Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [61]
He took us down into the “catacombs” of the seminary (a series of tunnels under the building) to perform a ceremony only he was allowed to perform. It was called the Rite of Exorcism.
Father Ogg was an exorcist.
It would be another three years before Hollywood would make Linda Blair’s head spin in the William Friedkin film, so all we knew of exorcism was that it was a series of prayers and rituals performed over the body of someone whom Satan had possessed. The devil would be cast out and the victim would be saved. We were told by Father Ogg that he had a “one thousand percent batting average” when confronting Lucifer.
“I always win,” he said.
He told us that he would show us the ceremony but it would only be “pretend,” as none of us had shown any signs of being consumed by evil.
Yes, but wouldn’t this be better, I thought, if there were someone here at St. Paul’s who actually was evil? Of course it would! And of course there was.
“Father,” I said with fake sincerity, “before you start, I think Dickie O’Malley is going to be really upset that we left him out of this. He keeps saying he doesn’t believe you’re an exorcist and that he’d like to see you try it out on him. Can I go get him?”
“Sure,” Ogg said, somewhat miffed that anyone would question his devil-disappearing powers. “But make it quick.”
I ran back upstairs and found Dickie where I thought he would be—outside the gym door having a smoke.
“Dickie!”
“Yeah, fuckface, whaddaya want?”
“Father Ogg says he wants you right now!”
“Yeah, well, tell him you couldn’t find me.”
“He said he saw you come out here to smoke, and that if you came now he wouldn’t turn you in.”
Dickie considered the offer of leniency carefully, took his last couple of drags, gave me a tap across the face, and followed me inside and down into the catacombs.
“Welcome, Dickie,” Father Ogg said with a sly grin. “Thank you for volunteering.”
Dickie looked at him with smug-filled puzzlement, but sensing that he was not going to be in trouble if he went along, he stepped forward, unaware of what was to happen next. I could only hope that in about twenty minutes from now there was going to be a new Dickie.
Father Ogg had brought an ominous black duffel bag with a red coat of arms on it and words embossed in Latin that I didn’t understand. He reached down in it and pulled out a shaker filled with holy water, some holy oil, about a half-dozen dried-out olive branches and, um, a leather rope.
“Now, normally, Dickie, I would tie you down so you wouldn’t be able to hurt me,” Father Ogg said to the snickers of those present.
“I ain’t gonna hurt you, Father!” Dickie protested. “And you ain’t gonna tie me up. I was only smoking.”
“Yes, sometimes smoke comes out of the possessed,” Ogg said. “A few have caught on fire. But I don’t think you have to worry about that tonight.”
The exorcist then launched into a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, words and language I had never heard. To see this jabber coming out of his mouth a mile a minute gave me goosebumps. This was the real deal! It scared Dickie, too, and he stood there dumbfounded at what he was witnessing.
“Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi Filili ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei Dickie O’Malley, quod Dominus noster ad templum, sanctum suum vocare dignatus est!” Father Ogg continued, spraying holy water all over Dickie. Dickie did not like that.
“C’mon, Father! What is this?!”
“Be still. I am casting Satan out of you!”
I thought, with that, Dickie would bolt. Priest or no priest, he was not going to stand there in front of a bunch of other students and be humiliated. Or have it implied he was in cahoots with the devil.
Instead, Dickie didn’t move. He was intrigued with the possibility that his accomplice was the mother