The End of Days

Unbuttoned Sex Cardigan askew, the High Priestess of the Quite Rude strode into the Fornicatrium with her handmaidens rushing to keep up with her.

The floor of the Fornicatrium was awash with lime juice, discarded orange peel stuck to the soles of their feet as the High Priestess led the way through to the High Altar. She stood for a moment in front of the altar, making the signs of obsequience. Then to the gasps of her handmaidens, she turned off the most holy TV set.

‘Don’t look so shocked,’ the High Priestess said. ‘It was only the local news.’

‘But the holy TV is never turned off….’ The Handmaiden’s Union Rep said. ‘Unless…. Unless it is the End of Days™!’ The handmaidens turned to one another, clutching their sex cardigans tight around themselves, their faces in shock.

The High Priestess shook her head, making calming gestures. ‘No, it is not the End of Days™… as you know none of the twelve true religions could get planning permission for any form of Armageddon.’ She looked away for a moment. ‘Could you imagine the parking problems alone?’ She shuddered, fastening a few of the lower buttons of her sex cardigan. ‘No, my holy sisters, the news is worse than that….’

‘Worse than Armageddon! Worse than the End of Days™, worse than the total destruction of the universe?’ The Union Rep glanced at her sisters. ‘Tell us.’

‘Tell us…. Tell us.’ The Handmaidens cried towards the High Priestess.

One handmaiden near the rear of the group tentatively raised her hand. ‘The national team hasn’t been knocked out of the World Cup again has it?’ She looked at her terrified sisters. ‘You remember what happened last time that happened, none of the men could perform the Holy Act of Fornication for several weeks afterwards. Remember…? We had to even put aside out knitting for a while to get them back to normal.’

The rest of the Handmaidens nodded, each remembering how many episodes of the holy soap operas they’d each missed as they tried to return the nation’s manhood to their former glory… well, state of almost adequacy.

‘No, it is far worse than that.’ The High Priestess wrapped her ceremonial cardigan around herself, wishing she could hold her knitting needles of office for comfort. ‘We… we have run out of chocolate.’

The screams of the handmaidens could be heard for miles around the temple and the people of that nation knew that their world would never be the same again.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]