before his mind fully registered the action of his body, his chubby fingers were dripping olive oil, his mouth suddenly stuffed with tomatoes, mint and cheese.

“Mmm,” Bertolli hummed through a full mouth, eyes blazing with joy. He had hardly swallowed when his hand dug into the bowl for another scoop. Bertolli’s brazen act freed the hands of his three mates, who rose from their chairs to likewise scoop from the bowl. With bare hands, they stuffed tomatoes into their mouths. Juices ran between their fingers and down their chins; olive oil shined upon their lips as they smiled and cooed with pleasure. Their cooing quickly turned to laughter as they dug their hands into the bowl for a second, third and fourth time. Laughing as they stuffed tomatoes in their mouths, laughing as they swallowed, laughing as they sunk their teeth into the hot eggplant and crisp bread. Tears began to well up in their eyes as their bliss transmuted into a weeping of sorts. And while their young minds did not realize it, for the very first time, Bertolli and his mates laughed and wept as adults. They had opened Pandora’s box to find it held a false demon.

The Good Padre, in his seemingly oblivious wisdom, just allowed the boys to be, offering no words or comfort beyond the quiet, unspoken calm he seemed to naturally exude. And when the festival of laughing and weeping and eating was finished and every tomato, eggplant and crust of bread devoured, the group fell silent, prayerfully so. And there they remained for several moments, heads bowed in reverence, tears of joy drying on their cheeks, bellies tingling with delight.

“Buono,” said the Good Padre, finally fracturing the silence.

“Buono,” the boys repeated.

Good it was, indeed, and as the Good Padre slept that night, so too did a goodly amount of liquid fill his bladder. The day’s excitement, the rigors of traveling by mule in the hot sun, and the evening mass had left him parched. He had been thirsty beyond measure, and during the preparation and consuming of his evening supper he drank two bottles of wine, the first one white and the second one red. For many, this would have led to an awful night’s sleep, ruined with sweats, spins and vomiting. But unbeknownst to the Good Padre, ever since his divine curse some centuries back, he’d become largely indifferent to the negative effects of alcohol and tended to sleep even more soundly after a bottle or two of wine. Regardless of intoxication, or lack thereof, it was a great deal of fluid to ingest so shortly before bed, and as the Good Padre set his head to hay for the evening he had more than a bucket of liquid swishing about his belly.

As the Good Padre slept, the fluids meandered the length of his intestines and slowly filled the cistern of his bladder. The liquid, however, kept coming. It occupied every nook and cranny until the final droplets trickled down and pressured the cantilever of his nether regions. As the night wore on, the Good Padre’s internal pulley drew taut, steadily growing and swelling into a volatile, voluminous and unbendable bastone.

Finally, the morning sun slivered through the muslin curtains of his open window and roused the Good Padre. He awoke in a leisurely fashion that belied the urgency of his engorged member and swollen bladder. He yawned, stretched and opened his eyes with a smile, silently thanking God for the gift of another day. True, the Good Padre desperately needed to flow his water, but there was no need for panic, no need to rush to the outhouse. He’d experienced this problem before and recently worked out what he felt to be a fine solution.

What the Good Padre used to do was place his left hand against the outhouse’s rear wall and lean at the most acute angle possible to reduce the degree to which he’d have to force his obstinate bastone downward. Alas, such a posture was strenuous to the point of undermining all the pleasure to be had as the bladder emptied. There was little choice, though, and over the course of his first weeks at the new parish, he withstood this morning ordeal until the day his support hand, in mid-release, broke through the outhouse’s old wood boards. Instantly, his arm sunk to the hilt of his shoulder and his barrel chest crashed against the wall. His personal mass was far too great and sudden a weight for such