Somewhere romantic. Like the alley behind a restaurant. Or a volcano. Pope and Francis share a single stand of spaghetti. On a side note, I learned everything I know about romance from Lady and the Tramp and James Bond movies.
Pope: Francis, you complete me.
Francis: You complete me too, Pope.
Pope: No, I mean literally. Your limbs and head are a perfect match. I’ll finally be more than a torso in a chair.
Francis: But you’re already more than a torso in a chair. You’re a torso in a whicker basket.
Pope: If anything, that’s worse.
Francis: I thought you loved me.
Pope: I love myself, and soon your limbs and head will be part of myself, what’s the difference?
Francis: I don’t think you understand love.
Pope: I’m a torso in a whicker basket. It’s amazing that I can even talk.
Francis: So how does this work?
Pope: Just cut off your limbs and head and graft them to my body.
Francis: You want me to do it?
Pope: I’m a torso in a whicker basket, how am I supposed to do it?
Francis: On a purely practical level, what do I actually do? I mean, I could probably manage the legs, and maybe one of the arms, but I can’t cut off my last arm and graft it to you with it.
Pope: Obviously once I have one of your arms I’ll take over.
Francis: This doesn’t seem fair.
Pope: How could it not be? All’s fair in love and war.
Francis: War has Geneva Conventions.
Pope: Are you going to make me whole or not?
Francis: I’d rather make you whole emotionally.
Pope: Emotions don’t count for much without a face to express them.
Francis: I’m not sure that’s true. While Western culture may currently be going through a phase in which it defines itself by its outward expression through social media, I would argue that the true value of human existence is in the invisible journey we go through on the inside.
Pope: I want legs.
Francis: Fair enough. I’ll go find a saw.