Satchel Gab/Satisfying Gathering
By Sam Thornley
I brought the gleeful gathering back to my man-cave, where I deposited my choicest friends in my artist’s chambers. After making use of the lavatory facility and arranging for the pickup of a certain Satchel, I returned to my studio, where my comrades reclined, chirping sweet praise of my hospitality.
My confidante, lieutenant, and hand-picked successor, Clarence, had not visited my man-cave since the previous week’s bash. Judging from his hearty chuckling and wide grin, he was overjoyed to be back where there was fun to be had. We conversed at length about the fate of the Satchel and indulged in no end of gossip regarding Desmond’s lamentable tardiness. Our Desmond could barely contemplate assassinating the Satchel’s previous custodian without ducking into confession, or embarrassing himself with some other kooky religious practice.
Mind you, there was something about that Satchel that brought out the faith in people. It had a certain mystique that could convert even the stoniest of atheists...
“Sebastian, I simply must inquire! Did you write this?” Clarence leafed through an illustrated anthology tome, obviously thinking that I had some hand in its creation.
“No, man. Fella by the name of Weary wrote it. Sometimes he goes by Blutig. He drew the pictures, too.”
“I love it! Shit, old thing, this lad has a beautifully gothic sense of humor and style.” I nodded assent. Desmond would have loved every last gorey detail in the book. If only he were here, instead of crawling about under some shaman’s skirts in the Realm of Religiousness. But who knew? I was soon to join him.
The next party I hosted was attended by a loudmouthed, drunken buffoon called Scott. Scott boasted tirelessly of his atheism and the services he rendered the teenagers he taught, or pretended to teach. He claimed to have visions of the educational, rather than spiritual, variety, but we all knew that the only vision he’d ever had was the falsehood that he could, and should, teach. How we pitied his students!
Scott was an atheist like us, but a crass and abusive one. Unluckily for him, Desmond chose to return with the Satchel on the eve of that party.
Desmond burst through the doors of my man-cave, brimming with spirituality. A theatrical madness danced in his eyes, inviting comparisons to the infamous Paint-Snorting Shanker of three years previously. Scott weaved through my comrades and retainers before coming to a staggering halt in front of Desmond. His bearded chin rose to Desmond’s breastbone.
Scott gibbered, “You can’t convert me, Mr. Government Agent! Gun for hire! Testament-quoting ponce!” Seizing the Satchel from Desmond’s grasp, Scott tore open its clasp. That was the last mistake he ever made.
A dark hand of smoke and soot emerged from the Satchel, punched through Scott’s chest, and lifted his wriggling form into the air. Then it lowered Scott into the Satchel, which quickly expanded to accommodate Scott’s paunch and ego.
After the Satchel closed again, the jubilations continued. But Clarence and I decided to excuse ourselves and take a walk around the neighborhood.
Near the Municipal Offices, we found a small obsidian shrine marked SATCHEL FAITH CENTRALITY. As a precaution, we agreed to leave a sum of money to compensate whoever had been offended. As far as I know, Scott was never missed.