Fool by Christopher Moore

pansies and hawk, “Jesus had a wee right on this very spot when he was a lad-two pennies and a spliff of Cardiff chronic ’ill get you out o’ purgatory for an eon, mate.”
    Soon a whole guild of low-priced shrine keepers around Europe named their own Pope-Boldface the Relatively Shameless, Discount Pope of Prague. The price war was on. If the Dutch pope would give you a hundred years out of purgatory for a shilling and a ferryman’s ticket, the Discount Pope would let you out for two hundred years and send you home with the femur of a minor saint and a splinter of the True Cross. The Retail Pope would offer cheesy bacon toppings on the Host with communion and the Discount Pope would counter with topless-nun night for midnight mass.
    It came to a head, though, when St. Matthew appeared in a vision to the Retail Pope, telling him that the faithful were more interested in the quality of their religious experience, not just the quantity. Thus inspired, the Retail Pope moved Christmas to June when the weather wasn’t so shit for shopping, and the Discount Pope, not realizing the game had changed, responded by forgiving hell altogether for anyone who gave a priest a hand job. Without hell, there was no fear, and without fear, there was no further need for the Church to supply redemption, and more important, no means for the Church to modify behavior. The Discount faithful defected in droves, either to the Retail branch of the Church, or to a dozen different pagan sects. Why not get pissed and dance naked around a pole all Sabbath if the worst of it was a rash on the naughty bits and the dropping of the odd bastard now and then? Pope Boldface was burned in a wicker man the next Beltane and cats shat in his ashes.
    So, yes, a two-pope joke was untimely, but fuck all, it was dire times, and I sallied forth, for a bit: “So the second pope says, ‘Your sister? I thought she was kosher?’”
    And no one laughed. Cordelia rolled her eyes and made a raspberry sound.
    The pathetic one-trumpet fanfare dribbled, the great doors were thrown open, and France and Burgundy ponced into the hall followed by the bastard Edmund.
    “Silence, fool,” commanded Lear, with great superfluity. “Hail, Burgundy, hail, France.”
    “Hail, Edmund the bloody bastard!” said I.
    Lear ignored me and motioned for France and Burgundy to come before him. They were both fit, taller than me but not tall, a few years south of thirty. Burgundy had dark hair and the sharp features of a Roman. France, sandy hair and softer features. Each wore sword and dagger that I doubted had been ever drawn but for ceremony. Fucking frogs.
    “Lord Burgundy,” said Lear, “you have rivaled for the hand of our youngest daughter. What dowry do you require for her?”
    “No less than your highness has offered,” said the dark poofter.
    “Alas, that is no more, good Burgundy. What we offered, was offered when she was dear to us. Now she has roused our anger and betrayed our love and her dowry is nothing. If you want her as she is there, take her, but there will be no dowry.”
    Burgundy was stunned. He backed away, nearly stepping on France’s feet. “I’m sorry, then, sir, but I must tend to property and power in my choice of duchess.”
    “She shall have neither,” said Lear.
    “So be it,” said Burgundy. He nodded, bowed, and stepped back. “I am sorry, Cordelia.”
    “No worry, sir,” said the princess. “If Burgundy’s heart is wed only to property and power, then it could never be to me truly. Peace be with you.”
    I breathed half a sigh of relief. We might be driven from our home, but if Cordelia was driven out with us-
    “I’ll take her!” said Edgar.
    “You will not, you blubbering, beetle-browed, dog-buggering dolt!” I may have accidentally exclaimed.
    “You will not,” said Gloucester, pushing his son back into his seat.
    “Well, I will have her,” said the Prince of France. “For she is a dowry in herself.”
    “Oh for fuck’s