LOCK AND KEY, SAFE WITHIN THE VATICAN CITY ENCLAVE, shrouded beneath the Holy Library, Pope Benedict sat at the head of a seamless 50 yard solid oak table. He stood gesturing hands asway and his deep set eyes cast a dark shadow over the sea of white Cardinal robes. His voice echoed slightly through the immense underground chamber; rosy Cardinal ears perked in step with his most desperate tones.

“We cannot stand idly by and pay ransom after ransom with the blood of our saints — pawning holy relics to cover tantamount legal fees. These swift times demand change. They demand bold, new vision.”

They nodded passively and gold crusted miters gleamed under the heavy fluorescence. Strong-armed chairs squeaked and a brief cascade of throat clearing broke out near the end of the table.

“The Protestants are selling out STADIUMS!” His five ringed right hand crashed against the table — reverberation the solitary sound — and a tense pause sucked at the air.

Benedict paced slowly, staring at his swinging robes — rubbing his forehead for clarity.

“As of now, we sell chicken. The details of your cooperation have been mailed to your homes.”

He raised his heavy head and cast an authoritative gaze across the table.

“God speed.”

And he walked swiftly, staff-in-hand, for the exit.