"Steve!" yelled Teri. "Watch out for that alligator!"

"Crikey!" cried Steve as he jumped back from the lunging reptile. "She's a bloody rippah!" Steve dropped his nine iron and lunged back at the alligator, landing full on top and wrapping his arms around the squirming reptile's jaws. "Quick, Teri. I need something to tie the head up with."

Teri ran back to the 4X4 and rummaged around in the back. Finally she found something that could be useful. "All I can find is this corset, Steve. The fancy one, with the bullion hem."

"Bummah. It'll have t'do."

Teri ran back to her struggling husband and wrapped the corset around the alligator's head. Immediately it calmed down, and Steve relaxed a little. He looked up at the camera and said, "This is the American Alligator. It lives in swamps and mangroves around here. Sometimes they get into man made water holes, like this one here, and then they become problem animals. I'm just glad I caught this one before it could hurt anyone. Or anyone could hurt it."

The authorities showed up then, and with the help of Steve and Teri, loaded the alligator into the back of their truck. Then they drove off in search of a nice but distant water hole to release it in. Steve looked up at the camera. He was covered in mud and had a small cut over his eye from the thrashing alligator. "Crikey, she was a tough little beauty. I'm gonna need some of that Mojito at the nineteenth hole. Or that stuff with the bat logo, whatever it's called. I s'pose that's what you get when you golf in Florida, right?"

Gather 'round, young and old, to hear a tale of love, gained and lost, and of desire, ardent but unsatisfied. It is a long and sordid tale, one that will leave you shaken, yet wanting more.

This tale takes place on a cold, dark night in rural Wyoming where one who has taken vows is about to indulge in the sins of the flesh...

Brother Francis Xavier sat alone in his tiny monestery cell, lit by the flickering flame of a solitary candle, glancing furtively at the small window on the door. The window stayed dark, and he relaxed, turning back to the sumptuous temptress, cradled lovingly in his pudgy hands. "Oh, I could never live without you." His voice was strained with desire. "I know I took vows against the sins of the flesh, but I can never give up this one last pleasure!"

The temptress said nothing in return, though Francis Xavier had not expected a reply. He inhaled the heady scent of sassafrass that wafted from the incense burner smouldering on his small, simple bedside table.

Francis Xavier jerked upright guiltily, trying in vain to hide the curves of the temptress behind him. "Uh, Father Gustav . . . . How, uh . . . nice . . . to see you." He smiled innocently.

Father Gustav raised one busy eyebrow, not a good sign. Redness was slowly creeping up his face.

Francis Xavier squirmed under that penetrating glare. "It's not what it looks –"

"Don't try to deny it!" Father Gustav had worked himself into a frothy rage, and his voice boomed in the tiny cell. "It is acts such as these that put the hegemony of this, our most sacred church, in grave peril. This . . . this adiction of yours, it must be stopped! It is as an albatross about your neck!"

Francis Xavier quailed. He hadn't thought such a minor transgression would cause such a kerfuffle. "But Father," he began lamely.

"No," cried Father Gustav. "No more excuses! Go now to the chapel and pray for forgiveness. You will not stop, nor even move, until I say so. Is that clear?"

Francis Xavier stood, his head hung not only in shame but also to hide the expression of unrequited desire that twisted his features. "Yes, Father," he said dejectedly, then trudged from his cell.

***

Father Gustav watched his stray sheep disappear around a corner, then reentered Francis Xavier's cell. The temptress still lay upon Francis Xavier's pillow, motionless and silent. Father Gustav smiled broadly and closed the door behind him. "Alone at last, my dear. What wonderful music we will make together." He chuckled lightly. He stepped forward and took the temptress gently in his hands. His lips parted in anticipation of the delights to come. "Come to me, my dear . . . ." He closed his eyes as his mouth met the sweet, icing-covered dough, as his teeth bit down and lovingly tore a chunk away. He sighed in the deepest of pleasure; it had been so very long since he had last had a donut.

Part II

Francis Xavier trudged down the dusty road, pulling his fedora low over his eyes as feeble protection against the broiling summer sun. His feet ached from days of walking, but he was only a poor former monk, unable to afford any other conveyance but his own two feet. He was exhausted, but there was no turning back.

It had started a week before when Francis Xavier had been bamboozled out of his sweet apple fritter by the odious Father Gustav. Francis Xavier had lost all his spunk, his lust for life, after that incident. It had driven him out of the monastery and into the great unknown in search of someone who could help him find revenge.

The day wore on into night, and it began to rain. Francis Xavier was close to despair, ready to lie down and die right there in the ditch, when he saw a beam of light cutting through the sheets of rain. It was a sign. His quest was over.

It was a small tavern, light streaming from the windows. Francis Xavier cautiously pushed open the door. He entered into the empty common room. “Hello,” he called. “Is anybody here?”

A wizened old man emerged from the back room. The sweet smell of baking wafted after him. “It’s about time you showed up, my son. Come, I have something for you.”

Francis Xavier obeyed, startled by the sudden voracity of his hunger, brought on by the smell of baking. He sat at a small table in the kitchen while the old man peered through the window of a small oven. “They’re almost ready, my son, be patient.”

Francis Xavier’s mouth watered as he sat in anticipation. He knew not what was baking, but the aromas wafting from the oven were almost tactile. He could stand it no longer. He opened his mouth to ask how much longer it would be. The oven began to buzz, signaling it was done. Francis Xavier closed his mouth without speaking, afraid he might drool on the table.

The old man pulled the baking sheet from the oven and placed it on the table. Francis Xavier did not recognize what he saw, but they smelled wonderful. The old man picked one up, juggling it from one had to the other as he blew away the steam, then handed it to Francis Xavier. “Here, my son, try this. It will cure you of your addiction, the one that has plagued you your whole life.”

A small voice in the back of his head wondered idly how the old man had known about his addiction, but his hunger overrode the voice. Francis Xavier snatched the baked good from the old man’s hand and gobbled it down.

Francis Xavier had once thought that nothing could replicate the pleasure donuts had brought him in the past, nothing could be so sweet and soft and warm. This did more than just replicate it, however. This surpassed it.

“What is this thing?” asked Francis Xavier as he gestured for more.

The old man smiled kindly. “It is a chocolate chip cookie, my son.” The old man’s smile widened into a malicious grin, but Francis Xavier took no notice. “It is a chocolate chip cookie, and now you are its slave.”

Part III

Francis Xavier sat cross-legged in the centre of the straw mat, back straight, hands curled loosely over his knees. He could smell the heady scent of the anise seeds tossed on the floor, their aroma an aid to his meditation. He opened his eyes and watched as the last of the sun’s golden rays dipped behind the distant mountains. His lips curled in an unconscious snarl. Father Gustav lived in those mountains.

Francis Xavier pushed all feelings of anger from his mind and rose from the mat. He padded silently across the room, down the dim hallway and into the small dining room. Milis the Master Baker sat at the table already, his wizened old head bowed over the mauve floral fine bone china dinner plate, piled high with the Sacred Cookies. “My son,” he said, as Francis Xavier took his place at the table. “It is time.”

Francis Xavier blinked. “But Master, I am not ready.”

Milis smiled. “Yes you are, my son.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a small, finely wrapped package. “This is for you. It will help you on your quest.”

Francis Xavier took the package with shaking hands and unwrapped it carefully. He lifted what appeared to be a pair of pink underpants. His breath caught in his throat. “Are these . . . ?”

Milis nodded. “Yes, they are Sir Carl’s Rose Panties. He was once one of our finest acolytes, but alas, he took up with those damnable wino Parakeets. I have never seen anyone wield Smarties quite like he could. Or, at least, not until you appeared at my door.”

Francis Xavier blushed and put the venerable panties into the pocket of his robe. “Master, you are too kind.”

Milis only smiled. “Take a Sacred Cookie, my son, and let us now pray.”

***

Francis Xavier took in a deep breath of the brisk night air, then approached the man at the gate with a wide smile. “Brother Bullwinkle? Is that you?”

Brother Bullwinkle squinted, then returned the smile. “Brother Francis! It’s been, uh, well. . .” He counted on his fingers, frowning. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes it has. I’m here to make amends with Father Gustav.”

Brother Bullwinkle’s frown deepened. If he had been any smarter, or if his trusty companion, Brother Rocky, had been near, he never would have let Francis Xavier through the gates. He, along with every Brother in the Monestary, had heard the final pronouncement by Father Gustav, and the final threat of Francis Xavier. Fortunately, Brother Bullwinkle’s memory was not what it should be. “Alright then. He’s in his quarters.”

Francis Xavier nodded his thanks and entered the courtyard. Once inside, he slid into the shadows, shed his well-worn travel cloak and fedora, pulled on his black mask and disappeared into the dim corridors of the Monestary.