Hocuspious

Padre Pio – the man with bleeding hands, a direct line to heaven, and amazing patience with fascist regimes. He blessed Mussolini's troops, healed the sick, spoke with angels, and hated women in trousers – a true all-rounder of the spiritually exceptional.

He founded a hospital, sure, but faith healers with PR appeal are rarely entirely trustworthy to the Church. Too good for business. So he was canonized – and then stuffed. Now he lies under glass, smiling as a mummified collection box into the flashlights of pilgrims.

His tomb, a pilgrimage site of such enormous monstrosity, one might suspect that God himself is buried here.

At the exit: the devotional shop. Rosaries, Pio keychains, blessing sprays. No wonder he hasn't risen from the dead—he sells too well lying down.