Genesis
Disclaimer: Black Lagoon and its characters © Rei Hiroe
The rays of the sun struck the church, giving the sanctuary an ethereal glow. The church was built atop what may have been the best land in all of Roanapur: lush green grass and flowers abound, cool shade provided by the many palm trees surrounding the area, and there was a rather nice view of the city as well. The environment was nothing short of perfect.
"Well, nearly perfect," muttered an attractive, buxom blonde woman in a Catholic nun's habit. What a shame the church couldn't have been built by the beach. Then again, that would have been too excessive, too decadent. Not to mention, a beach placement wouldn't appear to be a wise choice once the storm season rolled around.
Yes, the nun thought. Nice as the beach was, this was a much better arrangement.
She strode down the center aisle of the chapel with a light sway of her hips, empty wooden pews passing by in her peripheral vision. The Heavenly Son mounted on the large crucifix above the altar and the many saints depicted in the detailed stained glass windows looked down at the nun as she ran a hand over the cold stone of the ornate collection plate near the entrance of the chapel, admiring it.
"You know we're going to Hell for this, Yolanda," groaned a young man in a priest's robes, covering his face with his hands and shaking his head as he entered the chapel.
"That's Sister Yolanda to you," the nun piqued imperiously with a smile. "And why do you say we're going to Hell? This is a church, isn't it? Can't get any closer to God in this life than that."
"Something tells me your intentions for the this church are the furthest thing from what God intended," the priest said miserly.
"What ever do you mean?" she asked, flipping a lock of blonde hair behind her shoulder and lifting an eyebrow—the one over the left eye. "I built this church to spread the Word of God to these lawless heathens. We'll be providing a fine service to this city."
"I wasn't aware the Word of God came in the form of lead," the priest said, "or semi-automatics."
"Come now, Father Richard, don't sound so bitter. Have a sip of wine to calm your nerves. There's some Margaux on the altar."
The priest cocked his lips to the side and shook his head, saying, "You know, when I first saw you wearing the lingerie and feathered boa on that piano in the club, you never struck me as the religious type. Hell, no one in this city is. I get the idea behind this weapon smuggling operation, but why exactly did you choose to build a church? You never explained that to me."
"It is my calling," Yolanda said somberly. "The day I got out of that apocalyptic battle alive was the day my eyes were opened... Well, one was spared to be opened." She pointed to the black eye patch resting over her right eye.
"The other one is with God now."
"I still don't understand," said Father Richard.
"Father, it is a miracle that I only lost an eye in that gunfight. Something intervened or else I wouldn't be standing here to talk with you."
"Uh huh..." the priest nodded, skeptical. "Forgive me for my brashness, Y—Sister Yolanda, but wouldn't it have been a more impressive miracle had your guardian angel been able to preserve your eye? Or perhaps have Christ come off of that cross and fashion a new one out of clay..."
"I don't remember saying that it was an angel that saved me, Father," Yolanda whispered darkly, her remaining eye suddenly empty. "My right eye was blown to high heaven; I have a view of a paradise that I cannot touch while I remain here on earth... But, so long as I remain, I believe I should do my part to serve the forces that be."
The priest gave the nun with the eye patch an uneasy look and said, "... All right, but that still does not explain why you chose a Catholic church as our front. There are plenty of Evangelical missionaries around here. Why not pose as them? If someone new in town wants to make a name for themselves and they decide they don't like your gunrunning, we'd have easy decoys to work with."
"Bah," Yolanda waved the words off. "It's not in my taste. I prefer Catholicism. It's a much more suitable religion for this city."
"How so, Sister?"
"Do you not know your history, Father? The Crusades alone amassed mountains of corpses and rivers of blood. Violence can be sanctioned if it's done in the name of faith and good will, and it's a very decadent way of life." She spread her arms in a grand display. "Marble, satin, stained glass, wine, relics made of gold. I admire those who came up with the idea of selling indulgences. It was brilliant."
"You seem to be stuck in the Middle Ages, Sister," Richard said, "but I get the explanation. Still, the idea seems so ludicrous. A full fledged church in Roanapur?"
"Even heathens have souls. We must do what we can to save them," Yolanda closed her eye in contemplation, tapping a finger on the collection plate. "We will hold mass like any other church would, and we will function just as any other church would."
"To hold up the front, I see, but in the off chance you are truly concerned about the souls of others, I doubt it would matter," the priest droned. "Those who come to this city have already signed a deal with the devil. Any chance of salvation is lost upon them; they were damned from birth."
"Ah! The Calvinist philosophy. So you are an educated man," Yolanda drawled, opening her eye with an impressed gleam. "But you didn't do your homework. John Calvin was a Protestant. His words mean nothing to me."
The priest rubbed his temple with a hopeless sigh. "Yolanda..."
The gleam in her eye disappeared as she took out an engraved golden gun and pressed the business end to his forehead.
"My patience is wading thin, false priest," she hissed. "You've been complaining ever since I showed you the chapel. Keep in mind that I gave you many opportunities to turn down my offer if you didn't feel comfortable joining me in this endeavor. If now is the time you've chosen to grow a conscience, I will have no qualms about christening my church with your blood."
The priest seemed surprisingly calm for someone with a gun at his head. He lifted his hands up in a surrendering motion.
"... You'll still give me fifty percent of the profit, right?"
"Twenty-five percent and I'll let you keep your kneecaps."
"That sounds fair."
- 0 - 0 - 0 -
An elderly Mother Superior knelt at the steps by the large crucifix and held her hands together, as though she were in prayer. Yolanda chuckled lightly as she reminisced. Oh, poor Father Richard. He was the reason she had decided to ban liquor from the chapel. He had passed away so long ago, drank himself to death to relieve the stresses of running the church with her. If only he could have lived to see just how richly her dream had flourished...
Oh, well, Yolanda thought, shrugging as she unclasped her hands and got back onto her feet. It was his loss.
The old woman gazed at the crucifix and smirked.
More money for her.
THE END
A/N: Shame, Yolanda, for shame. You make Enrico Maxwell look like a saint... Okay, maybe she's not that bad.
Posted on December 25, 2010, because nothing says Christmas quite like sacrilege. I know, I'm a terrible person. I'm gonna go play with my coal now...
Cheers.