It’s a bright, bustling early morning in Vatican City.

Hundreds of worshippers from every corner of the globe have gathered outside St. Peter’s Basilica. An Igbo friar makes nice with a Maori nun. An Argentine man hoists his young son up onto his shoulders so that he can see above the crowd. Journalists mount cameras onto tripods at the edges of the scene. All are there at the sudden and mysterious beckon of the Holy See. Outside a nearby cafe, Oldie and I monitor the crowd.

The news came via mass SMS:
“His Holiness Pope Leo XIV, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Christ, returned gently to Our Lord one evening ago. The Cardinals have gathered to mourn, and to elect his successor in an expedited conclave.”

Gasps and wails erupt throughout the crowd in waves, first at LTE speed, then 4G, then 3G. Finally, the EDGE floodgates open, and everyone bawls openly.

Oldie takes a sip from his Ashwaganda-infused mushroom tea. I check the time on my Casio.

The sun moves westward. It’s an hour til sunset now. The crowd has grown larger, and yet more somber. Many shed tears quietly, some hug their loved ones, others hold their hands up in prayer. Suddenly, a voice in the crowd rings out:

VOICE: Fumata! Fumata! Smoke! Look, there’s smoke!

Everyone’s eyes dart up toward the chimney connected to the Sistine Chapel. Sure enough, there’s a plume of smoke rising. Strangely, the color of the smoke is neither white nor black, but a brilliant blend of grey, green, and purple. The Igbo Friar and Maori Nun exchange a horrified look. Could this really be? Such a thing is only ever whispered about, even in the most hallowed halls. Fumata boreale.

The doors of the balcony of St. Peter’s Cathedral swing open. There stands Kardinal Offishal dressed in grey-green-purple cardinal’s robes. He clears his throat:

KARDINAL OFFISHAL: Blessings upon you all. The conclave has ended. It is my great honor to introduce to you all, the new Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy.

He inhales deeply after that mouthful.

KARDINAL OFFISHAL: I present for, the first time: His Holiness, Pope Sean Paul!!!!!!

Airhorns blare out from a source unseen as Sean Paul, dressed in full papal regalia (big ass hat included), steps out onto the balcony. His fine white robes glisten with golden accents. The crown jewel of his big ass hat is a shimmering grey-green-purple stone.

I can’t help but grin to myself. Oldie puts down his tea and picks up his iPhone 37.

OLDIE: I’ll get Waka on the phone.

The airhorns subside, and a hush comes over the crowd. The new pope clears his throat, and it somehow gets even more quiet.

POPE SEAN PAUL: My children…

A thousand or more aspiring tenants of heaven all seemed to hold their breath. What will his first words be?

POPE SEAN PAUL: SO MI GO SO DEN!!!!!!!!

These words boom and echo with an otherworldly volume and timbre for miles around. A quiet, pregnant pause takes hold, then: the airhorns resume, and the crowd breaks out into the loudest cheering and applause ever recorded in the Vatican.

As the new pope looks out over the cheering crowd, some literally jumping for joy, he spots a figure in a black cloak. The person is standing dead-center, and is the only perfectly still body in the dynamic crowd. Pope Sean Paul reaches for the papal binoculars, (you know, like the ones they use at the opera or whatever). Through the binoculars, he sees that the face partially covered by the hood of the black cloak…….is a mirror staring right back at him.

It’s You.