Scott Barton was swilling a Holy Ghost and wolfing down a Brahma Burger
at the counter of the Divine Light Bar & Grill when he felt a tap on
his shoulder. He wiped at the Serenity Slaw dripping from his chin and turned
to find a leprechaun, a man dressed in the 'chaun's requisite green, a merry
man, a man who bore not the weight of the world on his shoulders: this was
the tapper. "Excuse me Sir, but I can tell from your nerdpocket
that you're a True Believer." Barton's hand reflexively brushed against
his Pelikan 800 with the Saint Binder stub, his PFM III snorkel filler,
his cocoa P51 and the ikon de resistance, a red ripple Waterman 52 with
the #2 superflex nib. What could a leprechaun care about pens? Didn't they
just dance around the woods (well, in sunny Miami it was more like the jungle)
and worship trees or something? Barton hemmed and hawed, "Well,
I'm not technically a full member of the Church of the Inky Pinky, but I
do believe that many of their precepts have some validity in today's troubled
times, and, and...." "But the pens! The pens! The pens are
the key!" enthused the little green man, with breath from beyond the
grave. Apparently the little man was a member of the sect of Smokers too.
His green makeup was a little smeary around the mouth and his hat-bell a
little tarnished. It was rare to meet a full leprechaun who dabbled in side
worship, and this guy was both a smoker and a penhead. Although polytheism
was more common than not "in these troubled times" thought an
annoyed Barton, he had always thought of the leprechauns as basically a
pre-literate society, certainly not one of the religions he'd recommend
for his clients. He guessed that the 'chaun, being a bush-dancer, was in
town for the Motion Emotion Convention being held at the Coconut Grove Civic
Center, a celebration for all the kinetic religions: disco dancing, running,
rollerblading monks, hopscotch, frequent flying nuns, you name it. Everything
had a theology and a tax-exempt church behind it by now. Scott finished
his Holy Ghost with a slurp and turned his full attention to his accoster.
"What's a leprechaun want with pens, anyways? I thought you guys
sang everything?" Solemnly, the 'chaun replied, "For our own
occult purposes, we sometimes follow the precepts of the Sacred Line. Beyond
that I can say no more." The Doctrine of the Sacred Line held that
all writing, all drawing, even the lines on the road were ultimately connected
to one other and by following the interrelationships one would eventually
arrive at the Lost Mysteries of the Ancients. Barton was supposed to know
all this stuff. He worked as a religion broker, matching clients to faiths
according to their spiritual needs, dearths in their souls and, not least,
their ability to donate and donate big.
Ever since everything had become sacrilized in the late '00's, the variety
of religions had flourished to a staggering degree. Some cynics went so
far as to claim it was mainly for tax purposes. Barton's wealthy clients
simply didn't have time to shop for beliefs themselves, so he started from
general principles and worked towards specific goals of salvation on their
behalf. He took no money from his clients, preferring instead to take a
percentage of the take from the churches when he landed a big fish.
Barton fired up a Profoundo and paid off his waiter, a NeoGoth by the looks
of him. He had a meeting with a client, a big fish from the looks of him,
at his office in a few minutes and he had to find a way to shake off this
little green creep with the unhealthy interest in his pens. As he exited
the Divine Light he began to launch an advanced sinusoidal excavation to
see if he could gross him out: leprechauns were notably fastidious.
Picking one's nose in public was nothing new these days, people just figured
he was among the members of the sects of Eliminators. Barton had to skirt
the Temple of Transcendental Defecation as he fended his way back to his
office through the thronging crowds, penheaded leprechaun firmly attached.
There was a noisome demonstration ongoing in the walk surrounding the temple.
A vocal minority known as the Retentives were protesting the election to
the church council of Vladimir Bloof, a noted advocate of digestive flow.
The Expulsives believed that the finest religious experience came through
an ongoing process and advocated the consumption of mass quantities of fatty
foods, roughage, prune juice and milk of magnesia. The Retentives believed
that the most cosmic results came in concentrated little nuggets of religious
ectasy and hence advocated fasting, rest and Imodium. "Heathens!"
"Infidels!" shouted the protesters. "Down with Profligate
Immoderacy!" read the signs.
An offshoot of the temple known as the Flatulators had set up a booth on
the sidewalk and were dispensing free samples of baked beans and cheap American
beer.
Picking his way through the protest, Barton considered strategy for the
upcoming meeting with his client. Louis B was a restauranteur who laundered
drug money for the Mafia. At any given time he owned at least half a dozen
restaurants, buying and selling them prolifically to keep the IRS confused.
He had come to Barton through a referral from one of his bartenders, looking
for some sort of redemption. He needed a brand of salvation that was suitably
pious, not too time-consuming nor too pathological and, most importantly,
one that wouldn't interfere with his livelihood. Barton was considering
referring him to the Methodists. Mr. B certainly didn't look like a yogi,
skateboarder or vegetarian; more like a bowling ball, frankly. Mr. B always
signed his contracts with an Omas Arco filled with blood, ostensibly beef
blood from one of his restaurants.
Barton shared an office and secretary on Commodore Plaza with five other
businesses. Downtown office space had become so precious and technology
so efficient that it only made sense for independants to band together.
Besides, polytheism had become so rampant in recent years that the packaging
opportunities were often quite attractive.
Approaching Scott's office on the south end of the plaza, he figured out
how to ditch the leprechaun. He whipped out his card case, offered one to
the leprechaun and said, "Look, if you're thinking of changing
religions that's my line of work and my initial consultation fees are very
reasonable." Leprechauns were notorious skinflints, too. "Give
me a call and we'll arrange a payment schedule and set up a..." the
'chaun was gone.
Barton turned into the outside stairwell on the converted apartment complex
that housed the office and climbed to the second floor. The walls had been
knocked out between apartments 216, 218, 220 and 222. They shared a common
reception area. Cleverly, there was no business name on the outside door
so that clients of the various firms just might think they were engaging
the services of a megalithic conglomerate.
He was supposed to meet Louis B at the office and then proceed to what Mr.
B referred to as "Le 'appy 'aroor." Mr. B was Italian, but he
spoke English with what he fancied as a French accent because he thought
it made him sound less like a goombah. Eurotrash all, thought Scott Barton.
Having successfully engineered his release from the pest, Barton entered
the command office to find an uproar. "The Swami's been kidnapped!
The Swami's been kidnapped!" shrieked Veronique, the generic secretary.
One of his officemates was Swami Abdul Witherford O'Steinberger. "What
happened?" Scott asked Lila Shook, the iris-reader. "How do you
know he's not just... off, somewhere?" The Swami had the somewhat unfortunate
habit of going on week-long benders. "We have a note! We have
a note!" Scott stooped to examine the missive. The note was handwritten
(in Sheaffer's Peacock Blue, thought Scott) and ostensibly from the "One
Truth Temple".
RENOUNCE YOUR WICKED WAYS! THERE IS ONLY ONE TRUTH! CALL THE POLICE
AND THE SWAMI DIES!
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