Author's Note: This one-shot is essentially and finely based on Nirvana's song Big Cheese with which I'm crucially associating Nunsignor due to the lyrics and it became officially my favorite Nirvana song. Honestly, I really like Nirvana as a band for all Nirvana and Nunsignor even musical book enthusiasts, here's one-shot which will hedonistically feed you! I hope you like and enjoy this one-shot though it's not tremendously as long as it supposed to be as whether retribution or forbidden fruit! :))

Anyway I'm dedicating this one-shot to a prominent and immensely talented writer who's also amiable and likes Nirvana! I hope you like and enjoy this one-shot, sweetie! :)) <33

Trigger Warning for ✞Mentions of Sexual Content, Strong Language, Attempted Suicide, Gore and Death ✞

Big cheese make me! Mine says, go to the office,

How long it has been when Jude felt pearly prominent? Even hallowedly precious? Solely in Timothy Howard's divinely pristine, strong hands which had strength for galore of nimble even clumsy efforts, crafted and mastered by his own stark hands. From the small world of his own celestial dreams being inhabited, desires up to what the British compatriot was capable of slipping whether accidentally or on the contrary, impressively intentional. Maliciously as serpentine venom, dripping nimbly from its tongue and envenoming the target to pieces. Or for his good perhaps to wash his hands with the licentious filth and remnant of the already done dirty work, coating thickly, marvelously his pristine fingers?

Their minds were an absolute mess. Chaotic vortex they were whirling and twirling after the mess they've brought to one another, or rather the British aristocrat mudded her and she couldn't be on her own feet for a long time until an old friend aided her for her unrealistic insanity's salvation.

The inner voices even the ghost voices of the priest croaking the most shrilling roar to summon his henchman's spawn was inexorable and pitching Jude's mind even heart. Completely losing her own mind in a nirvanic head over heels in love phenomenon with an almighty revered, divinely venerated holy man who could be her much younger brother, but also her toy boy in the divine tiers of the church. Her mind didn't function rationally at all. It didn't assimilate the scorching hazards that might scorch any muscle and cell of her very being. What the hell she was doing with her own existence even when the former sleazy nightclub singer was just like every living being with her own needs and passions?

Big cheese make me! Mine says, one that stays,

After all, the nunnery deprived her from the free lifestyle which might be a plus and a minus for her in the same time. A plus to escape the somber, dilapidating remnants of her grim past and the carnal illness, ceasing her fertility and leaving her a desperate, lonely and childless woman. Escaping the attempted crimes with the cab-clad to a young girl in the blue coat's bones in a late night after another heartbreak because the soldier didn't take her home and the insane quantity of boozed alcohol, highly blurring her functioning vortex of thoughts and hazily and bluntly doing mistakes even mudding her own smooth path. Even when the nunnery was plus for her to be no longer the most notorious town pump in the small city of Massachusetts, she's still the same old Judy Martin. The same old whore. Sea of regrets on top of tempest waves of regrets flooded her guilty conscience.

Minuses of not living the rest of her midlife stage of her life outside the church and aiding the people even without taking solemnly her vows and her petite, gracefully slender figure donned in the miserable cloth of chastity. All dark as the mysteriousness of her arcane grim past. All rigidly and itchily wool as the scabby contritions, contaminating her unpeaceful soul unless prayers were recited or a special companion could console her.

Did the holy woman stayed with Timothy when he needed her the most? She did. What about him either? The crucial question yet spiraled in the chaos unanswered or rather answered with the wrong response.

Black is black, straight back! Need more enemies! Show you all what a man is,

Black is black as the sheer ebony darkness, cloaking everything living and translucent. Black as the death. Black as the sin. Black as the false promise. Black as the unrequited love. Black as the betrayal. Black had luxuriously cluster of incarnations, piling up in remnants of the sequence of lying, betraying, murdering, committing a sin or a crime and detesting.

Where are the enemies? Or on the contrary, who are the ones betraying, committing homicide consciously, bluffing, consciously despising and committing a crime against their sheer innocence and their benevolent nature and the hard work and the love they earned through the years of support, old good friendship and partnership?

How manly the ambitious Monsignor demonstrated he's once he confronted his rare bird with crystal clarity of detecting every lie and every flaw? Missing fragments of toxicity and once stable partnership and friendship with dilapidating puzzle fragments which were slowly but surely tearing off as if cataclysm was shattering to bones everything steadily and arduously built through the years of trust, platonic love, support and respect?

Big lies make my, Mine says go to the office,

Lies on top of lies were oozing as a luster fountain from the aspiring Monsignor's mouth once his false promises opted encouragingly persuade his rare bird her release will be arranged and they'll rise together in the highest tiers of the clergy. Lies sugarcoating the great deal of efforts which the Bostonian has sacrificed for the love of her life's sake to be currently a Monsignor, afterwards a revered Cardinal and eventually exalted Pope, dwelling out of the miserable Boston and dwelling in the divinest, goldest corners of Rome with the scarlet satin aisle as his path and sea of mere nuns, general population and priests bowing before him, stormily applauding him and croaking at the top of their brittle lungs his title and holy name. Heartbreaking lies sugarcoated and wrapped exquisitely in abstractly bright envelopes as eye candies and foreshadowing the sequence of the broken promises.

Still lusting after the wrong person who's the perpetrator of the fiery betrayal. Do the liars deserve a second chance and love? Even forgiveness? Forgiveness but never oblivion for their broken promises? Why the liars are ardently worshipped and deemed as Saints, overwhelmingly reigning their minds just to mess up their lives? Nobody ain't a Saint! Judy mustn't eavesdropping the inner echoes and following their instructions of her downfall and lusciously abysmal nemesis.

Big cheese make me! Message? what is it?

Still the rare bird, the big cheese of his heart, oozing of pure ego, pious warmness and hallowed benevolence and nonchalance. Did his flimsy heart even have modicum room for altruistic love and lust? Probably not! Or rather, love for the people who cared about him, aided him to accomplish his dreams after strong-willedly prevailing them. Flimsy heart full of ignorance and bleakness, swaddling icily in his ribcage and underestimating the monstrous efforts of the Bostonian in her altruistic sacrifice of time and in the name of their love which was scintillatingly blinding either of them especially the victim of falling in love.

As soon as the raised in the highest tiers of the diocese Monsignor's title was replaced with Cardinal and his happy journey to New York was the farewell of Timothy's silhouette for the rare bird, caged inside the lifelessly dull, hoary walls of the madhouse. Mirroring his spectral with his false hopes and the bare brilliance of the memories they've recollected through their dynamic roller coaster of their partnership. From their initial ever encounter back in the St. Andrew's church with the affable, formal handshakes, the idiotically glued uncontrollable grins glimmering across their bared teeth in the beaming facial attributes and the rubicund blush tinging their cheeks through the smooth path, strided effortlessly with the Friday coq-au-vin dinners up to their antagonism with one another.

She was his rara avis. He liked her culinary skills and they'd flee together to Rome with its aureate magical carpet.

The unbroken words were remnants of their unforgettable, unimaginable friendship between members of the clergy, sharing different interests, nevertheless, cooperating in the business somehow whether smoothly or roughly. Unimaginable friendship, full of paradoxal mysteries, arcane somehow romantic bond and potent chemistry which united them. Unforgettable due to the honed edges of the memories, assaulting her thoughts. Why they were vibrantly, nonchalantly contrasting the message, foreshadowing with the farewell they shared just before Timothy Howard's emigration to New York? Is that the message the traitor has addressed to his once beloved and most trusted henchman of his eerily delusional promises which were sugarcoated, sweetly syruped lies? Henchman, the marionette of the diocese and bowing before her own master whom she worshipped him with the cost of her life to grant him the supernal achievements he wouldn't reach even accomplish up to now.

Black is black straight back! Need more enemies! She eats glue how are you?

Darkness wonderfully overall hovering past and painting everything in ebony nuance, indiscernible anarchic midnight black, absenting the hopes of light and salvation was contemplated into the blonde's eyes, flaming back-breakingly the luminous light in her jewels to illuminate partly the pitch-black world that she's stepping. Why the twilight yet lingered all in front of her? That spoke trouble, of course!

Needless to formulate the reckoned general population, her recent worst foe was the one whom the blonde used to worship even having the impurest thoughts of of his pristine, alabaster fingers lingering in her cleavage even clawing heinously the silken skin of her thighs and waist, his nostrils inhaling the alluring fragrance of the rich lilacs' perfume, lacing Judy's lion mane of flossy old Hollywood gilded tresses that poked his chubby, well-carved cheeks. The breathy, firmly round-shaped breasts bouncing and brushing a toned, muscular chest with its peebled tiny, erected nipples whilst their naked bodies were grinding and synchronized in a choir. Generous layer of perspiration swelteringly coating their sexes and the breathless, lusciously fatalistic moans and groans limping from their wet tongues into the background in the angelic anthem.

Her excessive devotion to somebody the former promiscuous nightclub singer could be oblivious of Timothy's intentions benumbed her with the betrayal, false hopes and desolation.

Big cheese make me! Mine says, go to the office,

Was the former woman of the cloth was his rara avis yet even when he's no longer in the small city of Massachusetts? Or rather, his rara avis in her own reverie? When the pigs fly, her head was in the clouds, depiciting the unavoidably impossible scenarios that might be far from real or just a dream she's woken up promptly.

Was the blonde yet thinking of him when he wasn't there anymore with his own insatiable passions and childlike cloud-castles?

Big cheese make me! Mine says, one that stays,

Yet the inner voices of conjugated vowels and syllables conceived the friendly, tempting nickname and her smoky quartz jewels alight brightened with scintillating glitter with a smugly rueful smirk, dripping its own salty, gory tears to stain her alabaster, unblemished figure.

Rare bird was far from what Judy was exactly for Timothy. She was his holy bimbo. Holy whore. Devotional mistres that could nurture him.

Black is black, straight back! Need more enemies! She eats glue how are you?

Twilight yet chasing her and most of all, hounding her as casted shadows and demons from her gloomy, haunting past in the most somber, barren outskirts of her recent location. Just to laugh into her face due to her fiasco.

The foe was in New York with his bland lifestyle, hardly leaving the church's monumental, hardwood double door after the mass's assembles.

A few years later after the British compatriot's disappearance from the former licentious nightclub singer's life, still the false hopes chased her. The late 60s were there and still there. Nothing else happened! Nothing new! Nothing climbing upward the horizon for new, fresh hopes to grant modicum of trust in Judy's life to have a sequel and another alternative to lead her to find something immensely meaningful for her woe.

Black is black straight back! Need more enemies! Show you all what a man is,

The death was the sole salvation to release her wretched soul out of stench of lifeless bleach-clad notorious asylum. Shachath! She! The angel of death! The dark lady with the raven black, neatly trimmed and hairstyled mane, the fishnet dropping from her compact midnight black hat, capping her raven hairstyle, framing her porcelain, full profile with the flawlessly glimmering bloody red lips and celest blue embers, igniting compassionate sympathy and guiltless benevolence. More than ready to press a peck on the impending victim, succumbed in its own wounds, bleeding or demise. It was that dark lady whom Jude has encountered a few times. Not only in the restaurant just shortly after fleeing the bathroom and contemplating the reverie of her death scene, the opulent bloodpool, blanketing her motionless reclined corpse after slitting her own wrists with the letter opener and the eerily running jet water was splashing against the marbled, oldly filthy with limescale sink. Furthermore, their last encounters were in Briarcliff and on her death bed when the illness was consuming her and the demise was embraced with open arms.

Shachath's big cheese was each victim, succumbed by her kiss of the death to peter out every ounce and every ethereally endless pain.

The braveness in her final decisions to innocently end their lives was the genuine aesthetic of the death and the eternal sleep.

She eats glue how are you? Need more enemies,

Was she still the same in the purgatory? Is there actually a purgatory? An unholy atonement for the wretched and unhallowed souls? Once their impending encounter was situated in the purgatory, thereafter her trust would ebb out and defaulting with emptiness. There was no mercy between them anymore unless their hard work proved there was a redemption for both of them.

After the slitted wrists with the silver razor in the bathtub with its richly pooled heated water, Shachath visited one more person whose masculinity petered out to persistently persevere yet in his own life after the investigation over Briarcliff's nightmares and the former Nazi war criminal Dr. Arden. The clergyman wasn't bothered to embrace with open arms the demise after the siginifncant blood loss, succumbed in his own bleeding and lake of gore. The last thing he beheld just before flapping shut his eyelids was scarlet and ebony.

Was his former right hand still his rival?

Show you all what a man is,

One of the most tempting Achilles' Heel just pitched the purgatory where one more soul found a new home after the committed suicide. The ballad of the uncommon hush, the sole background noises of heels' drums against the floor and inhales and exhales were muting the eternal hush, alagamating and composing its own soundtrack.

Is the younger man going to demonstrate what a man he's in the absolute reality behind the invisible afterlife's realm walls and prove his own heinous deeds to his one of a kind rare bird? Are they yet the big cheeses to each other? The forbidden fruit was trickling its mouth-watering, luminous beads in a loop and deliciously being nipped by the former pious members of the clergy.