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HOLY FUCK (No pun intended), IT'S THE FUCKING POPE.

Those were the last words that came out of my mouth before I was sent to this place.

I must recall my experiences.

I grew up Catholic; in my childhood before all this Backrooms nonsense, I believed in God, the Catholic Church, and the Pope. Something about Pope Francis's charity and generosity intrigued me, so I set out on a trip to Vatican City to meet and receive blessings from Pope Francis.

Unfortunately, the trip did not go as planned—I ended up having to use the restroom in Italy. Something about that restroom, however, was off. I was minding my own business, looking at the mirror while washing my hands in the public restroom. However, the mirror immediately shattered into pieces, and I looked behind me, ready to pull the alarm and call for help.

Unfortunately, I was too late; I fell through the ground, ending up in Level 0. An M.E.G. operative introduced me to the area—I was unfazed; I wanted to go back to Vatican City. It was impossible, as the operative solemnly said.

I'm stuck here. But my faith in God prevailed. This was all a test to see if I'm worthy of meeting the pope. Or so I thought.

I endured through Levels 0-49, determined to get to my destination—the beach of Level 100. So much painstaking work, so much wasted time.

I eventually reached my goal, but guess who was standing right there, staring off into the ocean?

A quiet whisper escaped from my lips:

"Holy fuck, it's the fucking Pope."

I really shouldn't have sworn, because the Pope turned around, stared at me for a few seconds, and shook his head.

He chastised me. Scolded me. Reprimanded me.

Now, I must face punishment for my sins.

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