woman behind the counter emitted a blood curdling shriek, and suddenly all **** broke loose!

Bowls flew across the room, furniture was used as missiles, and the air was filled with a mist of spit, blood and other bodily fluids. I tried to edge towards the door, but someone was using it to slam repeatedly on the head of another. I would have prayed, had I any faith, but instead I just stood, open-mouthed, and waited for the inevitable point when someone turned on me. I closed my eyes, and then nearly wet myself when a very loud blast on a whistle sounded right beside my ear. I opened my eyes, and the room had fallen still and silent. Beside me stood Boris, the whistle still at his lips.

Then he turned to me, winked, and said: "I see you've met the team!"

Before I could speak, he handed me a slip of paper. On it was scrawled, in a child-like way, the following message: "Mr Ivanov requests your presence ... immediately!"
 
I love this story mate, is there going to be an update soon?
 
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