Mimicry 25

Agatha Durrem

I stand in the back of the hall, light slices its way through brown plasticized and still hairy hide windows. Ever since this chapter was established in the poorer districts, and when the services were especially droll, I'd stare out the windows and wonder what animal they were made of. We were taught of animals in school, creatures looking not much like us, take rats for example, but made of similar things. I've never seen anything other than an azulian or a rat, or other similar small furry creatures, flying things and insects and no one I know has either. Only the conspiracy theorists and outcasts who take up residence outside the wall say they've seen anything with a hide that big in that gangly tangly forest of theirs, and everyone knows how crazy they are. As such, like with the three gods, remembrance and varsita, I, being rational in character, conclude that such large animals aside from azulians, do not, will not, and have not existed.

The question then becomes not 'what is it made of', rather, 'who is it made of.'

My theory is that some long dead teller donated her skin so that the light of the impure world would be filtered through her hairy backside before coming into contact with the 'chosen few.' And going by pure square footage, Teller Pompous had some serious kind of love affair with food. I mean, she had to have had both front fat flaps and back fat flaps. It could not have been purely quachism, she must have had some kind of genetic disorder also.

"Agatha, if you could please do Ms. Gatlin's induction and read her the sacred rights?" Patron Bewe asks somewhat impatiently.

I sigh. Sliding my gaze over to look at him. He's average height for a male, taller than me but only because I'm younger and a bit short, slouching and far into his sixties. In other words, he's a fossil. Seeing as most of us have the courtesy to kick the bucket somewhere around our 45th birthday, he's probably holding on out of pure unfiltered spite for my mother. But he would never say that to me, because I outrank him by birthright.

He glares at me for being silent for as long as I am. His seniority gives him an annoying rebellious side, something most males don't have the luxury of. See, he has a scheduled meeting after this obligatory one and he doesn't yet know that he won't be making it today.

Most people think of him as the guy who does the sacrifices. The patron. Patron D. I think he's only kept his position this long because his mother held it before him and he forsook any chance he had at procreation to do what he really loves. Ritualistic murder. I think I could tolerate him, we're similar in the off-the-books pastime department, but... it's his whole... self righteous ritualism aspect that I just can't get over. Murder? Fine, whatever, but to target the same kind of people simply because of the way they were born? That's going a bit far.

"Ms. Gatlin, as a sanctified member of the religion, you will be required to perform the rituals and civic duties laid out in the code of Avola. You may at times find them distasteful." I drone, having had to give this speech a countably infinite number of times. "You will henceforth be bound by law to this commitment and should you shirk your duties, holy punishment will be immediate, as your actions will have been an offense to the gods before which this contract is bound." In other words, the holy righteous cult will hunt you down and kill you, if you're lucky. "In exchange," you will receive nothing."You will receive present life eternal in the world above our own." I gesture with grand vagueness to the mouldering grey ceiling. "Do you accept these conditions?"

Silence. Give it a second, brainwashing takes time.

I look over to Ms Gatln. She's a small woman about as wraithlike as me, but as per usual, taller. Her skin is a notably dark shade of brown and her brown eyes keep bugging out like her skin isn't quite tight enough to keep them from tumbling out onto the floor. Or it could just be nerves, according to outsiders, the religion is a terrifying manifestation of the great evil, and it's not an uncommon experience for me to get sticks crossed in my face by pedestrians roaming the streets during market week. Turin. Turin. Toktok morons.