CHAPTER 137 - PROGRESSING PLANS II

-THIRD PERSON’S POV-

Rovell stopped in front of the antique walnut desk and sailed something towards his leader. It slid across the smooth surface of the desk, spilling white documents to the terrazzo floor, only to be halted by Dymian’s hand.

"What's this?" Dymian cast his aggrieved hooded garnet-red eyes down on the vintage hardback, three-ring, trombone, leather binder that was tossed rudely to him.

“The chapel’s financial report.” Rovell kept a scowl on his square face. “This place is broker than the Ten Commandments. I went digging for dineros in the safe and it was completely empty. Even the bank account is ploughing for pennies. It’s in overdraft.” He shook his head, wearing his bone-white long straight hair in a ponytail. “These people aren’t very blessed.”

Dymian sat in his chair and opened the binder. He turned the pages and stalled, taking out the bank reconciliation document from the plastic sleeve. He held it up in the glare of the sun that came through the glass of the triple arcade windows like it would make the disappointing figures change. The low funds could not suffice for the Worgens Guardians’ future plans.

Above all, it was time to relocate. Now that they had caught up with most of the new world’s civilization, they needed a base and supplies in order to recruit an army for their ultimate battle. Witches and Vampires were not an option because no other species was allowed to share their victory.

"Tell the priest that we need more money coming in." Rovell braced his knuckles on the edge of the desk, leaning in. "Declare an increase in offering. Send out the clergy with the collection plates to the congregation’s homes daily. Tax the saints or locals if we have to. Let the clergy pay rent for accommodation at the papal apartments. Say it is God’s will." He lifted one hand into a fist. “We must do something about this.”

Dymian set down the document. "Such a demand from the public will draw unwanted attention from the hare-brained council. We are not ready for the Alpha King to breathe down our necks."

Dissatisfied, Rovell huffed and scratched his cheek.

Two sets of footsteps strode into the room, but it was Jarvaldo’s rapping that interrupted them as he did the Billy bounce dance to Nicki Minaj’s song. “My anaconda don't ― my anaconda don't ― my anaconda don't want none unless you got buns, nun.”

Seff, in his red chasuble with gold embroidery and clergy stole, had just finished mass. Both of his hands held communion trays, one of empty clean wine glasses and the other of leftover sacramental bread. Sensing the crummy energy in the study, his eyes jumped from Dymian and Rovell questioningly and lastly, with a hard side-glance at Jarvaldo’s jesting.

Jarvaldo, in his white cassock clergy robe, ceased his antics and remained by Seff’s side with the copper offering plate in his hand. He interrupted them with the younger generation’s colloquialism that he had recently learned. “Wassup?”

Turning slightly to them, Rovell straightened his posture and explained, “The chapel does not have a cash flow. Where's the blasted priest? I bet he’s got some money stashed somewhere." He roared, ranting and roasting the humans. “People should be praying for money instead of health. Burn those incense for wealth. They are fickle humans. They’re nothing fun or special. They live too long. Age fifty should be a terminal disease that they all catch and die.”

“But they are fun to kill.” Seff corrected him, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy. Then his jaws tightened with a frown. “If they catch the fifties and die, we won’t get to be grim reapers anymore.”

Jarvaldo drew the ash-wood leather accent chair and sat down. Placing the offering plate in his lap, he picked up the notes and coins one by one. Squinting his eyes like a bat in daylight, he held each one up. He carefully read their denominations and began grouping them to add them up. New-age money was troublesome to sort and calculate, and he hadn’t gotten accustomed to them as yet.

Jarvaldo smacked his lips, losing count of the collection and would have to start counting again. “This money will barely buy food, much less to purchase those expensive marakachos from the pirates of the Vale.”

“I’m hungry right now,” Rovell complained and patted his flat and firm stomach. “And the Mother Superior already wants to exorcise the unquiet spirit of gluttony out of me. Although there’s something fishy about Father Ramcrook.”

"The priest went to the papal apartments since mass time is over," Seff announced, proceeding to the free-standing walnut cabinet in the corner and placing the trays on the top. “He is holding a grudge against Sister Irene over the pianist who’s not stroking his keys anymore. They have a dispute to work out.”

Dymian leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He was keenly listening to their ramblings. Rovell hated his silence. He parted his open robe and jammed his hands into his pants pockets.

Seff opened the cabinet to put the tray of small wine cups inside on the top shelf. Jarvaldo lost his count again. He growled exasperatedly, pausing a moment to trim back his frustration. Then his brows furrowed in concentration as he continued checking the offering, hopefully for the last time.

"Well, we need money. The tithes and offerings are ridiculous." Rovell paced the terrazzo floor. "These people are poor. Stingy miscreants." His impatience rolled out to annoy Dymian, who shot him a menacing glare.

“What do you want them to do? Throw out gold ingots?” Jarvaldo flashed his teeth. He was proud that he could throw his new knowledge at his comrades. Sometimes they didn’t understand his meaning, but he did not care. He carried on by stating, “This is a chapel. It’s non-profitable. What we should do is take over a casino and get our dear Mrs. Bumpkin to write a fat check.”

“Dymian, why don’t you enthrall the old crone?” Rovell drew a point, still pacing. “Mrs. Bumpkin is filthy rich and all she does is put one dollar bills in the tithes envelope like we are growing a dollar tree.”

“Mrs Bumpkin says you need to baptize over.” Jarvaldo grinned, waving a pointing finger at him. “Why would she be nice when you spiked the communion wine with Polmos Spirytus and had half of the congregation drunk – including her?”

While he spoke, Rovell dashed over to Jarvaldo, bending down to level his crimson eyes with his. “Well, I dare declare that old devil in the blue dress is a liar. Drink and be merry says the New Testament.” He grabbed his comrade’s finger, wanting to break it.

“No, my friend.” Jarvaldo dragged away his finger. “What you need to do is go and test a mint. What the fuck did you eat for lunch, garlic?” He wrinkled his nose thinking that Rovell’s breath was stronger than his own fist. “Bro, lay off the potato skillet.”

An amused cackle left Seff’s mouth as he closed the cabinet door. Rovell walked away with a scoff. Jarvaldo forgot his count and decided to empty all the tithe envelopes.

Dymian sat forward and placed his elbows on his desk, interlacing his fingers thoughtfully. He was deeply considering the casino heist idea. They could slip in and out, easily robbing the place, or he could have Farrah take the machine through her vortex. But he couldn’t afford to exhaust her. Her powers weren’t at optimum.

“Well, blow me down!” Holding up a surprising one hundred dollar note from a tithe envelope, Jarvaldo exclaimed. “Looky here!”

Rovell snorted and did not respond. He was anxious to know who dropped that big money in the collection pan. After snatching the note from Jarvaldo’s fingers, he stood and examined it. He let out a chuckle, thinking that they had more rich church members they could prey on.

“Wow, a lucky Benjamin.” Seff pulled a chair, sitting oddly with his legs thrown over the armrest and the tray of bread cubes on his chest with the bottle of communion wine in his hand to devour. “That’s grace right there.” He poked several bread cubes into his mouth.

Jarvaldo put on a sly smile. He was about to slaughter their little thrilling moment when he told them, “It’s a counterfeit.”

“What?” Rovell asked, grimacing at what his ears had heard.

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