This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this post are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Or, synchronistic, up to you dear reader.
THE VATICAN VARIATION
Vice President DJ Vans considered the upcoming papal meeting a regrettable, yet necessary, piece of political theater. The Pope, a man whose very existence seemed to be a walking, talking, highly-accessorized indictment of Vans’s deeply held belief in fiscal responsibility over, well, feeding the hungry, inclusion and diversity…was coming to Washington. A state visit. Handshakes, forced smiles, and the suffocating weight of centuries of dogma. Vans stifled a sigh that threatened to rearrange the carefully sculpted wave of his hair. Efficiency, he reminded himself. Sometimes, you had to prune the dead wood.
The Holy See. A bastion of tradition, a moral compass nobody in Washington actually followed but everyone pretended to respect. And frankly, the Pope’s pronouncements on poverty, climate change, and the perils of unchecked capitalism were starting to become a real nuisance. Especially when they occasionally, and annoyingly, aligned with the few remaining ethical journalists. Something had to be done.
His motive wasn’t personal, not really. It was… systemic. The Pope represented an outdated operating system in the global software. Too many pop-ups about morality, too many firewalls against progress (progress, in Vans’s view, being the unimpeded flow of capital). His Holiness was, quite simply, a bottleneck. And DJ Vans was a man who specialized in unclogging the pipes of international relations, often with extreme prejudice and a bearded grin.
The meeting itself was a blur of gilded rooms, hushed reverence, and the cloying scent of incense. Vans, a picture of deferential statesmanship, listened intently as the Pope spoke of compassion and the plight of the marginalized. Inside, Vans was mentally calculating the potential market value of Vatican City real estate. Prime location, if you could just… streamline the ownership.
The opportunity arose during a private moment, a staged photo-op in a sun-drenched salon. A tray of delicate pastries and small cups of espresso sat between them. Vans, with a fake grace honed by years of navigating awkward constituent interactions, reached for a sugar cube with his tiny hands. His movement was casual, almost imperceptible. Tucked beneath his thumbnail, a tiny, crystalline speck. “Agent Orange.” Not the defoliant, of course. That would be far too… messy. This was a bespoke, entirely untraceable synthetic compound, developed by a shadowy biotech firm that Vans had invested in heavily after a particularly insightful briefing on disruptive pathogens. Slow-acting. Mimicking the effects of natural decline. Deniable.
He dropped the cube into the Pope’s espresso, stirring it with a silver spoon that probably predated the concept of democracy. He offered a warm smile. “Your Holiness, a touch of sweetness for your arduous journey.”
The Pope, with a gentle nod and a serene expression that Vans found vaguely irritating, accepted the cup. He took a slow, deliberate sip. Vans felt a jolt of something akin to triumph, quickly masked by an expression of profound respect. The wheels were in motion. In less than 20 hours, the global operating system would be undergoing a significant, albeit unannounced, update.
Three hours later, the news broke. The Pope, while on a diplomatic visit to the UN, had been taken ill. A sudden collapse. Speculation ran rampant: a stroke, a heart attack, the stress of the job. Within hours, the Vatican confirmed the unthinkable. His Holiness had passed away.
The world plunged into a performative grief. Pundits debated his legacy, cardinals scrambled for succession, and cable news channels ran endless loops of mournful Gregorian chants. In Washington, DJ Vans offered a somber statement, praising the Pope’s dedication to peace and spiritual guidance. He even managed a convincing tear. The efficiency expert had delivered. The bottleneck was removed. Investigations would, of course, follow, but they would probe the usual suspects: the Pope’s health history, the travel schedule, the air quality in New York. Agent Orange left no trace, no metabolic footprint. It was the deadly ghost in the machine.
Vans sat in his plush office, the city lights twinkling below. He felt a sense of profound satisfaction. Not the crude glee of a murderer, but the quiet contentment of a man who had optimized a faulty system. He picked up a secure line, dialing a number known only to a select few.
“It’s done,” Vans said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. “Clean. Undetectable.”
A static-laced voice on the other end replied, distorted and electronic. “Confirmation received, Mr. Vice President. The asset has been… relocated.”
Vans frowned slightly. “Relocated? What are you talking about? The Pope is dead.”
There was a long pause, filled with the crackle of the secure line. Then, the electronic voice offered a chuckle that sent a shiver down Vans’s spine.
“Is he, Mr. Vice President? Are you certain?”
The line went dead. Vans stared at the receiver, the city lights outside suddenly seeming less like a testament to human achievement and more like a thousand tiny, mocking eyes. The air in his office, moments before feeling so clean and efficient, now felt thick with an unsettling uncertainty. Had he pruned the dead wood, or merely encouraged a particularly resilient vine to grow in the shadows? And what, or who, had just been “relocated”? The efficiency expert suddenly felt a cold, unfamiliar prickle of… inefficiency.
The world, slightly less encumbered by inconvenient moralizing, continued to spin. And Vice President DJ Vans, champion of efficiency, was already contemplating his next project. He’d heard the Dalai Lama was planning a North American tour.
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DEEP SCRATCH 