True Believer 1
by David Mason
  Article # 267 Article Type: Fiction

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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