In which Captain Mission is reborn in the flesh of the Mother and the Daughter and the Profane Corporeality.
Father Patricia, the Irish Priest who was never seen in public without her stern black dress and high white collar, was intoning gracelessly. We forgave her that, as we forgave her her catholocism, for she was as deviant in her religious practice as she was in her sexual ones. Thankfully, she was not about to give us another sermon on the unity of solidarity amongst the multitude, and of the importance in cleansing our mother’s house of the money-lenders. Too many times she had called upon us to rise up as one, and build a New Jerusalem in these green and pleasant waters, armed with the tools of our oppression.
But what we were looking at, as we stared deep into where her massive cleavage must be, willing the small black pearl buttons to break forth her heaving milky tits, was the subject of today’s sermon. At last, it took a month of Sundays, but today was a sermon on the necessity of brotherly love.
I remember the first time I saw her, she was trying to convert heathen natives to enlightened European sex: anal as contraception. She figured if the Papa’s Church was going to try it on with the actually enlightened and faithful Easterners, then she’d wipe the dust off her feet as she left “Christendom” and found a new communion where those who had ears to hear could be taught of how Mother’s Church learnt to survive under Father’s rule. (As an aside, everytime after we’d fucked, she always reminded me that to submit is to control, and boy did she turn the other cheek to my rope end.) And she was learning by teaching. For one the heathens showed her that oral was much more impressive, but she begged and the ladies were for turning her around and she took the fist up to the wrist in both her holes. The women satisfied, the boys came forward next.
I was never more motivated to confess my sins and beg for their redemption, yay unto seventy fold times seven in seed, than when I saw her anus spasming on an alteredboi’s juicy red cocklette in front of an impressed group of Hindus. I think she made a bunch of converts that day, and they included me amongst them, in adding Yeah-woah to my shrine’s pantheon. Watching teen spunk drip out of her rouge red arsehole was a revelation to me. I’d seen the light, it came dribbling out of where the sun doesn’t shine. After her lecture she took their pamphlets and sutras, particularly the epic Mahabharata, which she said would be excellent reading for a warm night when she had no interest in earthly things like cunt and man-arsehole.
After that astounding day I knew I’d just have to let her ring my bell. But after a full body baptism preceded by a festival of sin, one had to sin again before we could kneel before her in the confessional and then participate fully between the welcoming thighs of Father Church’s masses, embodied in his representative Patricia. Oh we’d sinned truely before our baptism, in all the ways which Jewish scholars of the Indies have informed me require purification by water. Let us just say that those men of us who were about to receive Christ and her Church well and truly received each other first. And not like a man lies with a woman, but like a man lies with a man, full of sweat and the reek of anal mucus and slimy pre-cum. There can be no sin in that, for it is not written against, and the only time my brother’s wife has seized my balls in anger, it wasn’t during a dispute. Though I did later try to cut her hand off, with the tight grip of my inner sanctity.
My problem in sinning again to be born again was that I had just been reborn. I could feel that rope red ring of hempen ligature as I turned half hanged into fully hung, my balls pumping Patricia’s sainted cunt full of seed like my own mancunt was being flooded from behind. I was a boy again, but he shared my mind well, and we became each other as another becumed me and I becumed Patricia. They’d taken their god damned time about getting me back into my head as I adjusted to a conga-line at my suckhole and yet another child hood to integrate and interrogate into my rhyzome memory. At least this time I wasn’t fucking white again. They say we’re all the same colour on the inside, but I prefer strawberries and cream in my lover, not on me.
They fucked right through me and I was born again hard, I was an angel of life, praying unto liberty, and the ship’s crew used me as a condom for our priest. And I vomited up my last hanged man’s supper, but all that came was thick ropes of jizm splattering Patricia’s heaving teats, and was made a new. She slapped my face, and slapped my arse, and they tore the veil from this world from my rear and I cried at the pity of being alive.
“Go forth, young man, and sin some more,” she growled in her rough fucking voice that she saved for heaven fire preaching, “I’ll not wash the sins from your body until you’ve covered that fuck spunk fuck funk with fresh juices, I’ll not wash you in our lamb until you’ve made sin original.” And with that I was kicked arse first back into the struggle, with nothing but a ship full of men and women who’d screwed my life up out of the grave, and the dreams of an Irish woman’s ideological nexus.
