Geopolitically incorrect short stories

Besa’s forehead is pressed deep into her palms. She’s praying. She’s Albanian. We work together. The only one I’ve grown close to. We make s**t money scrubbing shower stalls and bleaching blood-stained sheets in a crappy Italian hotel called *Caruso*. A disgrace to the song, really. Today we’re off, so we decided to linguistically confuse God in His own house. Across the street from the hotel, there’s a tiny Catholic chapel. Well—*tiny* is an exaggeration. I don’t think the Catholic Church even acknowledges the concept of *small*. Towering statues of the Virgin Mary loom over you, ready to fall and crush sinners flat. I miss the churches back home. Small wooden structures, tucked between Ceaușescu’s apartment blocks. Hidden from the Party’s eyes. Walls painted by hand, ceilings so low they press just hard enough on your chest to squeeze every sin right off your tongue. “Did you hear that?” Snaps me out of it. Besa’s staring straight at me. “What?” “There’s something under the pew,” she whispers, terrified. We pause our prayer experiment and begin to investigate. And there it is—smiling up at us from the shadows: a baby bat. “*Ia qifsha jetën!*” she yells. You don’t need to speak Albanian to catch the general sentiment. I just look at her. Wait. “You have to get it out,” she insists. My face drops. “Me?” Her eyes dart around like she’s searching for divine intervention. “Yes, you!” “Why me?” “Because you’re related!” she says, flailing her arms. “It’s a flying rat. What kind of family tree are you imagining here?” “From Dracula! You’re all descended from Dracula!” She bares her teeth like some sort of Balkan vampire detector. I sigh. I gently pick up the baby bat, careful not to hurt it. And then I sneeze. A Romanian and a bat—Italy’s worst nightmare. ---