Brother Mica

Brother Mica smiled serenely as he walked down the aisle to the pulpit. His sandals slapped down in a comforting rhythm against the stone slabs flooring the cathedral and his habit rustled gently against him, like the sussuration of wind in the leaves of trees. The congregation, four hundred and fifty of the faithful, quietly gagged on the stench that drifted in his wake. The most devout crossed themselves and observed that this must be a test from God; the less devout wished they’d sat closer to the flowers or the doors.
Brother Mica, ascending to the pulpit, paused to turn the fan on behind it first as it was a warm day inside the cathedral.
He never washed, not himself, not his clothes, not even his dish or his knife and fork. God had visited him in a dream and warned him of the heresy of water, and he had taken it to heart. Just that morning he had done penance kneeling in human ordure and had come straight to his flock.
He stood there in front of the fan, airing his dirty habit, and began to preach.

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