Read Online Runaway Nun (Misbegotten) by Caesar Voghan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Caesar Voghan
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leaders, kings and queens, musicians
and artists, politicians, and religious zealots—dozens of faces drowned
in anonymity under the ban of the Church, but whose memory was kept alive
inside Sir Gottfrey’s history-buff den. Like a mouse negotiating the twists,
turns, and dead-ends of a maze, the man guided his nongrav armchair around the
cluttered artifacts, sailing gently between Martin Luther King’s outstretched
arms and Billy Idol’s diamond-covered guitar.
“Today is another glorious bloody
Sunday, miladies. And Sunday is a day of rest,” Sir Gottfrey said, words dipped
in Cockney all the way to their neck, as he approached the door of his
executive suite. “No exception, miladies. Ol’ chap Moses had it right for
once—six days thou shalt work, and the seventh day thou shalt have some
bloody fun. Ha-ha!”
Flanking the exit door, four identical Joan of Arcs focused their digitally enhanced
pupils on their master. The four cyborgs sported the same pixie cut and wore elaborate
fraises around their necks. The fluffy ruffs separated their cute, innocent
heads from the rest of their bodies built like those of track athletes. Thin
layers of titanium alloy covered their vital parts, like patches of gladiator
armor. Whatever was left to view—which was plenty—was nothing but
synthetic muscle, chiseled to perfection to serve its martial purpose. The kind
of women you don’t want to bloody fock with—that had been Sir Gottfrey’s
tagline when he’d commissioned them.
“Protocol Cheap Butterfly Broken
Katana activated,” a Joan of Arc said. “Shall we proceed to the party, milord”?
“We shall, miladies, we shall,”
Sir Gottfrey said.
The paneled doors parted and loud
organ music poured in from the corridor that opened to view. Sir Gottfrey glided
through.
“Ah,
Beethoven, that bloody jerk-off! Ta-ta-ta-ta! If only I could get my hands on a
strand of his hair or one of his rotten molars!”
Green fluorescent light seeped
from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow over the man and his entourage of organs
and cyborgs as they all made their way toward the elevator doors at the end of
the corridor.
“The Monkey Who Covers Its Ears is
the Sister of the Monkey Who Covers Its Mouth,” a Joan of Arc said, and her
eyes blinked a few times scanning the corridor ahead. A string of tiny digits
flashed in her irises as laser sensors assessed distances and open lines of
fire.
“Fockin’ bloody monkey,” Gottfrey
said. “So I guess all we have for today are leftovers, am I correct, miladies?”
“The Templars against the Lions,
milord,” a second Joan of Arc replied. “An encore.”
From behind the glass walls on
either side, Sigmund Freud, Winston Churchill, Adolf Hitler, Mahatma Gandhi,
and Muammar Gaddafi kept staring into a void not of their own choosing,
resigned and serene. The prized trophies of a hundred years of genetic
engineering, the five frozen replika specimens—the grandbabies of Dolly
the Sheep—paid no mind or homage to their Maker as he glided by with his
organs in tow. Behind him, his four bodyguards walked in sync, the heels of
their boots marking the seconds on the granite tiles, while the Ninth Symphony
poured from the ceiling in relentless waves.
“Encore my arse! Nothing but
bloody leftovers,” Sir Gottfrey said, and he grimaced.
He grabbed the duct connected to
his heart, pulled his organ in, set it on his lap, and started to drum
nervously with his fingers on its glass box.
“But we do have a show coming,
don’t we, miladies?”
The four bodyguards stopped. The
organs bounced to a halt.
“Oh, yes, we sure do,” Sir Gottfrey said. He grinned, a macabre squint in his eyes.
“One week, miladies—seven days, seven resolutions of old planet Earth
around the fockin’ sun, and we shall have one hell of a bloody show on our
hands, make no mistake about it.”
A bell rang. The doors to the
elevator parted with a torturous squeak.
“Bada Bing, Bada Boom—Calvary,
here I
and artists, politicians, and religious zealots—dozens of faces drowned
in anonymity under the ban of the Church, but whose memory was kept alive
inside Sir Gottfrey’s history-buff den. Like a mouse negotiating the twists,
turns, and dead-ends of a maze, the man guided his nongrav armchair around the
cluttered artifacts, sailing gently between Martin Luther King’s outstretched
arms and Billy Idol’s diamond-covered guitar.
“Today is another glorious bloody
Sunday, miladies. And Sunday is a day of rest,” Sir Gottfrey said, words dipped
in Cockney all the way to their neck, as he approached the door of his
executive suite. “No exception, miladies. Ol’ chap Moses had it right for
once—six days thou shalt work, and the seventh day thou shalt have some
bloody fun. Ha-ha!”
Flanking the exit door, four identical Joan of Arcs focused their digitally enhanced
pupils on their master. The four cyborgs sported the same pixie cut and wore elaborate
fraises around their necks. The fluffy ruffs separated their cute, innocent
heads from the rest of their bodies built like those of track athletes. Thin
layers of titanium alloy covered their vital parts, like patches of gladiator
armor. Whatever was left to view—which was plenty—was nothing but
synthetic muscle, chiseled to perfection to serve its martial purpose. The kind
of women you don’t want to bloody fock with—that had been Sir Gottfrey’s
tagline when he’d commissioned them.
“Protocol Cheap Butterfly Broken
Katana activated,” a Joan of Arc said. “Shall we proceed to the party, milord”?
“We shall, miladies, we shall,”
Sir Gottfrey said.
The paneled doors parted and loud
organ music poured in from the corridor that opened to view. Sir Gottfrey glided
through.
“Ah,
Beethoven, that bloody jerk-off! Ta-ta-ta-ta! If only I could get my hands on a
strand of his hair or one of his rotten molars!”
Green fluorescent light seeped
from the ceiling, casting an eerie glow over the man and his entourage of organs
and cyborgs as they all made their way toward the elevator doors at the end of
the corridor.
“The Monkey Who Covers Its Ears is
the Sister of the Monkey Who Covers Its Mouth,” a Joan of Arc said, and her
eyes blinked a few times scanning the corridor ahead. A string of tiny digits
flashed in her irises as laser sensors assessed distances and open lines of
fire.
“Fockin’ bloody monkey,” Gottfrey
said. “So I guess all we have for today are leftovers, am I correct, miladies?”
“The Templars against the Lions,
milord,” a second Joan of Arc replied. “An encore.”
From behind the glass walls on
either side, Sigmund Freud, Winston Churchill, Adolf Hitler, Mahatma Gandhi,
and Muammar Gaddafi kept staring into a void not of their own choosing,
resigned and serene. The prized trophies of a hundred years of genetic
engineering, the five frozen replika specimens—the grandbabies of Dolly
the Sheep—paid no mind or homage to their Maker as he glided by with his
organs in tow. Behind him, his four bodyguards walked in sync, the heels of
their boots marking the seconds on the granite tiles, while the Ninth Symphony
poured from the ceiling in relentless waves.
“Encore my arse! Nothing but
bloody leftovers,” Sir Gottfrey said, and he grimaced.
He grabbed the duct connected to
his heart, pulled his organ in, set it on his lap, and started to drum
nervously with his fingers on its glass box.
“But we do have a show coming,
don’t we, miladies?”
The four bodyguards stopped. The
organs bounced to a halt.
“Oh, yes, we sure do,” Sir Gottfrey said. He grinned, a macabre squint in his eyes.
“One week, miladies—seven days, seven resolutions of old planet Earth
around the fockin’ sun, and we shall have one hell of a bloody show on our
hands, make no mistake about it.”
A bell rang. The doors to the
elevator parted with a torturous squeak.
“Bada Bing, Bada Boom—Calvary,
here I
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