A perspective to the Maltese Rabbi ! I wonder who this Daniel Boone is. Is he a normal ORRA man or someone who likes his drink ... shaken.
"What Madness Is This?" Volume III: The Pinnacle Future
- Thread starter Napoleon53
- Start date
He's a Portable Atomic Longrifle, lmao it's mentioned in the update before this one. Oswald is using Karras to funnel nuclear arms (MK III Danny Boone PALs) into the NHRE to fight the Loomies.
Oh I don't see the quotation mark lol. My bad. Well, let the fireworks begin.
Dunno why I bet that Karras is going to manage to have one of those PALs being fired at Oswald...
That was a straight-up Tarantino scene, especially the picture at the head of the chapter.
I still feel the new HRE will be annihilated by something insane like a Serb terrorist whose ideology is basically whatever the hell is going on in the US but Slavic detonating a dirty bomb or some sort of bioweapon smack dab in the middle of Rome, ensuring Europe instantly reverts to pre-civilization just like Britain
It probably helps that he’s a bad guy going up against worse guys-even the priest he’s talking to comes off as worse than him with that reveal he’s a child molester.
I am now envisioning the brand is an actual cattle brand that says "Jew" and that Karras grabbed it by the tip. That means underneath the gloves, his hands literally say "Jew." Likely in Greek characters, but still. That's metal af.
"Those altar boys back in Milan send their regards, you disgusting freak" is my #3 favorite quote from TTL.
I am actually gonna upgrade the chapter a bit tonight after work and have him refer earlier to the p3do part. He'll bring it up to show he knows absolutely everything about everyone in Europe. I also need to change the ORRA mention to "Black Orchestra" musicians. Additionally, I'll explicitly state that Raus' Inquisition sent Ramirez.
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Good chapter, but not going to lie, Bishop Ramirez being revealed to be a child molester at the last minute feels like an easy trick to make Karras more sympathetic than he on it's own would be.
Karras seems like he would have killed him anyway, and for some reason he only says that thing about the altar boys after Ramirez's already dead. One would imagine that he could have told Ramirez that he knows about his dirty secret and how he discovered it before killing him.
Besides, depending on how Karras arc goes, his actions might ultimately cause far more damage and evil than Ramirez's, no matter how horrible child assault on itself is.
Karras seems like he would have killed him anyway, and for some reason he only says that thing about the altar boys after Ramirez's already dead. One would imagine that he could have told Ramirez that he knows about his dirty secret and how he discovered it before killing him.
Besides, depending on how Karras arc goes, his actions might ultimately cause far more damage and evil than Ramirez's, no matter how horrible child assault on itself is.
Ninja'd about mentioning child assault earlier. Still iffy on the rest about it, tho.
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I absolutely love this chapter. And I especially love the opening line. Karras seems like a really badass character, kinda reminds me of Walter White. I feel like Karras and Oswald have a kind of yin/yang thing going on - Oswald is an Irish infee passing as a pinnacle man, while Karras is a Jew passing as an Italian Catholic. But of course, the difference is that Oswald doesn't give a damn about the Irish (or anyone else) and is only out to help himself, while Karras is using his position to help his people (even if it means destroying everyone else). Very interested to see how this dynamic plays out.
OSWALD'S ACOLYTES: THE MALTESE RABBI
"Reposting," because this version is so vastly improved and kicks so much ass that I cannot recommend enough checking it out. I am very proud.
The sky was blood red over Malta as the weakening tendrils of the sun sank below the dark water of the Mediterranean. The parapets, turrets, and machicolations of Cardinal Apollo Karras's personal keep cast heavy shadows onto the small village of Ta Sannat below. The castle had been there since the Crusades, modified during the Enlightenment, and had been fought over many times during the Age of Napoleon the Great. Now, it still stood strong in the modern age, a gift from Pope Peter II to one of his favorite pets. The Grandmaster of the Knights of Malta savored the fading sunlight while indulging himself with a contraband Carolinian "Lucky Jake" cigarette, each drag causing the ember to briefly radiate. Dimming rays cast an orange ethereal glow upon the scarlet Cardinal. The resonant notes of a Neapolitan classic, "'O Sole Mio" blared from a high-end teak-wood Europan phonograph console, filling the ancient stone room with beautiful, rapturous music as that beautiful, rapturous sun dipped below the horizon. If it were any other situation, it would have been a romantic scene that even Byron himself could not encapsulate in its beauty.
"This world is insane, Ramirez," Karras said in a voice soft, yet full of conviction and purpose. "It's all gone mad. Quite mad. It exhausts me. Every step of the way, as this sad little modern world plods along, we march closer to our demise as a species, it seems. Like a... like an ignorant little schoolchild who follows the man who offers sweets, the masses eagerly trail behind whatever golden calf, every false prophet, and every transient champion promising them justice, sustenance, or the allure of a delicious, delicious war against their mortal foe of the week. I was born of war, Ramirez. The Greek Civil War was my cradle. I was there in Athens, when Vasilios the Bastard shelled the city with chlorine gas. I watched from under the floorboards as my mama and sisters were violated by Parliamentarian soldiers. My father, a watchmaker, and my brother, just a boy, gave their lives defending a homeland that didn't even want them. There was not even enough left of them to bury, thanks to the wonderful new bombs the Nords had supplied the Bastard with. My mama... my mama hanged herself, Ramirez. My sister died of the Quebec Influenza a few years later. But still little Apollo persisted. Like a fungus, like a bad cough, like a rat in a cellar, I persisted. And look at me now, Ramirez! I am one of the most powerful men in Europe."
Bishop Juan Ramirez sat tied to a sturdy oak chair, industrial tape applied over his mouth. As the sun set, his tear-reddened eyes dawned with the realization that he was not getting out of this alive. For months, he had had his suspicions about Karras. For weeks, he had observed enigmatic vessels and transports shuttling to and from Ta Sannat, with various packages and crates and barrels rolling up the steep hill to "Castle Karras." A mere week prior, he had wormed his way into the Maltese magnate's favor and had begun an up-close and personal investigation. Just as he had been about to deliver a thick file full of black-and-white photographs and stolen documents, a severe blow to the head left him unconscious and now bound and gagged. Ramirez could tell he had a concussion, yet that paled in comparison to the gravity of his predicament. He knew that he had royally messed up, and there was no way out.
Karras turned away from the window and used his black-gloved right hand to pick up the evidence folder from the antique writing desk next to him. He used his left to take one last drag from the cigarette before touching the tip of the butt to the manila and lighting it up in flames. Casually, he tossed it into a nearby metal waste bin. "My 'frater in Christo,' I did not become who I am without persistence, caution, and knowing when to play my hand. Attributes you clearly and keenly lack," he remarked bluntly and without emotion. It was less anger and more of a form of near-pity. "I knew you were here to spy on me from the beginning, Ramirez. I am no fool. But I am a... businessman. Doing... business. In my city, in my port, on my island. And you dare! come here and try to ruin what I have built? Merda! If you come for me, you best not miss, my friend. And you not only missed, the bullet came all the way back around," the Cardinal said as he dramatically traced a black leather finger through the air until it came to rest on Ramirez' forehead. "And shot you in the face. I know you were sent here by Raus and his Inquisition. You might be surprised to learn that you were, in actuality, set up. Oh, yes, I'm afraid I know all about your... Milanese altar boys. And so does the Inquisition. You were sent here to die, because anyone who comes here to meddle in my business comes here to die."
Karras pivoted and faced the beautiful music console and waved a hand through the air in the manner of a conductor as his black leather dress shoes clicked on the marble floor. He was wearing a simple crimson tunic with clerical collar topped with a simply but tastefully-styled red sheepskin leather jacket he had had custom-made in Rome. About his collar hung a gold cross, an ancient relic that had been forged during the glory days of the First Holy Roman Empire, and on his head was a red silk zucchetto skullcap perched neatly on a thick head of wiry, swept-back graying hair that shone with product. As the music enveloped the room, Karras addressed Ramirez with a measured tone from over his shoulder. "Do you know this melody, Bishop Ramirez? It's a favorite of mine. I particularly enjoy the final verse. 'When night comes and the sun has gone down, my soul succumbs to my melancholy.' I sit and I think about my depression, my anguish, when the sun goes down. I think of all the evil that has been done to me, and thanks to 'men' like you, the children of this world. My hands? These gloves? They were burned when I was a child, during that damned war. The soldiers... the soldiers were trying to brand my mama with a poker. They were about to burn 'Jew' onto her back after they... well, after they gang-raped her. I stood up as the only man of my family left and little precocious Apollo grabbed that red-hot poker with his bare, childish palms. I can still remember the smell, Ramirez-- the acrid smell of my own burning flesh. My Jewish flesh. For I am a Jew, you know. Always have been, and forever will be. Had the Vatican been privy to this truth during my entrance into the clergy, I daresay they would have found my credentials far from satisfactory."
Apollo stalked towards the chair where Ramirez's pathetic form remained restrained. With deliberate steps, he placed an additional chair before the Spaniard and sat down upon it, facing his victim with calculated intent. His elegant trousers were high-cut enough to showcase a hand-embroidered silk stocking of the latest style as he crossed his right leg over his left knee. The "Maltese Rabbi's" green eyes were full of menace, their gaze reflecting the glimmer of the overhead chandelier, and reminded Ramirez of depictions of Jews in propaganda posters. The Cardinal pulled the leather gloves from his hands, revealing pale pink palms with a scarified "JEW" spelled out in Greek upon them. "These... these are my stigmata, Ramirez." The Spaniard whimpered softly as Apollo put the gloves back on with two swift tugs and drew a compact custom pistol from under his jacket. He expertly racked the slide back, the chilling sound sending the Bishop into a new rush of primal fear.
"I am not evil, Ramirez," the Cardinal declared, as though he possessed the ability to discern the Spaniard's innermost thoughts. "As I said, I am a businessman--a survivor. I survive in this world by rolling with the punches, my friend. The fundamental economic law of supply and demand. Half of the clergy, more of the bureaucrats, and still most of the Army of this Holy Empire are hopped up on American cocaine, on Europan pornography, on Carolinian cigarillos. I believe it was Voltaire, such a grand freethinker now co-opted by the Illuminists, who aptly remark that our previous incarnation was 'neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.' I dare say that that statement is just as true today... if not fiftyfold as much. This gentile monstrosity is just another tyrannical regime in a tyrannical world. At least the Yankees are open about having a good time! The facade this nation presents, this peacocking of religious virtue... it sickens me. We are led by a bald, greasy, loud-mouthed tomb-raider who dares call himself Pope and an infertile Austrian paper-pusher who dares call himself the heir to Charlemagne."
Apollo paused momentarily, his gaze piercing, before continuing, gesturing with the pistol in his hand. "Thus, I cater to the desires of this ailing nation, for a price. You probably assume that I hoard and miser over my shekels like some goblin in a fairy tale, no? I do not. Well, I do enjoy nice clothes, cars, boats, and of course guns," he emphasized, "I don't exactly pay rent, now do I, brother? I funnel my funds to the Zion Front, and other groups like it. It's honestly quite comedic. I supply the most elite Supercatholics with their vices, and I use their money to attempt to build a Jewish state. I would, from the perspective of my people, dare say I am doing good here. Effecting positive change, and all that."
The Cardinal pushed a button and ejected the magazine and chambered round of the gun and began to fidget with it. "You might also harbor some misconception," he continued, as the very last rays of sunlight faded and nighttime finally descended upon Malta, "that I am some sort of ally of the Americans. This is also false. They are just as repugnant to me as you are. Once more, I simply provide a product for which there is demand, which happens to be customers for their detritus and contraband. How do I sleep at night? Like a blessed, undisturbed baby. My conscience is clear, Ramirez! And one day, when I have helped bring this world order to its knees, perhaps I shall step foot in sovereign Zion and witness my people at peace. I love my people, Ramirez. And I hate pretending to hate them. The Europans tolerate us to a degree, the Holy Empire murders us, the Illuminists demand we renounce our faith, and the Americans use us for economic purposes and would dispose of us in a heartbeat if we didn't factor into their plans anymore. That's why I do this, brother. I am going to help build Zion again for my people--for the fungus, for the bad coughs of this world--for them to live as our ancestors did in the old days. I am not even profiting off the death of the gentiles involved, because the fools would kill each other regardless. No, I simply play the game--this insane game--and I play it well."
Ramirez watched in horror as the magazine went back into the gun and the Cardinal racked it once more. The Mediterranean moonlight filtered through the room, its ethereal glow bathing the surroundings as if celestial fingers sought to touch and reflect upon the mirror-like chrome surface of the small Italian pistol. Ramirez prayed fervently that his end would be as painless as possible and for the shot to be quick and true.
As Karras continued his one-way conversation, he reached into the other side of his jacket and pulled out a long black metal cylinder and began to screw it onto the pistol. "I--literally--leave no fingerprints. I silence my guns. I burn my papers. I dispose of those people whom I see fit to dispose of. And I do not only fund violent terrorist groups or profit from the transgressions of the gentiles, I help my people escape from the hell Europe builds for itself. I help Jews escape to the Levant. I plant seeds for a future bountiful harvest. I plant seeds for hope to keep myself going, to keep myself from sticking the barrel of this little number in my mouth and squeezing the trigger."
His voice tinged with determination, Karras continued, "I will find the Ark, one day, friend. I will see the Temple rebuilt. I pray for the arrival of the Messiah to save us from this world of sin. I expect that moment is far closer at hand than many would realize. And until then, I dutifully play the role that Yahweh has given me. And I play it well. And I do not fuck up."
As the music reached a crescendo, Cardinal Apollo Karras, the little Jewish boy from Athens, stood from his chair, leveled the gun at Ramirez' forehead, and squeezed the trigger. The Spaniard's brains exploded out the back of his head and the corpse bucked and twitched, held in place only by the ropes. Karras sighed, removed the silencer from his gun, and casually put it and the gun back into the folds of his clerical uniform. He patted his gloved hand against the Bishop's shoulder and lowered his mouth to the dead man's ear.
"Those altar boys back in Milan send their regards, you disgusting freak."
A swift heave and the chair and corpse hit the floor with a wet thud. The Cardinal stepped around the pool of blood, skull fragments, and brain matter and made his way to the door of the chamber. Outside, two men in black clerical uniforms carrying handguns shot him a knowing look. They represented his inner circle, a clandestine brotherhood of secret Jews that formed his cadre of enforcers. The taller of the two, Giordano, told him with a hint of intrigue, "Boss, there are 'musicians' at the docks with the 'special shipment' going to the Mainland. They said you would know what it was."
A faint chuckle escaped Karras's lips, accompanied by a sly smile. "Ah, our dear friend 'Daniel Boone'," he remarked knowingly to the two men. "I shall go see our visitors. In the meantime, do pray clean up this mess, gentlemen." They simply gave him two nods and went to work cleaning up the blood and quietly disposing of the Bishops's body in the main furnace of the castle.
"This world is insane, Ramirez," Karras said in a voice soft, yet full of conviction and purpose. "It's all gone mad. Quite mad. It exhausts me. Every step of the way, as this sad little modern world plods along, we march closer to our demise as a species, it seems. Like a... like an ignorant little schoolchild who follows the man who offers sweets, the masses eagerly trail behind whatever golden calf, every false prophet, and every transient champion promising them justice, sustenance, or the allure of a delicious, delicious war against their mortal foe of the week. I was born of war, Ramirez. The Greek Civil War was my cradle. I was there in Athens, when Vasilios the Bastard shelled the city with chlorine gas. I watched from under the floorboards as my mama and sisters were violated by Parliamentarian soldiers. My father, a watchmaker, and my brother, just a boy, gave their lives defending a homeland that didn't even want them. There was not even enough left of them to bury, thanks to the wonderful new bombs the Nords had supplied the Bastard with. My mama... my mama hanged herself, Ramirez. My sister died of the Quebec Influenza a few years later. But still little Apollo persisted. Like a fungus, like a bad cough, like a rat in a cellar, I persisted. And look at me now, Ramirez! I am one of the most powerful men in Europe."
Bishop Juan Ramirez sat tied to a sturdy oak chair, industrial tape applied over his mouth. As the sun set, his tear-reddened eyes dawned with the realization that he was not getting out of this alive. For months, he had had his suspicions about Karras. For weeks, he had observed enigmatic vessels and transports shuttling to and from Ta Sannat, with various packages and crates and barrels rolling up the steep hill to "Castle Karras." A mere week prior, he had wormed his way into the Maltese magnate's favor and had begun an up-close and personal investigation. Just as he had been about to deliver a thick file full of black-and-white photographs and stolen documents, a severe blow to the head left him unconscious and now bound and gagged. Ramirez could tell he had a concussion, yet that paled in comparison to the gravity of his predicament. He knew that he had royally messed up, and there was no way out.
Karras turned away from the window and used his black-gloved right hand to pick up the evidence folder from the antique writing desk next to him. He used his left to take one last drag from the cigarette before touching the tip of the butt to the manila and lighting it up in flames. Casually, he tossed it into a nearby metal waste bin. "My 'frater in Christo,' I did not become who I am without persistence, caution, and knowing when to play my hand. Attributes you clearly and keenly lack," he remarked bluntly and without emotion. It was less anger and more of a form of near-pity. "I knew you were here to spy on me from the beginning, Ramirez. I am no fool. But I am a... businessman. Doing... business. In my city, in my port, on my island. And you dare! come here and try to ruin what I have built? Merda! If you come for me, you best not miss, my friend. And you not only missed, the bullet came all the way back around," the Cardinal said as he dramatically traced a black leather finger through the air until it came to rest on Ramirez' forehead. "And shot you in the face. I know you were sent here by Raus and his Inquisition. You might be surprised to learn that you were, in actuality, set up. Oh, yes, I'm afraid I know all about your... Milanese altar boys. And so does the Inquisition. You were sent here to die, because anyone who comes here to meddle in my business comes here to die."
Karras pivoted and faced the beautiful music console and waved a hand through the air in the manner of a conductor as his black leather dress shoes clicked on the marble floor. He was wearing a simple crimson tunic with clerical collar topped with a simply but tastefully-styled red sheepskin leather jacket he had had custom-made in Rome. About his collar hung a gold cross, an ancient relic that had been forged during the glory days of the First Holy Roman Empire, and on his head was a red silk zucchetto skullcap perched neatly on a thick head of wiry, swept-back graying hair that shone with product. As the music enveloped the room, Karras addressed Ramirez with a measured tone from over his shoulder. "Do you know this melody, Bishop Ramirez? It's a favorite of mine. I particularly enjoy the final verse. 'When night comes and the sun has gone down, my soul succumbs to my melancholy.' I sit and I think about my depression, my anguish, when the sun goes down. I think of all the evil that has been done to me, and thanks to 'men' like you, the children of this world. My hands? These gloves? They were burned when I was a child, during that damned war. The soldiers... the soldiers were trying to brand my mama with a poker. They were about to burn 'Jew' onto her back after they... well, after they gang-raped her. I stood up as the only man of my family left and little precocious Apollo grabbed that red-hot poker with his bare, childish palms. I can still remember the smell, Ramirez-- the acrid smell of my own burning flesh. My Jewish flesh. For I am a Jew, you know. Always have been, and forever will be. Had the Vatican been privy to this truth during my entrance into the clergy, I daresay they would have found my credentials far from satisfactory."
Apollo stalked towards the chair where Ramirez's pathetic form remained restrained. With deliberate steps, he placed an additional chair before the Spaniard and sat down upon it, facing his victim with calculated intent. His elegant trousers were high-cut enough to showcase a hand-embroidered silk stocking of the latest style as he crossed his right leg over his left knee. The "Maltese Rabbi's" green eyes were full of menace, their gaze reflecting the glimmer of the overhead chandelier, and reminded Ramirez of depictions of Jews in propaganda posters. The Cardinal pulled the leather gloves from his hands, revealing pale pink palms with a scarified "JEW" spelled out in Greek upon them. "These... these are my stigmata, Ramirez." The Spaniard whimpered softly as Apollo put the gloves back on with two swift tugs and drew a compact custom pistol from under his jacket. He expertly racked the slide back, the chilling sound sending the Bishop into a new rush of primal fear.
"I am not evil, Ramirez," the Cardinal declared, as though he possessed the ability to discern the Spaniard's innermost thoughts. "As I said, I am a businessman--a survivor. I survive in this world by rolling with the punches, my friend. The fundamental economic law of supply and demand. Half of the clergy, more of the bureaucrats, and still most of the Army of this Holy Empire are hopped up on American cocaine, on Europan pornography, on Carolinian cigarillos. I believe it was Voltaire, such a grand freethinker now co-opted by the Illuminists, who aptly remark that our previous incarnation was 'neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.' I dare say that that statement is just as true today... if not fiftyfold as much. This gentile monstrosity is just another tyrannical regime in a tyrannical world. At least the Yankees are open about having a good time! The facade this nation presents, this peacocking of religious virtue... it sickens me. We are led by a bald, greasy, loud-mouthed tomb-raider who dares call himself Pope and an infertile Austrian paper-pusher who dares call himself the heir to Charlemagne."
Apollo paused momentarily, his gaze piercing, before continuing, gesturing with the pistol in his hand. "Thus, I cater to the desires of this ailing nation, for a price. You probably assume that I hoard and miser over my shekels like some goblin in a fairy tale, no? I do not. Well, I do enjoy nice clothes, cars, boats, and of course guns," he emphasized, "I don't exactly pay rent, now do I, brother? I funnel my funds to the Zion Front, and other groups like it. It's honestly quite comedic. I supply the most elite Supercatholics with their vices, and I use their money to attempt to build a Jewish state. I would, from the perspective of my people, dare say I am doing good here. Effecting positive change, and all that."
The Cardinal pushed a button and ejected the magazine and chambered round of the gun and began to fidget with it. "You might also harbor some misconception," he continued, as the very last rays of sunlight faded and nighttime finally descended upon Malta, "that I am some sort of ally of the Americans. This is also false. They are just as repugnant to me as you are. Once more, I simply provide a product for which there is demand, which happens to be customers for their detritus and contraband. How do I sleep at night? Like a blessed, undisturbed baby. My conscience is clear, Ramirez! And one day, when I have helped bring this world order to its knees, perhaps I shall step foot in sovereign Zion and witness my people at peace. I love my people, Ramirez. And I hate pretending to hate them. The Europans tolerate us to a degree, the Holy Empire murders us, the Illuminists demand we renounce our faith, and the Americans use us for economic purposes and would dispose of us in a heartbeat if we didn't factor into their plans anymore. That's why I do this, brother. I am going to help build Zion again for my people--for the fungus, for the bad coughs of this world--for them to live as our ancestors did in the old days. I am not even profiting off the death of the gentiles involved, because the fools would kill each other regardless. No, I simply play the game--this insane game--and I play it well."
Ramirez watched in horror as the magazine went back into the gun and the Cardinal racked it once more. The Mediterranean moonlight filtered through the room, its ethereal glow bathing the surroundings as if celestial fingers sought to touch and reflect upon the mirror-like chrome surface of the small Italian pistol. Ramirez prayed fervently that his end would be as painless as possible and for the shot to be quick and true.
As Karras continued his one-way conversation, he reached into the other side of his jacket and pulled out a long black metal cylinder and began to screw it onto the pistol. "I--literally--leave no fingerprints. I silence my guns. I burn my papers. I dispose of those people whom I see fit to dispose of. And I do not only fund violent terrorist groups or profit from the transgressions of the gentiles, I help my people escape from the hell Europe builds for itself. I help Jews escape to the Levant. I plant seeds for a future bountiful harvest. I plant seeds for hope to keep myself going, to keep myself from sticking the barrel of this little number in my mouth and squeezing the trigger."
His voice tinged with determination, Karras continued, "I will find the Ark, one day, friend. I will see the Temple rebuilt. I pray for the arrival of the Messiah to save us from this world of sin. I expect that moment is far closer at hand than many would realize. And until then, I dutifully play the role that Yahweh has given me. And I play it well. And I do not fuck up."
As the music reached a crescendo, Cardinal Apollo Karras, the little Jewish boy from Athens, stood from his chair, leveled the gun at Ramirez' forehead, and squeezed the trigger. The Spaniard's brains exploded out the back of his head and the corpse bucked and twitched, held in place only by the ropes. Karras sighed, removed the silencer from his gun, and casually put it and the gun back into the folds of his clerical uniform. He patted his gloved hand against the Bishop's shoulder and lowered his mouth to the dead man's ear.
"Those altar boys back in Milan send their regards, you disgusting freak."
A swift heave and the chair and corpse hit the floor with a wet thud. The Cardinal stepped around the pool of blood, skull fragments, and brain matter and made his way to the door of the chamber. Outside, two men in black clerical uniforms carrying handguns shot him a knowing look. They represented his inner circle, a clandestine brotherhood of secret Jews that formed his cadre of enforcers. The taller of the two, Giordano, told him with a hint of intrigue, "Boss, there are 'musicians' at the docks with the 'special shipment' going to the Mainland. They said you would know what it was."
A faint chuckle escaped Karras's lips, accompanied by a sly smile. "Ah, our dear friend 'Daniel Boone'," he remarked knowingly to the two men. "I shall go see our visitors. In the meantime, do pray clean up this mess, gentlemen." They simply gave him two nods and went to work cleaning up the blood and quietly disposing of the Bishops's body in the main furnace of the castle.
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Cardinal Apollo Karras
Archbishop Karras before his appointment as Grandmaster of the Knights of Malta (circa 1940)
Father Anthony Giordano, in charge of contraband smuggling for Cardinal Karras
Father Karl Weiner, Head of Castle Security for Cardinal Karras
Father Weiner and the "Cadre" (Castle Security), circa 1955
An armed priest and member of Karras' Cadre, circa 1955
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Maybe he got poked all over so you have a cardinal walking around with gang style tattoos (scars in this case) that just say "JEW" in big letters
Priests at the Vatican watercooler: "There's just something about the guy that I can't put my finger on."
"Is it the fact that he looks like Henry Kissinger and has the word 'Jew' branded all over his body?"
"Hmmm... No, I don't think so. And who the hell is Henry Kissinger? OOH, did Karras lose some weight?"
Where I've seen that face before...
An armed priest and member of Karras' Cadre, circa 1955
