Chapter Text
The bishop liked to eat plain cereal in the morning, he only took a splash of milk in his tea (to lower the acidity level a bit), and he always woke up between 630 and 7 everyday.
Today he woke up at 6:34. He woke up alone, in a bed made for company. Sitting up and putting his feet onto the cold floor as he stretched, his shoulders cracked and his calves cramped up a bit. He needed to drink more water, but wine was much more enticing. His vision blurry as he tried to rub the sleep from them, burying his face in his palms and pressing them into his eyes. Light popped behind his eyelids but he felt the tension in his neck relax a little. He stood as he opened his eyes, a mistake he realized as he was hit by a brief wave of dizziness. Groaning his bare feet slapped on the tiles of his room as he walked over to his on-suite. He dreamt often, usually the same mundane things over and over, messages from the One Below came through every now and then, usually visions of horror he had long grown used to. As was expected of a man in his position. Low as he may be in the hierarchy of things, he knew his devotion was never lacking, his faith was all he had ever known.
Having his own bathroom was a luxury he didn't take for granted. Only he, the old cardinal, the deacon, and the mother superior of the monastery where he had lived and served for the past 6 years had their own space. All of the laypeople of the church shared co-ed dormitory space, everyone in twin sized bunk beds and all sharing a large bathroom space, the basement had a small infestation of ghouls that prowled the grounds like feral cats. The bishop stood in front of the small sink and mirror-cabinet that was just big enough to hold his straight razor, tin of shaving cream, and a few other toiletries. He had to be careful not to hit his knees on the old claw foot tub as he sat on the toilet, still fighting sleep as he ran a comb through his hair followed by some pomade to keep his locks out of his face. He needed to trim his hair, but it was always a daunting task cutting his own hair so he let it grow out longer than he would normally like it. But it was starting to curl around his neck and under his ears. He had a bad habit of fidgeting with it when it got long, even yanking out individual strands if he got anxious.
He stared at the stone wall across from him, on the far side of the tub. There was a brass grucifix hanging there, that had been there before he had moved into the room. On either side were two very ugly wall sconces that held so much dust he was scared to touch them, worried they may disintegrate at the slighted brush of his hand. He grumbled, feeling his stomach twist. He looked down as his cock sat hard against his thigh under the frail material of his briefs. He stared at it as if it offended him, and maybe it did. It mocked him. His libido only reminding him of his loneliness. He didn’t give into his body's screams for pleasure, denying it the momentary endorphin rush to spite himself. He pulled out his normal suit and then put it back, grabbing some worn jeans and a band shirt, something comfortable, he had chores to do today. He didn't even spare a glance at his formal wear, he had only worn the red trimmed cassock once since he had gotten it at this assignment. The congregation of the area was just too small to justify any kind of flamboyance. He didn't know if he longed for a moment in the spotlight or not, it was hard for him to wish for things. His entire life seemingly out of his control.
He slipped on his worn black derbys, there was a hole in the rubber sole, right under his big toe. He needed to find replacements but it would be a while before he would have a chance to make the trip onto the town. The monastery's only car, a small rectangular bus made by Mercedes and quickly forgotten, was undergoing repairs. Which was fine except the Bishop was the one who was currently trying to to the repairs and find the issue with the old engine. Everyone else seemed totally fine cutting off their life line to civilization. The Bishop ignored his heart's pull towards the small town. One night in the small bar, maybe sitting in the movie theater, he’d even jump at a chance to walk through a grocery store, a gas station. Anything. Not that the monastery wasn’t beautiful, it was well cared for and the gardens were more than capable of feeding the entire clergy and laypeople, with a supply of chickens and cows for everything else.
The Bishop was just bored. It happened like this. Circles of emotions that all lead into the other. He would grow bored and lonely, usually set off by a comment or a thought, and then after a few days of moping he would accept his reality and find peace with it. Usually he would sit in the gardens or have a good meal and would convince himself that he was happy, that he was lucky and shouldn’t complain. However this episode had lasted for a while, set off by news through a church memo of a bishop far away being chosen to answer the call to the capitol monastery. The one in Los Angeles. The one where Papa himself lived in opulence, where service happened regularly and with full regalia, where people en mass joined in for service and praised the One Below with the passion he deserved. Not like how their lackluster prayer group hardly went through the motions. The Bishop was lucky if they sang a song. He wanted more. He wanted so much more. He knew he could be more.
And that was the next step for him in this little forever spiral he was on. Anger. He wanted more; he deserved a chance to be worthy of more. Every night he lit his incense and candles and begged and pleaded, he promised. He wanted more. A chance in the sun, to feel the light of Lucifer's blessings on his face. Just once.
The Bishop walked out into the hall, dressed and stressed and ready for the day. He walked to the cafeteria for his usual bowl of plain off brand specialK, though sometimes he did get the one with dried strawberries, on his more wild of shopping trips. Like every day before he got his bowl out of the cabinet in the empty kitchen. The cook didn't bother with breakfast. No one had approved the dismissal of responsibility, the cook had just decided one day that they didn't want to and that had been that. But they did get dinner served once a day, and sometimes lunch. Small blessings.
The Bishop reached up on his personal shelf, the one above the microwave, that held his cereal, a bottle of wine, some whiskey, a box of old granola, and a large jar of nutella. He would have it on toast as a treat on bad days, though once he had eaten it straight from the jar with a spoon. He longed to do it again, but didn’t want to waste the precious treat. He grabbed the cardboard box and tipped it on its side, only dust falling into his bowl. He stared at it. Incomprehensible rage stewing behind his eyes.
He ate the same amount every day. He would always buy more at the store so he always had an extra box. But with the bus on blocks in the garage he hadn’t had the chance. He put down the box on the counter, taking a deep breath, then disposed of the empty box and washed the bowl of its crumbs. He stared at the empty kitchen. His eyes lingering on the hazelnut spread. Today was turning into one of the bad mornings. And there was no reason not to, he was a bishop of the Church of Satan, he could live the wild life if he wanted to! There was no discouragement against opulence and desire. He didn't always have to save it for special days. He looked around for a slice of bread, finding the only half loaf partially eaten by rats. He frowned, taking the loaf off the shelf and finding it also molding. He dropped it in the trash alongside the empty cereal box. He closed his personal cupboard. He took a deep breath and muttered a prayer in Italian to himself, making the sign on the inverted cross down his chest and over his abdomen, his fingers making sure to slide all the way down to his groin to make sure there was no confusion.
Today was not a day to eat nutella with a spoon, he decided. He would save that for a day of celebration, perhaps on winter solstice. He walked into the dining space, which was also the chapel. They would push the tables to the walls and bring out the benches, it worked, even if the air always smelled like burned popcorn (probably because the ghouls kept pissing under the windows outside). Behind the head table was probably the only nice thing in the manestary. A statue of the Morningstar, a snake wrapped around his arm and a flaming sword in the other. He reached out to the viewer, offering an apple in his hand. The stone fruit glistened, the marble smoother than anywhere else from people touching it. The congregation believed that when Lucifer chose you and you touched the apple it would become real. Taking a bite would grant all of your wishes.
The Bishop was no exception. He touched the stone apple, it remained a chalky mineral, varnished by the oils of a thousand hands. He closed his eyes and gave his morning prayer and thanks. Lucifer hear him please, he begged. His two dark green eyes locked with the stone ones, carved white iris’s that looked on kindly, a sadness in his smile on pouty lips. Their lord truly was beautiful. The Bishop bowed his head and stepped away from the statue.
“Good morning, Bishop.” The elderly mother superior shuffled into the dining area. She carried a mug of fruit tea with her. “Seven blessings upon you.”
“And upon you, sister.” the Bishop nodded. The woman would start talking, and probably not stop. He had the feeling that she had interest in him, at least a little. She pinched his butt much too often for it to be casual. But she would talk much too much about her birds. She kept a small aviary of finches in the garden. The small creatures honked and chattered all day. The Bishop didn’t mind the little creatures, but he had no interest in hearing about them all day from a woman who grew a better beard than he. The Bishop nodded to Mother Superior and fled the dining area swiftly. He retreated to the garage. It was still cool this early in the morning in the uninsulated space, dust in the air visibly floating around and the spider webs freshly spun across his path.
He circled the vehicle like a lion, he had been tearing out its guts for days without success. He had rebuilt and replaced enough in the bus that he doubted it was the same machine the church had been donated four years ago. Perhaps the frame and body were the one original parts left, but who was to know.
“There is a letter for you, Bishop!” The mother superiors called. That was her job at the monastery. It was the only thing she could really do. She got the mail and made sure each person got their letters. But she wouldn't send anything out. That was out of the question.
The bishop pretended he didn't hear her for a few moments, before slowly turning to the garage door. “Sister, I am going to be busy for a while, would you put it under my door for me?”
“No.” She put the letter down on the tool desk, and with an angry face she flipped on her heel and walked away, she was bitter he had very obviously avoided her company. He was in trouble. The Bishop rolled his eyes and turned to face the bus once again. He kicked over the roller and slid himself under the car, the steel creaking for a few moments as it settled around him. The bishop allowed himself a second to fantasize about just dying under the car, a quick painless death and then eternity by Lucifers harth. But then oil started to drip onto his face from the open tank and reality settled its claws back into him. The Bishop worked a while longer on the bus, not finding anything on the underside that gave him any clue. However he did find a surprising amount of peanut butter sandwiches hidden by the brake pads. Someone had used a marker to draw a symbol on them he recognized as a demon's name, but he didn’t know its pronounciation. He left them in a pile on the bumper. He didn’t want to wake up with an angry ghoul crawling along his ceiling looking for his hidden prize. Not again.
When the bishop's knuckles started bleeding he gave up. The bus was dead. And no amount of necromancy was going to bring it back. It had been the first thing he had tried. He rolled out and stretched his back. He used a dirty rag to try and get the grease off his hands as he stood, his back aching from laying flat for so long. He cursed, now unsure what he was going to do about transportation for the congregation. He wanted to do more for them, to do right by them but… his hands were tied and even if the cardinal would agree to spending money there was no way they would have enough. They would need to apply for a grant from the church itself. And that would take forever.
He kicked a toolbox, instantly regretting it. There was a chirping in the rafters above him, the glowing eyes of a ghoul looking for its lunch. The bishop screamed in frustration and stomped out of the garage and back into the chapel proper, slamming the garage door behind him loudly.
Lunch had already been served and cleaned up. He would be starved if he wasn’t so angry. While he looked around outside at the other members, dancing around in the sunlight, enjoying the green garden and fruits from trees; he wanted to scream. He hated it here. He hated it. He cursed the monastery, and his place here and its ancient leaders. He was going to die here, alone and bored. Which was the worst thing. He was a bishop in the house of fucking satan and he was bored out of his mind.
He went back to his room and found solace in the only thing that brought him any kind of joy. He threw on a movie, an old VHS he had in a pile next to a very old television. He had more of a collection than anyone else he knew, but technology didn't mix well with inquisitive ghouls and every nice thing the Bishop had ever been able to get for himself had ended up broken. The little hellish creatures just get to excited about the world's treasures. The Bishop dropped down on his bed and pushed his hair back. “BlueBeard '' from 1944 started playing, the cracked audio and image adding to the age of the film. He didn't mind, old movies made him feel happy. He had some early memories of watching lots of movies, he didn’t know with who… but he thought they may have been family. Not that he would know.
He fell asleep before the opening credits even finished. Sleeping too deeply for a nap, he dreamed manic images of fire and screams, nothing unusual. When he woke up he was sweating, he was confused for a moment about where he was and what time it was. He had woken up just in time for dinner, but what was more interesting was the ghoul sitting on his chest.
“Hello.” This is exactly why he had left the sandwiches on the bumper. This specific event was what he was trying to avoid entirely. And yet he found himself here anyway. He really wasn't in the mood for any kind of violence. It took a lot of energy he just didn't have. And he definitely didn't have the will power to be horny.
The Ghoul chirped again, its normal guttural sounds unintelligible. Ghouls were just vocal creatures. Their thoughts coming out as little whistles and clicks, they weren't very good at lying. Bishop moved under the ghoul, trying to encourage the creature to get off of him but it just stared intensely. Then raised a hand and put a pointed finger on the bishop's chest, the letter from that morning sat on his pectorals.
“Did you… you bring me my letter?” he asked slowly. The Ghoul grinned and nodded, its tail swishing back and forth. Bishop squinted at the hell creature a little, suspicious. He shuffled out from under the ghoul and propped himself up against his headboard. “Thank you Ghoul, you may return to the nest…”
The ghoul didn't move. It gestured to the letter again, its eyes angry under its bird like mask. Bishop noted he hadn't seen that particular mask before, but it wasn't alarming, the ghouls' masks changed often and varied from monastery to abby to ministry. He slowly grasped and lifted the letter from his chest, the Ghouls weight on his pelvis getting a little too familiar. He grunted as the creature shifted around, his owl-like face ticked to the right, as if it was contemplating something. The Bishop slipped his finger in the envelope, slowly ripped the glued edge apart. Unfolding the paper gingerly, he didn't want to make any startling movements in front of the ghoul, the ones at his monastery were just barely under the control of the old cardinal, he'd had his fair share of encounters.
He quietly read the letter that was apparently so important. His eyes having to back track several times as he tried to absorb the words faster and faster, but he didn't want to miss a single bit of information. The Bishop dropped the letter between him and the ghoul, whose eyes blinked one at a time in a slow sequence. The Bishop picked up the letter again, leaning forward so the ghoul was almost resting its head on his shoulder. He ran his fingers through his messy hair a few times, twirling the ends behind his ear. He read the letter again and again before standing, completely disregarding the ghoul and sending the creature tumbling to the ground.
“Yes!” He screamed, jumping on the bed and shaking is hands in the air before throwing himself to the ground before his altar to Lucifer and his devils. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” He grabbed the ghouls face and before it could even growl he kissed it straight on the mouth. He spat on the ground after doing so. “Holy fuck…!”
The ghoul let itself be thrown around like a doll, thinking it was a game, feeding off the Bishops joy. “You beautiful creature! Look at you!” The bishop was shaking the ghouls face, its entire body following like a limp rope. “I have… I have to…”
He dropped the ghoul like a stone to the tiled floor, looking around his room. Six years of memories had added up to nothing. He had nothing he cared for in this room he hadn't originally brought with him on assignment. He would deal with the contents of his room later tonight. Looking like a man gone mad he threw himself through the door of his room and down the halls to the cafeteria where the entire churchship would be having dinner.
They didn't notice when he ran through the already open door, a little upset they hadnt been closed so he could have kicked his way through. His mind was on fire with excitement as his eyes dashed around the room, looking for the upper clergy members. The fifty or so laypeople of the church were all sat around in their normal spots, none of them looking up to the oddball bishop, long ago had he given up on wanting to be invited to their tables. He strutted right up to the table of the three people he detested the most.
The old cardinal, blind and dumb, he didn't have the decency to drop dead and make room for literally anyone else. The old man smelled of piss and vinegar and was just as bitter. He didn't care a single bit for the church, before the bishop had shown up the building had been in even worse state of repair than it was currently. He ignored the laypeoples requests and didn't even offer office hours for his congregation. When the bishop had gone into his office to introduce himself the cardinal had said “A bishop, what for? Tell him to leave.” not even realizing who he was speaking to. He disregarded his position, his people, and his duty to his faith.
The deacon was a fraud. There was no demand for worship, each person knew what was asked of them in their hearts, each person's relationship with the One Below was private and sacred, and could never be dictated or commanded. But the Deacon took from the church without giving back. He offered no guidance, no offering, no hope. His faith had left him, but instead of personal acceptance he devoted himself to mocking those who still held the love of the Dark Lord. His love was not unconditional, it was true, everyone knew it, but it was not at a high cost, for the deacon apparently it was too costly. The Bishop did not know if the deacon had lost his faith in response to something and at this point didn’t care. What was unforgivable to him was hearing the tears fall from the younger members of the congregation, putting their trust in who he pretended to be and watching him throw their tears back in their faces, making them seem small.
The bishop was pretty sure the deacon just hated women in general, which was not cool.
He walked up to the mother superior first. “Bishop, you’ve joined us.”
The Bishop stared them all down, his hands behind his back, he rocked forwards and backwards for a moment on his toes as he thought about his next move. Still holding the letter in his curled up fingers he lifted his hands and extended his middle fingers. “Fuck you, im out.”
“Excuse me?” the Deacon dropped his fork on his plate.
The Bishop nodded to him, side stepping infront of him. Doing the same with his hands. “Ah, er… Fuck you too. Especially you, you fucking asshole.” he didnt even step to the side, he just turned on his heel spinning his middle fingers to the cardinal. “And fuck you too, you old bitch. Die soon.”
The entire church was looking at him now, most of them looking pretty amused. The Bishop walked backwards to the podium that stood in front of their beloved statue. He reached down and turned on the mic. He knew this was over the top, that he could have just quietly notified them all of his news and went on his way but he had been repressed. He made a show of straightening out the letter and holding it up. He tapped the mic a few times as it squeaked.
“Hello,” He gave a little wave as he steadied himself before he began to read, skipping over his given name when he read it:
“To the Bishop of the Riverside Monastery
named Bishop Mark-Antony "Copia",
Good spirits to you with this letter, I am writing on behalf of the faithful Mother Superior, Sister Imperator of the Los Angeles Monastery, in service to the One Below, and pledged to duty to Papa Emeritus the Second of Mammons blessings, Commander of Grigori, Anointed by Azazel, Most beloved of Lucifer, chosen of Naamaha, and servant of Lilith, for He Is all things spoken and unspoken, above and below. You have been summoned to serve his dark will at request of the clergy, for The Breaker of Chains speaks through them, we pray you answer the call. Your service as bishop has been well noticed, and rewards are due, but not without praise and promotion.
Seven Blessings upon you,
Sister Eerie (scribe of Sister Imperator)
PS the ghoul will deliver you to us. Please do not delay.”
The Bishop smacked the mic, unable to drop it since it was nailed to the podium. The room was quiet as he walked away, raising his hands in the air, flipping up his middle finger at the entire room as he walked out. “See ya’ later, dickheads! I'm going to Hollywood!”