Snoop and his entourage were on the Vatican tour when he broke off for a smoke. In small mobs his people dropped back to run interference. His publicist and the statuesque Sicilian woman he met at I Giganti were enraptured by the powerful biblical imagery and didn’t notice Snoop was gone.

            Snoop took a hard drag and leaned on an ancient paneled wall. It gave way just a bit. He turned and prodded at the wall, gripped a seam with his fingernails that opened up along some burnished trim, and leaned into it. A section of paneling slid back and pivoted inward. Snoop ducked his head into the musty darkness. He stepped in and flashed up a Bic but it didn’t throw enough light to illuminate the walls. Several of his group followed suit.

            Before long, Snoop’s manager sacrificed his Rastafari scarf for the cause and lit it ablaze on the marble floor. The walls pulsated with yellow images of gods and angels and naked muscular white men with large knees and small penises inhabiting an azure sky. Even the arched ceiling, seemingly twenty stories high, was completely covered with religious dogma in gilt and bold colour.

            “Yah,” Snoop said as he fell back. He extended his long legs, leaned on his elbows, and threw his chin up.  “Pass Uncle Snoop some o dat good stuff.” He reached out his arm. The wardrobe man pulled some superfluous costuming out of his backpack and added to the fire. Snoop’s personal assistant dove into his shoulder bag for a Marley #1.

            Snoop’s manager, assistant manager, wardrobe man, personal assistant, communications guru, food taster, an’ tree of the ooman from the freaky Vampira show, lit up and began to party.

            While the assemblage pulled hard on their ganja and watched the creamy smoke swirl in the otherwise still air, Snoop noticed a long iron fire escape zigzagging up a wall. In the haze of the Vatican hotbox he decided to get up close to some of the pimped-out portraits. He took some preparatory herb for the road and headed across the chamber toward the rickety stairs. The huge figures grew ominous and powerful as he reached the staircase. Snoop climbed for what seemed like an eternity. He slid his fingers along the engorged giants. As the spliff shrunk, so did his courage to continue. His pride seemed insignificant on the distant floor in the curling light. Snoop lit up a second joint to the wails and prodding of the congress below and with new resolve bounded to the summit two steps at a time. There he rested, considered the delicate features of the tiny arched door and blazed on as he wondered what lay beyond. 

            A trickle of yellow light found it’s way around one of the iron hinges. “Pull on it strong, mon. It be all cloudy in here!” the wardrobe man shouted.

            The latch was cold to the touch and stiff. It creaked as it gave way but the door itself was well oiled. With a rush of fresh air Snoop thrust the door open releasing a billow of thick smoke. He ducked out onto the balcony and leaned forward on the railing. Three hundred thousand people cheered.

2 thoughts on “Conclave

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