Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Catholics | By: Elvira Frankenheim | | Category: Short Story - Other Bookmark and Share

Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Catholics

"This room for two persons costs 45 per person and night." "What? 45 for such a dump? My boyfriend Peter, the actor, is wondering. "You will find the shower down in the corridor. Sirs, this isn´t the Ritz or Hilton. "The hotel owner, being already a little on in her years, made that very clear to both of us. Nevertheless, we take the room. "And where is everyone meeting up to party in the evenings?" Peter is asking the old lady. "Actually, in church. The mass starts at 6 p.m." "Excuse me, I meant, to party, to dance, drink, and tell stories? Where to enjoy the nights, have some fun and so on?" "Sirs, this isn´t Daytona Beach or Panama City!"

In the evening, we take a stroll around the village. We single out an old pub and enter the establishment. It is 10 p.m. and we are definitely the only guests. Peter is making funny remarks on top of his lungs, till the innkeeper hands us the bill. "I am closing now." "And where is the party going on? Where is all happening?" asks Peter. "Plain nowhere. All the inhabitants of the village have to get up very early for the mass. This isn´t Daytona Beach or Panama City!"

We stroll back through the dark night, to the hotel, slightly tipsy and giggling. "When nothing is going on here, well well well, then we will MAKE something going on here, right?" Peter said grinning to me, when we arrived at the Pension. Back in our room, my friend suddenly opens the windows and screams: "WAKE UP!!! WAKE UP ALL UP!!! YOUR JESUS HAS COME!!!" Everywhere in the village, the lights go on. In the room next door, someone bangs madly against the wall and screams "Quiet!!! Quiet, you damn idiot!!! This isn´t Daytona Beach or Panama City!!!"

The next morning, our old lady announces very seriously that this is a respectable village and asked if we would please move out immediately. That´s exactly, what we did. We pick up our luggage and walk to Peter´s car. The wipers are ripped off, a stinking cow pie in the middle of the front lid and the right side window is smashed. My friend opens the door and finds a notice on the front seat.

"What´s written?" I ask. "FUCK OFF YOU DAMN DIRTY PUNKS! IMMEDIATELY!" Me again: "Hey darling, let´s keep going! Shall they look for any other Jesus for their passion play! This is the deep valley of the Ultra-Catholics."



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