Inside the cramped confessional box, the uncanny castle-a-lick priest flipped open his laptop, settling in for a nude show—just as the Ministar of Roads and Toll Gates, Meeloopee, timidly stepped in. Oblivious to the trap set by his own Up and Down comrades, he took a deep breath.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Get to the point,” the priest snapped impatiently, barely glancing up from the screen.
Meeloopee sighed. “From every private-public partnership and build-own-operate-and-transfer (PPP & BOOT), I’ve been taking a tithe… for personal use.”
Hidden behind the screen, the eerie mole—armed with a recorder—whispered, “For now, your sins are not forgiven. Go in pieces.”
Before the confessional box could cool down, the delicate yet commanding voice of Choose Cassandra, the ex-Ministar of Hip-formation, filled the space.
“My husband inflated fertilizer prices. Forgive our wheeler-dealer ways.”
The Father Mole perked up, suddenly interested. “How much are we talking about?” he inquired.
When millions were mentioned, he nearly toppled over his laptop.
Then, as if the confessional had turned into a political catwalk, Silvermass, the Ministar of Else, sashayed in—short skirt, sunglasses, bareback, stilettos.
“It’s my fault hospitals have no drugs… we hid 67 containers because they contained empty boxes.”
The Pub Wattle-sponsored priest smirked. “Forget about your detractors—just procure the damn drugs!”
Satisfied with his haul, the castle-a-lick priest leaned back, ready to replay his secret recording. But horror struck—the confessions had blended with the audio from his nude show and were broadcasting live on Facebook.
Outside, a throng of citizens gathered, unable to tell the difference between the confessors and the confessors. It was evident that both were highly depraved. They both needed a Con-Court—Confessional Court!
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Get to the point,” the priest snapped impatiently, barely glancing up from the screen.
Meeloopee sighed. “From every private-public partnership and build-own-operate-and-transfer (PPP & BOOT), I’ve been taking a tithe… for personal use.”
Hidden behind the screen, the eerie mole—armed with a recorder—whispered, “For now, your sins are not forgiven. Go in pieces.”
Before the confessional box could cool down, the delicate yet commanding voice of Choose Cassandra, the ex-Ministar of Hip-formation, filled the space.
“My husband inflated fertilizer prices. Forgive our wheeler-dealer ways.”
The Father Mole perked up, suddenly interested. “How much are we talking about?” he inquired.
When millions were mentioned, he nearly toppled over his laptop.
Then, as if the confessional had turned into a political catwalk, Silvermass, the Ministar of Else, sashayed in—short skirt, sunglasses, bareback, stilettos.
“It’s my fault hospitals have no drugs… we hid 67 containers because they contained empty boxes.”
The Pub Wattle-sponsored priest smirked. “Forget about your detractors—just procure the damn drugs!”
Satisfied with his haul, the castle-a-lick priest leaned back, ready to replay his secret recording. But horror struck—the confessions had blended with the audio from his nude show and were broadcasting live on Facebook.
Outside, a throng of citizens gathered, unable to tell the difference between the confessors and the confessors. It was evident that both were highly depraved. They both needed a Con-Court—Confessional Court!
