2025-12-24
Furious Fiction Challenge: The Vatican Shuffle

This was Furious Fiction's December Challenge:

I chose the election of a new pope as my major news event and made a literal fly on the wall my main character. From that vantage point, the fly could “tell the truth” about what "really" happens in the Vatican when a new pope is “chosen.”

First paragraph of my December 2025 Furious Fiction submission

The jury wrote the following (in reference to another submission about Mephistopheles):

Now, Mephistopheles from the Downtown Hellton Hotel may need to ready a room for our judges, but we simply could not resist this hilarious ‘fly on the wall’ take of what REALLY happens during one of the world’s most secretive elections! At first, it seems we’ve been dealt a hand of the buzzing voyeur as merely a metaphor, but the encounter with the cockroach confirms the surreal tone as the two insects watch the ultimate poker game unfold (and fold). The cockroach’s description of the five-day epic of 1922 and Pius XI winning with “a pair of sevens” is pure gold. Even explaining the smoke with the burning of decks was a fun addition. Highly blasphemous, but clearly tongue-in-cheek – this one goes ‘all in’ and takes home the pot!

This year, I submitted eleven stories to compete in the monthly Furious Fiction contes, earning two long-list and three short-list nominations:

In total, I have now submitted fifty stories in response to Furious Fiction challenges, resulting in fourteen long-list and four short-list nominations. Considering the disappointing sales of my book Onvoltooid toekomstige tijd (which includes Dutch translations of several of these stories) I may need to seriously consider stopping writing in Dutch and focus exclusively on English going forward.

Anyway, this is my latest Furious Fiction story:

The Vatican Shuffle

I clung to the frescoed wall of the Sistine Chapel, thrilled that I had slipped past every security measure. As I watched history unfold, I knew this year’s Pulitzer was mine.

Below me, cardinals in crimson robes sat around a green felt table, their eyes sharp for the smallest tell in the behavior of their frenemies. No ballots. No solemn prayers. Just cards, chips, and the occasional muttered Latin curse when someone folded.

The world believed smoke would rise when the Holy Spirit whispered a name. But I, a humble fly on the wall, knew better now. The Spirit had nothing to do with this. It was poker night in the Vatican.

“Raise,” murmured Cardinal Prevost, sliding his stake forward, stacked like holy wafers awaiting consecration. His face was unreadable, carved from decades of ambition.

Across from him, a Spaniard hesitated, clutching his rosary, the last relic he had to wager. The pot swelled like the till of a money changer, piled high with sacrilege.

I buzzed closer, eager to peek at the hand that would crown Leo XIV. Victoriously, Cardinal Prevost spread his cards with deliberate grace: an ace-high straight flush.

Gasps drifted upward like incense smoke. The Sistine ceiling trembled as if Michelangelo himself disapproved of this blasphemous game of chance.

The future pope’s smile was thin. “Gentlemen,” he said softly, “shall we inform the world?”

As I pulled back to hide behind a gilded candelabrum, a voice rasped from the shadows. “You look shocked, little winged one.” I turned and saw him: a cockroach, brown and brazen, his antennae twitching with smug amusement.

“I’m baffled,” I admitted. “Is it always done this way?”

The cockroach chuckled. “Funny thing about conclaves,” he said. “They’re always a gamble.”

I guessed it wasn’t the first time this had happened. “No divine election?” I asked. “Just an ordinary poker game?”

He nodded. “That’s how it has always been. My great-great-grandfather was here in 1922. He witnessed how they played for five days after Benedict XV died. Eventually, Pius XI won with a pair of sevens. The longest game in conclave history.”

“Five days?”

“They burned cards after every round. Thirteen times, black smoke went through the chimney for busted flushes, until white smoke marked the end of the final showdown. Ah, the good old times…”

We watched the new pope gathering his winnings. The stove roared, devouring the last deck. Outside, the crowd cheered at the white plume rising from the chimney. The conclave was over. The Church had a new shepherd. And the Vatican, a new poker champion.

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