Gingerly, the disappointing demon-thing stepped out into the light of Saint Peter's Square.
He squinted in the sunlight.
"So this is the Vatican, is it? I always wondered if I'd see this place. They got a gift shop?"
"Probably," replied the Pope. "How the hell should I know? Do I look Catholic?"
Cardinal Barry piped up. "Urm, shouldn't we be, like, killing the Libertines or something?"
"Yes of course. This calls for RAPID CHANGE OF SCENE..."
"Wow," said the demon of Skub Nazarthotep. "How did you do that?"
They were in Trafalgar Square.
"Tricks of the trade. Gotta learn these things if you're the Pope."
"Blimey."
Pete and Carl were counting their money by the fountain while laughing hysterically.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
"Hello, chaps," said the Pope. "What's so funny?"
"AAAAARRGGGHHH! I mean, uh, ARRHHHello!" screamed Pete.
"We were just wondering if you fellows would like to accompany us to the British Museum?"
"Uh, yeah thanks, but um, the thing is, that like tonight I'm gonna be shooting up some more smack for my reality tv show, and like Carls gonna be sorting his collection of park benches, so we really we can't."
"Right. Park benches. Gotcha."
The Pope whispered to Barry. What are we gonna do? Plan A failed and Plan B lacks a certain subtlety.
"The only thing we can do. EAT THIS MOTHERFUCKERS!"
Barry pulled out a Thompson .45 SMG, and rained leaden hell upon the pair of stupid twats.
The Pope meanwhile removed his Holy M-160 Rocket Launcher carefully concealed within his hat, and fired off a consecrated missile at the two losers.
BUDDABUDDABUDDABUDDABUDDABUDDA SWISH FAZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
The demon used the opportunity to bugger off without being noticed, and later set up a successful chain of falafel restaurants.
Pete and Carl died horribly, but will be resurrected again and again for as long as I continue to amused by these idiotic stories.
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