Clear the way or I’ll cut your eyes out and feed them to the gulls.
The honor guard lieutenant looked like he meant it. The wives dispersed, the men wavered to show their mettle before thinking better of it.
The auctioneer’s mustache was as shiny as Gavin Newsom’s hair. His purple coat and its fine lapis lazuli buttons gleamed. Sullen slaves shuffled under the weight of the tabernacle. The auctioneer gave his best kindly smile and directed them to place it on the dais. They stared at him, unblinking. Then they went.
Obviously, I need not explain what this marvel before us is. Bidding starts at $40,000.
Do I hear $40,000?! 43!
How about you sir, what do you dare before your people and gods? Do you know how rare it is for a man and lard to be mixt like this Substance is?
The crowd bayed in rapturous gnashing. The sight of the relic inflamed their passions. They pined for its aspect. Sotheby’s feared they would rush them and destroy the Substance.
Fishwives caterwauled, dispersing any sensible words said. Their husbands shuffled, wondering why they had been brought here so insistently. Children thrummed, sensing the power of the Substance.
Cats hunted the birds that had gathered to feed off Man’s leavings, leaping between His legs and punching holes in their necks. Gulls hovered, patient. Ants marched ceaseless and insensate to all the higher goings on.
So many lives meeting at a point where another’s had departed. Only lard held it firm.
The tabernacle looked rather cheap and a bit moldy. Some men did not credit that the Substance could be held in such. The lieutenant gave surreptitious orders to investigate any men with such eyes. A few days in the care of the Inquisitor for their children would cure them their heresy.
Notice the fine porosity between the cells of the Substance, so perfectly uniform as to witness Grace.
70 years the Substance was in the salt water, and it REMAINED. A hundred times it was tested!
Adulation.
AND A HUNDRED TIMES AGAIN!
THESE MEN DARED! THEY STROVE TO GO BEYOND OUR HORIZONS!
And even in their beatification, as the lard barrels rolled to their dry relics, they bore WITNESS to a miracle. Their flesh and the lard mixed so perfectly as to create the finest pemmican. A Miracle.
Somehow, the mob went dead quiet like their brainstem had been snipped. The cats sniffed eagerly. The gulls sought to dive, inspired by what they could see in their tetrachromacy. The honor guard shot them off.
It looked like a rectangular prism of buffalo shit. In the heat of the crowd, a bit of the fat rendered and ran off. It slumped a bit. There weren’t even any blueberries in it. Apparently the Spirit hadn’t moved to furnish them.
A man leapt up, his clothes almost as disheveled as his eyes. A pretty woman clung to him, obviously worried and exasperated.
100! I WILL DO ONE HUNDRED
Sold! to the man in the fine fur hat! Congratulations sir.