Unknown's avatar

About Pope Pius XIII

Yes, I know all about Nuuk. It's a small Catholic community that you have, in Greenland. Am I right?

Mayor Spencer Pratt

Inside the candlelit halls of the The Young Pope, Pope Pius XIII — Lenny Belardo himself — shocked the cardinals with an unusual declaration.

“Rome,” he said calmly, “has survived emperors, barbarians, and television. It can survive democracy in Los Angeles.”

The Vatican press office erupted into confusion after Lenny announced a symbolic international vote for the next mayor of Los Angeles. Journalists screamed questions. Cardinals looked physically ill. One elderly bishop whispered that the Antichrist had finally arrived in California wearing sunglasses.

But Lenny remained perfectly still.

“The people of Los Angeles worship fame,” he said. “Very well. Let us at least encourage them to elect someone entertaining.”

Among the invited celebrity observers was Spencer Pratt, who arrived carrying a velvet pouch of crystals polished like sacred relics. He spoke passionately about positive energy, cosmic alignment, and the emotional intelligence of hummingbirds.

To everyone’s astonishment, Lenny listened carefully.

Later, in the Vatican gardens, the pope watched Spencer gently feeding hummingbirds from a glass feeder hanging near the lemon trees. Tiny wings buzzed like miniature helicopters in the Roman sunset.

Lenny folded his white robes and nodded with genuine admiration.

“You know,” the pope said quietly, “most men chase power. You chase beauty. Crystals, birds, silence. It is strangely Franciscan.”

Spencer smiled. “The hummingbirds trust calm energy.”

Lenny looked toward the sky.

“In Los Angeles,” he murmured, “that may qualify you for public office.”

For one brief moment, the Vatican staff saw something almost impossible:

Pope Pius XIII laughing.

The Cult of Blake Shelton

Vatican Gardens, late evening. The wind moves softly through the cypress trees. Pope Pius XIII—known to the world as Lenny Belardo—walks slowly with Sister Mary. In the distance, the city of Rome hums like a restless congregation.


PIUS XIII (The Young Pope):

Sister… I have been studying America again. A strange nation—half cathedral, half carnival.

There is a man there… a preacher in the clothing of a singer.
An American idol judge.

Blake Shelton.

He sings to the people that the end is coming… and that a country boy can survive.

A curious gospel.

SISTER MARY:
Holy Father, perhaps he means resilience.

PIUS XIII:
Yes… but I wonder, Sister—who exactly survives?

The farmer with the rifle?
The man with canned beans buried in the yard?

And what of the city dwellers… the taxi drivers, the janitors, the immigrants, the forgotten multitudes? Are they to perish simply because they do not own a pickup truck?

Christianity is not a survivalist cult.
Christ did not say: Blessed are those with bunkers.

He said: Blessed are the meek.


The Pope stops walking and looks toward the fountain.

PIUS XIII:

They say the Mississippi River is choking with fertilizer… suffocating in algae.

Dead zones.

But tell me, Sister—are the prophets of doom repairing the river?
Or merely predicting the apocalypse while selling concert tickets?

England once had a river so polluted that fish abandoned it for generations.

The River Thames.

Dead for seventy-five years… and then resurrected by engineers, scientists, and stubborn hope.

So you see… the end of the world is often simply the beginning of responsibility.


SISTER MARY:
You sound disappointed in this singer.

PIUS XIII:
Not disappointed. Merely suspicious of men who preach survival but not salvation.

And there is another matter.

The woman he loves…

Gwen Stefani.

A luminous woman.

I fear she may be making a mistake with this judge of survival.


Sister Mary raises an eyebrow.

SISTER MARY:
Holy Father… you are recommending romantic alternatives now?

PIUS XIII (smirking):

Why not? Even the Pope can observe the crowd.

Perhaps she should choose a different man.

Someone from among the people.

Someone unexpected.

Someone like…

Niko Bellic.

A sinner who knows he is a sinner.

Such men are often safer than prophets who believe they are saviors.


SISTER MARY:
Holy Father… are you saying women should abandon men who think they are messiahs?

PIUS XIII:

Exactly.

The greatest danger in the human heart is the messiah complex—especially in men who believe they alone can survive the apocalypse.

So I propose a theological reform.

One mulligan.

Like in golf.

Every woman may have one free divorce in apocalyptic times.

Because if the world is ending, Sister…
we should at least allow humanity the dignity of correcting one terrible romantic mistake.


The Pope turns back toward the Vatican lights.

PIUS XIII (quietly):

After all…
salvation was never meant only for country boys.

Even the city slickers deserve a chance to survive.

Someone For Kylie

The Young Pope, Lenny Belardo, sits in quiet contemplation, gazing at the infinite expanse of the Vatican gardens under the twilight sky. The air is still, disturbed only by the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. He sips his tea—Earl Grey, as always—before uttering his thought aloud, not to anyone in particular but to the Universe itself.

“There is indeed someone for Kylie in this vast Universe,” he muses, his voice laced with both certainty and mystery.

The cardinals nearby, accustomed to his cryptic pronouncements, exchange glances. Is this a theological statement? A divine revelation? Or merely another one of Lenny’s enigmatic musings, floating like incense smoke into the heavens?

“Kylie?” murmurs Cardinal Voiello, adjusting his glasses. “Kylie Minogue, Your Holiness?”

The Pope smirks, his eyes twinkling with that rare mischief he reserves for moments of profound playfulness. “Perhaps. Or perhaps another Kylie, known only to God.”

The silence lingers, and the stars above seem to twinkle in silent agreement. Somewhere, across the vast cosmic expanse, a love meant for Kylie—whichever Kylie that may be—exists, waiting to be revealed in the fullness of time.