Papal Appointments

Three Brain Melted Neo-Nazi TradCaths and the Pope walk into a salon

Sala Regia, Apostolic Palace

The Vatican, Vatican City State

Pope Pius XII

His Holiness, The Bishop of Rome and Pontifex Maximus

0906 Local Time, 15 JULY 1943

“Who are they to order me around like a dog,” Eugenio Maria Giuseppe Giovanni Pacelli growled to no one in particular as he tapped his foot, waiting in the Regal Room of the Apostolic Palace. Today had been an odd day, and the Bishop of Rome felt as if it was only going to get worse. The Americans, British, and Canadians had landed on Sicily six days prior. The battle had not proceeded according to the plans of the Fascists or their Nazi allies, so much so that the King and anti-Mussolini members of the military had prepared to act.

But Il Duce had acted first.

In the wee hours of the morning, most of the Royal Family had disappeared into the ether—including the King himself. But the purge had not just been limited to the House of Savoy; those who had been involved in the brewing dissent in the Grand Council of Fascism and Commando Supreme had also disappeared. It had happened in a single night and had been total—absolute precision. This morning, Il Duce had taken the radio, announcing that he had saved the Monarchy from a botched pro-United Nations coup. Mussolini had announced the death of Maresciallo d'Italia Badoglio—the Conqueror of Abyssinia—claiming the coup plotters had him. The Pope knew full well that it was a lie. In response to this alleged coup, Mussolini had put the Royal Family in “protective custody.” What reports had reached the Holy Father painted a very different picture, one of a concentration camp at the heart of a holy site in Gargano.

Italy had lived through its Night of Long Knives, but the course of events had not stopped—even as the Holy Father waited in the Apostolic Palace. The Germans had surged more forces into Italy, joining with ‘politically reliable’ units in purging the dissenters. This was ‘military aid’ to their Axis ally, the Germans claimed, to protect the people of Italy from ‘Allied lies.’ This was bad enough, worse than the campaign of lies, a sea of altered photos and faked audio that had been washed through the country.

So now, the Patriarch of the Roman Catholic Church waited for the delegation from Reichspräsident Göring. Pius was not in a position to reject the Shadow Fürhrer—not with so many German soldiers in the city, not with lies embedded so deep in the ears of the people. Pius XII took a deep breath. Every step forward was a step into inky darkness; he was amidst a tidal pool of penumbral uncertainty. Every step could see him lose—and lose everything not just for himself, but for his flock. He had heard from his priests in Poland. He knew the truth even before the Allied leaflets and their awful photographs. However, the War Rescue Commission could not save the Catholic Church. Only their Father could.

The great doors of the salon opened, and a file of Germans soldiers in manicured black uniforms goose-stepped into the chamber. Each carrying a strange black rifle, unlike any Pius had seen. They were the very model of decorum, yet they marched into the hallowed halls of the Papacy as if it were their Fürhrer’s Chancellery. Pius boiled under his pious indifference, another slight, another outrage to be borne in silence. How much longer can I do nothing? How much longer before they take everything? The silence in the chamber was broken by the rhythm of shining black boots clacking one after another.

The Swiss Guard in the Salon Regia, in their striped tri-color uniforms and their silver Morion helmets, clutched their halberds tighter. They shifted uncomfortably, almost imperceptibly. The Commander of the Guard, decked in silvered armor above his colored tunic and trousers, gripped his sword by its hilt. They will not take me from this place. The Nazis had not mentioned such security; in fact, the Pope had expected Reichsminister Rippentrop—but this was something else entirely. They will not drag me to some Nazi Avignon. I will not be some prisoner to pagan butchers. His face revealed nothing; not a single drop of his fury rose to the surface as the Nazi honor guard lined the walls before him.

A voice in Italian announced, “Representatives of the Greater German Reich and the High Command of the Reich Defense Organization.”

Between the walls of blackguard Soldaten—Nazi men of six feet or more in manicured black uniforms—walked three figure, three dalmatian-uniformed men. They were Nazis, almost certainly, but unlike any Pius XII had had the displeasure of observing. They wore black pants with white coats and caps. They wore odd, incredibly odd, veils under their snow-white peaked caps. Each was made of white silk, or perhaps the finest cotton, with crude eyeholes cut from them. The closer they came, and the more Pius studied these men—the more confused the Pope became. They did not wear the same stark red armband as their fellow Nazis but instead wore a star-studded blue saltire on a field of red. It did not strike any resonance with His Holiness. What flag is that? However, something did strike a resemblance—something that almost forced a gasp from his lips.

The crest of their caps and their belt buckles bore no Nazi iconography. Instead, staring back at the Patriarch of the Roman Catholic Church were symbols with which he was intimately acquainted: the red cross of Saint George, the crossed keys of Saint Peter, and the Papal Tiara itself.

Who do these men think they are? Pius was aggrieved, horrified, and—above all else—confused. He struggled to contain the onrushing emotions as these strangers trod on his floors, seemingly unaware of the blaspheming profanity of their very disposition. The Swiss Guard noticed these strangers’ defilement of the symbology of their sainted Mother Church; confused eyes flashed; not even their practice and training could resist this. The Commander of the Pontifical Guard barely lifted his hand, but the Pope knew the signal. The Palace would not be defiled again so long as Heinrich Pfyffer von Altishofen still lived—not again, not twice on such a Godly man’s watch.

Soon, the doors that led into this chamber would be stacked with men of the Pontifical Guard in drab blue uniforms clutching automatic weapons. The Palatine Guard and the Papal Gendarmes would be alerted. If the profaning pagans wished to seize the Holy Father, they would first have to go through his sons—and a heavenly choir of singing nine-millimeter angels.

But for now, there was no sound in the salon besides the clacking of shined boots on the marble floors.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

These strangers in their strange attire approached and then kneeled before the Pontiff. “Holy Father,” their leader started in English. Pius held himself back from recoiling.

Oh God, they’re Americans? Curiosity bubbled over his horror. Not more of these abominable Americans?

“I wrote to you, your Holiness. I am the Leader of the Apostles here in Europe. They call me Cato.” The man announced triumphantly. He seemed so proud, so certain that he would be recognized.

Pius stared back blankly at him; he had no clue who this man was. There was an awkward silence as the leader’s words reverberated off the walls of the salon. These men beamed like they were meeting their idol, waiting for words of praise, no doubt. They would find none. Their joy started to fracture as a painful silence lingered, like a great weight on a weakened plate of glass. The cracks grew and grew, eyes darted to one side, a hand or face twitched nervously, and the steam of tension and anticipation rose from their ears. Pius could hear their thoughts and anxious doubts. He felt them hold their breath. These men would find no satisfaction here.

It appeared in his mind who these men were. They were the Reichsmagier—Hitler’s magicians. Those who were apparently from the future or some nonsense. They were brilliant men with unrivaled minds who had reshaped industry like clay and had brought forth new and terrible weapons of war in a tide of metal. Pius had no idea they were so odd. They were distressingly similar in temperament to the madman who had stormed his apartments the month prior babbling nonsense. Then again, people who claim to be from the future are seldom banal.

“Ah, yes. I receive many letters,” Pius replied in English, one of the seven languages he knew, “I bid my apologies to you. I do not remember yours.” Their leader seemed to deflate in front of the Pope. A racking nervousness descended over these strange men and their defiling habiliment. Rasps of panic filled their now-unleashed breathing. Why do they expect me to know them?

“Ah—well—we come to pay homage to you, Holy Father,” the man started up again, “We come to thank you.” Pius could not help but tilt his head, confused; he could not stop himself. The eyes of these men glimmered with recognition as if they knew him well. That unsettled his soul. “We would not be here without you.”

What? His heart screamed at him to recoil and send them away, now—but the voice in the back of his head wanted to know exactly what they were speaking of. He softly swallowed his doubts, “Pray tell what you mean, my child?”

“If not for the Concordat you signed with the Reich.” The man seemed almost giddy, and he spoke as if his words were obvious to anyone, “We would not have been so inspired. It was a transcendent work of sublime justice, Holy Father.”

What, by the grace of God, do they speak of? Pius’ eyes twitched toward the nearest guardsman, who seemed just as lost. Why do they speak of a treaty of man as if it were the word of God?

The man continued unabated. He was breathless in his eagerness as if the Father of the Mother Church was some baseball player or Hollywood starlet, “You are not like the Jew-Monger the Elevent—”

Pius slapped the man with the back of his hand. Hard. His rings drew blood, a small cut in the middle of the man’s cheek. The Reichsmagier’s eyes shimmered in shock. It looked like this man was about to burst into tears. Pius would tolerate many things, but to insult his honored predecessor—the man whom he had faithfully served as Secretary of State for almost a decade—was beyond the pale.

“Watch your tongue, boy.” Pius hissed like a broken steam valve, venom turning into hot gas as the entire room seemed to step onto needles and burst into widened eyes. Pius tolerated the Nazis. It was necessary to accommodate authoritarian governments to preserve his flock and the Mother Church, but this was something else entirely. Pius relaxed and returned to his saintly form. “Gentlemen,” The Pope politely but sternly replied to the silence, “Is there anything I might do for you?”

The leader of this trio gulped, petrified in fear. One of his brethren stepped forward, his voice hoarse and pointed, “We bid you—declare a Crusade against these so-called United Nations.” This one asked to smash the seven seals as if it was nothing, as if he was buying halibut from a fishmonger. “This is within your remit; it is in the interest of the Church and our white race it represents, as our Lord God demands.”

Pius’s eyes widened, “What?” This was not just madness—it was pure insanity. Pius XII physically took a step backward in awe and horror; the Pontifical Guard tensed, almost moving before a subtle twist of the Pontiff’s hand warded them off.

“A Crusade…” the second meekly reiterated, “A Crusade against the degenerate Negro-Jew-Bolsheviks and their cabal of sodomites. It is simple and necessary to preserve our faith and our white children from DEI, from SJW, from the woke, from the PC.”

Pius was incapable of speech for a moment, gobsmacked. The Holy Father stared at this odious toad of a man as if he were a mountain goat mounting a woman. “God forbids exaltation of one blood or race over another. He sees no color in his children, just his children,” Pius snapped back, “I cannot—will not do any such thing. I abhor this war. I only seek for it to end, not escalate.” He took a breath, “And I have no idea what these other shibboleths of yours mean.”

“But-but, Holy Father, if you do not act,” the third began to speak, panicked and confused, clearly terrified by how this conversation had gone so far, “our Church will be destroyed, violated, desecrated by the Second Vatican Council.”

Second Vatican Council? What? These men are completely insane. What do they even speak of? The salon was now filled with a perilous electricity. Eyes darted to and fro; hands drifted to weapons. Their Nazi guards were on the very edge, strung taut like black garrotes, eyes wide like those of a deer despite being wreathed in bandoliers of death and lead. Pius’ own Pontifical Guard just just as tensed, ready to pounce and shield their liege and ward.

“A Second Council? These men are mad,” Pius murmured under his breath in Portuguese before he shook his head and regained his senses, “Gentlemen, I am terribly busy and cannot linger. I have urgent duties that I must attend to. Is there anything else that I can do?” The Pontiff wanted nothing more than to leave this place.

“A photo?” the third Reichsmagier asked sheepishly. The Pontifical Guard froze; more than a dozen heads snapped toward the man. There was no cameraman with these Germans. Would this little man also ask for a pony and a bottle of champagne?

“Y-you have a-a camera?” Pius spluttered back, looking around, jinking from side to side, trying to see where these magicians had hidden one. He did not see a camera case on any of the men in white or their escorts. The Papal Guards were equally curious; Pius saw a few eyebrows dart up in suspicion.

“Oh yes,” answered the third as if it was clear where these cameras were waiting. The portly little man in his finery produced a rectangle of smooth black glass from his pocket. It looked like a strange paperweight. He tapped it, and it came to life with light. It was an electric device. Pius felt his eyes widen. He had never seen or even heard of such technology. They were wizards, if insane. The Papal Guard once again tensed, and their eyes darted to the Holy Father and then to their Commander. Pius subtly commanded them to hold with another subtle twist of his fingers while his hand remained at his side.

These—oddities—surrounded the Pope, two on his right, one on his left. The one on his left raised the black rectangle up into the air and instructed Pius to look at it. The Pope was amazed as he moved his eyes towards the device and saw a little moving picture of the four of them in the glass. He was without words. He smiled. The man tapped away at the device, and apparently took pictures of them.

“Should we do a silly one?” asked the third, before the second jabbed him in the ribs with a sharpened elbow. The Bishop of Rome had absolutely no understanding of what a ‘silly one’ would entail, and he had no interest in finding out.

“I beg your forgiveness, my children, but I have business to attend,” before the maniacs could protest, Pius bowed and left; he would not even give them a chance to kiss his ring or anything else of honor. He indicated towards the guard nearest the door to the Sistine Chapel; the door was swung open, and Pius slipped inside. His attendants followed him and found over a dozen Palatine Guard with their Mauser rifles at the ready and their commander, with his pistol drawn, pressed against the wall. Pius paid his men no mind. He walked past them, consumed in his thoughts. He murmured to himself in Italian. He played the interaction back through his mind like a moving picture show.

He stopped halfway down the aisle, leaning against a pew, “In the Name of Our Lord, that was some weird shit.”