The Good Catholic

Henry Charles Braithwaite woke up at 5:30 AM sharp. Rising from his bed, he was wearing cotton pyjamas, and his golden blond hair was an unruly mess. Sitting down at a desk in his bedroom, he turned on a lamp and began his day by reading a daily passage from his Douay-Rheims Bible. He then began praying the rosary, and asked God to smite his barbaric Pakistani neighbors. After this, he went to the bathroom, sat on the toilet, and defecated into the bowl. He did not own a bidet, as it was an effeminate French indulgence, and instead wiped himself with toilet paper that was so coarse it induced anal bleeding. He then showered, scrubbing his glorious Anglo-Saxon body and making it even more pure and white than before. He then dried off, put on a pair of briefs, and chose his outfit for the day. He fitted himself into a white dress shirt, a navy blue three-piece suit, brown Oxford shoes, and a red bowtie (the red was meant to represent the red-blooded patriotism of England, not any degenerate socialist ideology). Once he was dressed, he combed his hair and called for his maid, a homely Indian woman by the name of Lakshmi Kapoor. She had already prepared his breakfast, but was two minutes late in serving it, which filled Henry with a murderous rage that he managed to repress. The meal consisted of bacon, sausages, eggs, black pudding, baked beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, toast, and a cup of freshly brewed unsweetened tea on the side. After all, Henry was an Englishman; he needed a full English to start his day!

Henry was no common Londoner. His father was Colonel James Hargreaves Braithwaite, an influential officer of the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6 for those simpletons whose only knowledge of the glorious British intelligence community is from the James Bond films. While Henry respected his father’s line of work, he felt he was meant for other things. He graduated from Cambridge University with a Master’s degree in Philosophy and Theology, and made history by becoming the youngest board member of the Rockford Foundation. The Right Honourable Lord Rockford was a close family friend, and Henry’s professional life was devoted to the Foundation. However, Henry was also a man of faith, and his religious life took up a great deal of his time. The Braithwaite family had traditionally been Anglican, but ever since the Church of England went woke, Henry converted to the Roman Catholic Church and became a traditionalist Catholic. Despite his rejection of Anglicanism, he still loved and hailed its supreme governor, Her Majesty Elizabeth II, Queen of the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth Realms, as his rightful God-given sovereign. In addition, Henry also despised the current pontiff of Rome, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, and his disgusting communist views, no doubt informed by his irascible Latin temperament.

Once Henry had finished his breakfast, he called for his driver, a brutish Jamaican man by the name of Marcus Blackburn. Henry lived in a lavish house in the Kensington district of the city of London. When Marcus arrived in a sleek black limousine, Henry barked at him to drive him to St. George Catholic Church in the district of Islington. While Henry disliked the area, due to the large number of Irish people there, as well as working class people in general, Henry attended Sunday mass at St. George because it was the nearest church in London that offered the Traditional Latin Mass. The drive was only thirty minutes, so Henry couldn’t complain.

Henry arrived at the church, where several parishioners were gathered outside. Today was not Sunday, but in fact it was June 22, the feast day of Saint Thomas More. Henry enjoyed attending community events in his local parish, and particularly enjoyed lecturing boorish cradle Catholics on how much more of a devout Catholic he was than them. Before he could make his way to the crowd, however, he was rudely interrupted by an irritating female pest.

“Good morning, Henry,” the woman cooed. “How are you today?” This was Irena Dabrowski, a local parishioner and the daughter of Polish immigrants. She was an attractive woman, with a rosy face, chestnut hair, and a petite figure. She was wearing a long, flowing white dress, a white veil over her head, and flat dress shoes. Henry looked upon her with scorn. Her dress was too low cut, as her alluring collarbones were visible. Her dress was too short, as her tantalizing ankles were visible. Her dress shoes were immodest, as they revealed her enticing toes. Henry was so angry at Irena for wearing such an unchaste outfit; she was practically a succubus, and he had to fight the urge to tear her dress off and copulate with her right then and there. Damn that woman!

“Begone from my presence, you Jezebel whore!” Henry roared. “Do not present your body to me in such a carnal manner! You wouldn’t be fit to scrub my toilets, let alone sire my children!”

Shock spread across Irena’s face, and she ran off crying. Henry smirked and walked towards the church, knowing another devout convert and defender of the faith had triumphed in debate against a sinful cradle Catholic who sought to destroy the church from within.

Henry made his way inside the church, where Father Patrick Higgins was currently lighting candles that were set at the foot of an icon of St. Thomas More. Father Higgins, like Irena, was the son of immigrants, this time from Ireland, and had been a priest in Manchester before transferring to London. Fr. Higgins was an older gentleman, and he wore simple black cassock, as well as round spectacles on his face.

“Oh, good day, Henry,” Fr. Higgins said, noticing Henry in his peripheral vision. “I pray your day has been well so far?”

“Good day, Father,” Henry nodded. “Today has been fairly good, although earlier I was accosted by Irena. She tried to tempt me into committing sinful behavior.”

“That sounds a bit odd,” Fr. Higgins mused. “Irena is quite the modest girl. Ah, no matter, I’m sure if she did commit sin, she shall seek penance in the sacrament of confession.”

“Of course,” Henry replied. “So, lighting candles for St. Thomas More?”

“Why, yes, it is his feast day of course.” Fr. Higgins lit the last candle and looked at the icon. “To think that Sir More was martyred for his devotion to the Church in a Christian country. It’s quite sad, indeed, but I know he now sits in Heaven with the Lord.”

“It is sad, I suppose,” Henry added. “But still, wasn’t it irresponsible of him to betray King Henry VIII? He was executed for treason, was he not?”

“Sir More didn’t want to apostatize,” Fr. Higgins said, taken aback with shock. “Yes, Protestants are still Christians, but he didn’t want to stop following the Church he believed to be the true apostolic successor to Jesus’ ministry on Earth.”

“Well, Father, I am a monarchist,” Henry explained. “So I do believe in the divine right of kings. I believe monarchs are God-chosen sovereigns over the common people. So while I do follow the teachings of the Church, I do think it was wrong of Sir More to disobey his king like that.”

“Well, if you’re going to talk about political systems, you won’t get any sympathy from me.” Fr. Higgins frowned and crossed his arms.

“Oh, that’s right, you’re a taig.” Henry smirked, preparing a witty G.K. Chesterton quote in his mind to counter Fr. Higgin’s loony republican argument.

“Yes, I’m a son of Eire,” Fr. Higgins replied. “England was awful to the Irish for hundreds of years. They starved us and tortured us. We weren’t even allowed to meet for mass.”

“Well, I have no love for Cromwell,” Henry said. “That republican villain was practically a communist. But still, monarchy is the Biblically preferred form of government.”

“Not necessarily,” Fr. Higgins sighed. “There are plenty of Bible verses that speak negatively of kings. Besides, I personally believe spiritual matters outweigh worldly political matters. Look, I’m not saying to bomb Buckingham Palace or anything, but Henry, you’ve got to learn more about history. Britain’s been awful to Catholics for centuries.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Henry seethed, feeling like there was a knife in his back. He had already been betrayed by the Anglicans with their wokeness, but now the Catholics were attacking England and the glorious British Empire. It was vile modernist communism, just like the drivel that the Antipope Bergoglio spewed.

“Oh, I don’t?” Fr. Higgins asked, looking at Henry with concern, whose face was red and fuming mad. “I mean no disrespect to the country, Henry. I’m willing to debate this with you another time, but today is still St. Thomas More’s feast day. I’ve got to attend to that.”

“HE IS NO SAINT!” Henry screamed, throwing the icon of Sir More to the ground. “HE IS IN HELL FOR BETRAYING HIS SOVEREIGN AND RIGHTFUL RULER! JUST LIKE WHERE THAT COMMUNIST BERGOGLIO IS GOING!”

“You’ve just disrespected a Saint of the Church and the Pope,” Fr. Higgins uttered, trying to contain his own anger. “That’s close to blasphemy, son. I’m going to have to ask you to apologize.”

“NEVER, YOU VILE MICK! RULE BRITANNIA!” Henry lunged at Fr. Higgins and began punching him. The commotion alerted the parishioners outside, and several working class brutes pulled Henry away from Fr. Higgins and dragged him out of the church. Henry squirmed in disgust, feeling Irish and Polish hands all over him. Soon after, the police were called, and Henry was arrested.

Due to his family connections, along with the Rockford Foundation’s connections, all charges of assault and battery were scrubbed from Henry’s record, but Fr. Higgins filed a restraining order against him. Fr. Higgins communicated that he forgave Henry for attacking him and for disrespecting St. Thomas More and Pope Francis, but that he would not lift the restraining order unless Henry came to his parish and confessed his sins. Henry refused, for he knew these wicked cradle Catholics were now making up fake sins to beat true pious Catholics into submission and force them to accept modernity. Now distraught by this encounter, Henry looked into a pious union that perhaps was his true spiritual calling - the Society of Saint Pius X.