Father Wally Makes Friends 4
Bald Hairy Man
This is pure fantasy. If you are offended by stories about gay men and gay sex, or if you are under age, DO NOT READ IT. It is not a guide to safe sexual techniques. It does not depict real men, or real situations. It does not depict necessary safe sex practices. Fantasy characters can do anything they want, real men can not!
We had a new resident at the Rectory. My old friend Tony joined our little group. The church is not a democracy. Sometimes it wavers between being a ramshackle dictatorship and an inept dictatorship. Tony's friend, the Bishop, had a massive heart attack and died. No one knew he had a heart problem.
Somehow an ultra-conservative, retired bishop arrived as an interim bishop. The Bishop took one look at Tony and sent him as far away as possible. That turned out to be my church. The new Bishop knew what was right and that was not Tony. He had no need for evidence or investigation. He had a direct connection with God.
Tony was a good man, but he was close to being useless in my Parrish. He knew all about cannon law and the organization of the church. His connection to Spanish speaking immigrants was limited. His conversational skills were with well educated men, not stone masons. Fortunately, he got along with Jurgen and Guido.
Unexpectedly Tony found Maxwell sympathetic and he bonded with him. They were both from wealthy families. Through Maxwell he met Randall, the Episcopalian choir director of St. Thomas Episcopal Church. They got along exceptionally well. They were all from wealthy families and thus had similar backgrounds. Maxwell mentioned they also had exceptionally compatible genitals.
The explosion that left Jesus homeless caused the police to focus on our predominately Latino neighborhood. The bodies found in the warehouse were identified by DNA as Anglo. They were not on our local database, but they appeared on a Newark, New Jersey list. That disturbingly suggested to me and to the police, that some out-of-town operators were moving into our town.
A police detective, John White, interviewed Jesus with me as a translator. That was a technicality to cover all the bases, not an interrogation. The entrance to the warehouse was on the other side of the warehouse from Jesus' apartment so Jesus had no information about the men. The police department had some money for victims of crime, but the Latino community took care of its own. Jesus was self sufficient.
White mentioned to me that Fr. Jurgen's successful soccer team had reduced petty teenage crime in the area. That was beneficial to the neighborhood. White was a soccer fan and he knew of Jesus' skill as a coach.
To some people, facts are just decoys that divert your attention from real problems facing the world such as space aliens, or preparing for the return of Elvis. One of these persons was a member of the City Council, Billyboy Mallory. Billyboy was his given name, not his nickname. Billyboy was handsome and had married well. He had three kids, but the marriage fell apart. He did unexpectedly well in the divorce settlement. Billyboy never had a steady job and was totally dependent on his wife's money. Somehow he got a favorable settlement and custody of their one of their children, Billyboy Junior. His wife and her family were so happy to get rid of him, they didn't contest it.
Billyboy ran for a city council seat, facing four opponents. He was a racist bigot and anti-immigrant. He claimed that immigrants were taking jobs from real people. He didn't mention that had never kept a job for more than a month. He won the seat with an impressive landslide of twelve votes.
Billyboy made up for his lack of qualifications by being loud and disruptive. In modern America, loud and stupid are all you need to get television time. He was a media darling. Interest in "What would Billyboy say?" increased the television viewership of the council meetings.
Television ratings are based on entertainment value, and are not related to intelligent debate about serious issues. Space aliens and Elvis sightings get better ratings. Billyboy was opposed to immigrants taking over the city. If I were a nasty man, I would have pointed out that the crime rate was often related to drunken, under educated, drug addicts, not immigrants, but I would have been ignored.
We had the only mostly Latino team in the soccer league. This was not a problem. Father Jurgen's coaching skills were noted and admired. He was insistent on good sportsmanship. Of course there were fathers who got carried away. Jurgen was physically imposing and very polite. That tended to defuse problems.
Father Tony had zero interest in soccer or the team. One Saturday, the wife of the man in charge of delivering water to the team went into labor. They went to the hospital. I asked Father Tony to help and take water to the game. That afternoon I appointment that afternoon with a bride and groom. Tony said it was no problem for him.
Because of the problem with over excited fathers, the onlookers had to stay behind an orange line. The coaches and assistants, wore day-glow, orange vests to identify them as staff. This included the water guy. His vest and big hat had the team name and mascot printed on then, so they could be identified by the team.
Father Tony wore the vest. That was quite comical since he rarely appeared out of clerical garb. He went off with the water and snacks in the church van.
A half hour later I had a call. Father Tony had been attacked by a gang of youths. He had been injured and was on the way to the hospital. I was with the bride and groom. She was nurse and he was an orderly at the hospital. We raced over to hospital.
Tony was in critical condition. His head had been bashed by a baseball bat. He was in the x-ray suite. Fr. Jurgen was in the waiting room. The bride-to-be provided up to the minute information on Tony's condition. I called the office to contact Tony's family.
After six hours in the operating room, Tony was still alive. He was critical and in a medically induced coma. The Hospital had called in specialists to advise, since moving him to another facility was too dangerous.
Father Tony's parents and sisters arrived in a private plane the next morning. His father, Antony, was a wealthy man. He was a peasant compared to Tony's mother, Theresa. The daughters married very well. They had been unhappy about Tony's demotion from an assistant to a bishop, to minor parish church. They associated with Bishops, not parish priests.
Luckily the doctor in charge was most impressive, and carefully explained the problem to them. He was a straight shooter. He explained the situation and possible options depending on the level of brain damage. There was nothing they could do except pray and wait.
They came to the church to pray. By then the steps to the church were covered in flowers, candles and small statues of Jesus and Mary. This greatly impressed the family. Inside every votive candle was burning and there were scores of people praying the main altar and at the Mary shrine.
I was planning to have a service that night praying for Tony's survival. That turned into a major event. The Mayor, city council, and most of the soccer league and their parents in attendance. The city set to set up speakers to broadcast to the overflow crowd.
Our church music and choir normally consisted of who ever could play the piano, and who ever showed up to sing. Randall offered to handle the music with the St. Thomas choir as a gesture of neighborhood solidity.
Randal was a superb choir director. He managed to organize things without ruffling any feathers. Randall knew the stone mason crew well, and could speak Spanish. He was polite to all.
Looking back, I realized modern life is filled with technological wonders. The video and cell phone cameras are among those wonders. No more than fifty percent of the spectators at the soccer match had cameras. Some had impressive zoom capabilities. The police investigation was amazingly short.
One of the persons attacking Tony shot a gun into the air before the incident. Apparently he wanted to focus attention on the attack. The police later said fifty-two spectators had quality cams. All turned toward the gunshot sound. Ten of the cameras shifted to a closeup view. The police had a clear image of the man who used the bat, as well as the faces of four of the men with him. That was in addition to a good view of the van, and it's license plate.
The van was from New Jersey, and was stolen. The car had been stolen from a parking lot at a bank. There was a security cam that provided a good view of the man who took the car. Needless to say in hours the treasure trove of recordings were either on the TV or were being enhanced by high tech equipment.
The non-Latino members of our soccer team were three boys from St. Thomas' and two from First Presbyterian. It was not clear to me if they worshiped our Christian god, or the unnamed god of soccer. They wanted European style coaching. Several of these boys were big kids, and were useful against rival teams who tried to intimidate our team who tended to be smaller. They acted as the big older brother for the younger members.
Rob Benson, was the biggest boy on the team. When he saw the videos, recognized the man with the bat. It was Billyboy Mallory Jr.. He was 14 years old, but was just short of six feet tall and 200 pounds. His nickname was Dumbo Billy. In the divorce settlement he stayed with his father. As a minor, his name was not released, but everyone soon knew who it was.
When the boy was arrested he was in a state of physical and mental collapse. He was screaming he was sorry, he didn't mean to do it. The police took him directly to the adolescent ward of a mental hospital.
Faced with a crime and a disaster, Billyboy Mallory Sr. decided to make the situation as bad as possible. He gave a TV interview saying his son was a hero of the white race and had struck a blow against the immigrant invasion. He also said his son was the first storm trooper of the new, all-American order. Billyboy Sr. also announced he was running for congress. He wanted national attention.
Sometimes when you see something bad or despicable, you hope that the omnipotent God would send a quick lightening strike to clear up the problem. Billyboy Sr. made his crazed announcement three hours before our Mass for Father Tony began. Our service was covered on local and national media. The service was simple, just prayers and hymns.
Randall was to the manor born, and was obsessed with getting things just right. Some how he had translated some hymns into Spanish and combined them to fit the Catholic liturgy. The service lasted for thirty minutes. The music was perfect. The two nearest churches to us, St. Thomas and First Presbyterian processed from their churches to ours expressing solidarity as did many other city churches. Most of the soccer teams joined in. There were thousands of people outside the church.
That night the hospital announced that Father Tony was off the critical list, and the police announced they had arrested all the suspects. That was pure good luck, but the that is not the way the neighborhood and the public saw it. It was God's grace working in combination with the Old Testament's god of vengeance.
Billyboy Sr. was surprised at the police response and the thorough search of his house. The police had found the videos of the training session, but they found other tapes of him fucking whores and then whipping them for being "bad girls." Some of the girls were suspiciously young. To use the vernacular, it was a fucking mess.
There is one dominant characteristic of stupid people. They are stupid. Billyboy Sr. was dumb as a post. He had recorded planning sessions with the gang who attacked Father Tony, as well as his brutal treatment of his son. He told them this would be a blow for real Americans, and they would be heroes for the Revolution that would restore America back to it's historic place in the world. Billyboy attacked his son for being a wimp and demanded he prove he was a real man. Billyboy Sr. also provided chemical enhancements to encourage the boys. He told them not to worry, no one would care about a dead wetback.
This was a nightmare for Tony's family and for Billyboy Junior's mother.
Billyboy Senior posted a video of him holding an automatic rifle and claiming that the police had no right to search his house just because there was a minor infraction of the law. He felt that attacking a man was a misdemeanor unless the man died.
The police took that badly. There was an armed standoff. The police shot tear gas into the house. The house caught on fire and a day later they found the remains of Billyboy Senior's body. There was not enough to left of the body to identify the cause of death.
Billyboy Jr. was a minor who had been subjected to horrific abuse. Billy-boy's mother was a good woman and she came personally beg forgiveness from Father Tony. Father Tony was gracious and forgiving. Some of that was genuine, but I knew him well enough, to know Tony that being forgiving was a stake in the hearts of his enemies.
Billy-boys mother also met with the soccer team and their families to apologize. She also anonymously gave them a youth recreational center with full sized soccer mini-stadium. Fr. Jurgen was in charge of the facility.
Fr. Tony needed long term rehabilitation and nursing care. We couldn't do that in the rectory. Randall, the Episcopalian organist stepped up to the plate. He had a large house and employed nursing and rehabilitation care for Tony. When I said Randall was well off, my guess as to his wealth was off by a factor of fifty. Randall also hired gay nurses and rehab personnel. Randall thought that would encourage Tony.
Two men joined us in the rectory, Fr. Juan and Fr. Timothy. Fr. Juan came from a diocese in Mexico. He was gay, but from a wealthy and generous family. The Diocese was conservative and proudly reactionary.
Timothy was one hundred percent Irish and one hundred and fifty percent gay. He had been close to a bishop in Ireland, so a trip to the United States solved a publicity problem. It seemed to me that the Rectory had become an international shelter for gay priests. My primary duty was to my parishioners, not as a rest home for gay men.
Juan spoke Spanish and English, was wealthy and educated. I was afraid he would not bond with our congregation. I was wrong about that. They loved him. We worked out an arrangement that he would do the Spanish language mass. I would assist in the Spanish masses and he would assist me in the English services.
Timothy was a bit like Tony. He associated with the upper tiers of the church hierarchy. He had been the bishop's translator. He was a linguist who spoke French, Spanish, Italian and German. Moving to our church was a huge demotion. I was unsure about him. He seemed bitter and ill at ease.
When he discovered that he shared the same sexual tastes with the rest of the Rectory's residents, Timothy became a different man. Timothy was a bottom, and that was the secret to his success with the bishop. His bishop friend believed fucking only became problematic when sperm was exchanged. To him sperm free fucking was just an amusement, not sex.
Timothy made friends with Jurgen, Guido, Jesus and me. Jesus was the first man to shoot off in his ass. Jesus's ejaculated and when Timothy felt sperm tickling the deep recesses of his rectum, he loved it. Next, I introduced Timothy to being a top. Let's just say he took to that like a fish to water. He liked the warmth of my ass. He was Irish and it is always cold there. He tried to pull out when he reached his climax. I tightened my sphincter ,and grabbed his cock so he ejaculated in my ass. Timothy loved that too.
While we had been helping kids and youths become fluent in English, Timothy saw a need for older men and women to speak English. As a priest he was a high status man. His parents had died young so his grandparents raised him. He was good with older men and women. He began his lessons with a class on emergency calls. He focused on the words and phrases you could use immediately use. His next class was on phrases you need in grocery store. His classes were immediately useful.
This parish was a huge drop in status for priest used to dealing with the Church leadership. Unexpectedly, Timothy was one of those men who, when they were given a lemon, they made lemonade. The parishioners admired him. He felt better about himself. He wasn't just the man who the bishop was using for sexual pleasure.
At one time I had been concerned that life as a Parrish priest would be boring. I would be doing the same thing every day for the rest of my life. After the attack on Fr. Tony, life at my church settled into a lull. I realized that having a boring life was a blessing. I think there is an ancient Chinese curse, "may you live in exciting times."
I thought that was an ancient Chinese joke. Now, I knew that boring and predictable were desirable. The number of problems due to people who wanted to stir things up are legion. While you can stir things up, you often can't stir things down. The phrase, "a quick and easy war," is nonsense, as is, "I'll teach those guys a lesson they will never forget."
Another phrase, "Revenge is a dish best served cold," seems to be true. An insult or slight may reappear years or decades later.
I hoped things would be quiet at the church after the drama of the attack on Tony.