I work for the Vatican

"No. You don't understand." The priest said, leaning in slightly as he tapped his gloved finger on the plastic check card, and gazing sternly at the man behind the counter. "This card was specially given to me by the Vatican as an expense card..." He asserted calmly, the rings around his eyes conveying a deep sense of exhaustion. "...I work... For the Vatican."



He stopped to allow for the weight of his words to set in for a moment before continuing. He briefly licked his lips then spoke slowly, with his thick Italian accent rolling around lazily in his mouth, "I'm here on a special mission for the Pope. And this is my expense card. If you can't take this card, then I have no cigarettes to take in the car to Tulsa. If I have no cigarettes, then I become fussy and light-headed. If I become fussy and light-headed- then I will be in no condition to drive to Tulsa. If I'm not in Tulsa by tomorrow, I will have failed my mission- you understand?"
"I have no idea what that thing is." The young man behind the counter said, only allowing his eyes to glance down as he pointed, palm up, to the gold and silver plastic card. His body was rigid, as if anticipating something. "I can't take that- it's not a choice of mine. It's not any of the major credit card companies, so it's not going to work. It's not even diners club."

The priest, raising himself up from the counter, sighed as he removed his gloves and passed his bleach white hands through his hair. He stared up at the cigarette kiosk over the clerks head for a moment. Then, resting his hands firmly back down on the counter, he looked the clerk dead in the eye and said softly. "Just try the card."
"Look, It's not anything against..."
"Just try the card."
"If you can't pay for this with something else then..."
"Just. Try. The. Card."
"Seriously, I'm going to call the cops."
"Hey-sus kris-tee!" The priest whispered as he backed away from the counter and clasped both his hands together so that all the fingers were intertwined and resting over his knuckles, leaving only his index fingers protruding up and uniting at the tips. These, he rested against the indent on his upper lip and closed his eyes. There was a silence, then a loud exhale from his enormous nostrils.

"I am about to tell you something that you are not prepared to hear." he said, his fingers still positioned on his lip. The man behind the counter slowly slid his hand down beneath the register. "I don't expect you to believe me but I will tell you anyway- Though you are not deserving..."
"Alright, look." The clerk interrupted, "I'll slide it through, but don't get pissed if it's rejected. Alright?" he added, his head turning and bowing slightly so that he was glaring at the priest from one side of his face. "This is fair." The man said after a moment.

The Clerk slowly lifted his hand and took the card, all this done through a keen sense of touch since he never actually took his eyes off the pale, white hands of the priest. Glancing only to make sure that the magnetic strip (which, instead of the standard black or brown, was a glittering white) was facing the right way, he swiped it one way. Then he swiped it the opposite way before finishing it with a swipe in the original direction. The register hummed, then clicked and beeped. Both priest and clerk looked at the display which blinked 'Call in'. "Weird." The clerk bleated awkwardly.

He backed a few steps, and felt for the phone which hung on the wall. Reading a number which was scribbled on a crinkled and worn post-it note, he punched in the 1-800 number. Then, when the automated voice asked that he punch in the credit card number, the quite tones of the pressed numbers only chimed four times. Then he raised the receiver to his ear and winced slightly as he awaited the rejection. After a moment a man's voice spoke, "It's ok, give him whatever he wants."
"Wait, what?" The clerk demanded. The mans voice, which had a familiar southern accent, repeated what he had said. "This is ridiculous!" The clerk yelled. "His card is clearly a fake! Who is this?"
"The president of The United States of America, son, Just give him the items he wants and let him get on his way."
"Fuck it!" The clerk said, slamming the phone down and shrugging his shoulders. Walking over to the register he began pulling out all the bills and tossing them to the priest, who accepted them without any sense of surprise. Then, the clerk pulled an entire carton out from the kiosk above. There was a sliding sound followed by a dull thud. He pulled that carton out as well and handed them over to the priest. "Anything else asshole?" he added as innocently as if he had replaced the word 'asshole' with 'sir'.
"No." The priest said calmly, the words squeezing out of his mouth like play-dough. "This will be fine. Actually, now that I think of it, If I could have your shirt I could use it as a disguise."
"Oh I know! I was thinking exactly the same thing!" he said as he all but ripped his t-shirt off from over his head.

A few months after that incident, he had began noticing little old women passing by the bay windows of his store. They looked to be in their 60's and wore dark handkerchiefs over their heads. They always made minimal eye-contact, before moving on. But over time they blatantly stood outside his door and mumbled to themselves, holding rosemary beads and clutching them to their chins and chests. Months after that, he had to wade through the clutter of photographs, candles and flowers that were laid at the foot of his door when he tried to open in the morning. Local news crews came and went, he did an interview or two and eventually quit- never really knowing what all the attention was for. Once, after drinking on the job, he threw the doors open and screamed at the pilgrims demanding to know what was going on. As a response he was flooded with tossed roses and beads.