Disclaimer: The Da Vinci Code was by no means authored by me, and thank the Sacred Feminine for that. This is a product of boredom and a loathing of imbecilic cliches and bad writing, and is likely to discontinue unless a lot of people really want to hear more of it.
Robert Langdon got out of the expensively draped four-poster bed of the prominent five-star German hotel and stretched his strong swimmer's arms. His voice was like chocolate.
A knock on the shiny, heavy, chestnut-colored door interrupted his meditations of the last night's press conference where he discussed his most recent book, a detailed work of unparalleled erudition that connects modern day Christmas decorations found "three for one" at Walmart to a sarcophagus excavated in India. He sighed, ran his strong, masculine fingers through his thick, masculine hair, and glanced at his Mickey Mouse watch, his favorite possession from his childhood. Ah, childhood. It had been over for quite some time now, but Robert looked great for a man in his forties. He could still swim four hundred laps a day (and he did, despite the demanding and busy schedule of a worldly expert of religious symbols), beating Harvard's star athletes in myriad friendly water polo matches.
Another knock ensued. Langdon sensed his visitor's impatience. He threw on a terrycloth robe, plucking a gray hair from his toned swimmer's chest, and insouciantly walked over to the massive wooden panel.
"Herr Langdon?" a voice said. Langdon rubbed his piercing sapphire eyes with strong swimmer's fists. The visitor's face swam into his vision, drawn and stubbly. He vaguely looked like a deer.
"There's been a murder, and the German Police Department desperately needs help of a renowned symbologist." Mysteriously, the stranger produced a 17X30 photograph of a naked man repeatedly branded with the image of a phallus.
"Oh my God," Langdon exclaimed, clutching his terrycloth robe, and with it, a clump of graying chest hair.
"Ja. Now come with me, my chief is expecting you."
"I need to put some clothes on."
"Of course," the man bowed politely and Langdon closed the door, quickly putting on his favorite Harris and Tweed, thinking about the horrific crime the photograph depicted. It must have been...but no...that could not be. The society has not been out in the open for fifty-five centuries. Why act now?
"Do you have any suspects?" Langdon asked the German once they were comfortably seated inside the man's black Mercedes.
"Ja," the man said darkly, accelerating. "The ancient society seems to have infiltrated the cast of Jackass."