The final of three tales from fellow HWRNMNBSOL disciple Alan P. Scott.
We file into the sanctuary, folding into our pews. The Christ above His altar beams through His blessed agony. Oddly fixed in shape, just four tentacles and one sense-bud, eyes embedded in its hard shell. Yet He is Lord, and before Him we had none. So we sing His praises as we are able.
His spirit fills me as never before. I shove past limbs retracting and extending, stumbling to the altar. I kneel before His cross and swear: I dedicate myself to His service.
Tomorrow I have the operation. Four tentacles, and one sense-bud. Remade, in His Image. Amen.
In a perfect world, this would entice HWRNMNBSOL out of his lair, but apparently he requires a blood-sacrifice.
Time to hit the pet store.