The Church of the Derived Mind

The celebrant is wearing a mumu. Everyone else is wearing a sensible, gore-concealing black robe and the celebrant is in a pastel-blue mumu. We’re treading slowly around the altar, our voices raised in one of those throat-twisting chants that bend dimensions and summon insane avatars of destructive deities, and the celebrant is acting like they’re at a luau.
Brother Mephistopheles speaks first: “That’s not acceptable dress for the Rite of Ashtoreth-Ba’al!”
“What?” The celebrant’s voice is squeaky like a man pretending (badly) to be a woman.
“You can’t wear that for this summoning! It’s not taking things seriously!”
“I am too! My robe’s in the wash.”
“Where’s your spare robe?”
“That goat we had last week ate it.”
Some of the chanters start coughing, as it’s not possible to chant and laugh at the same time.
“While you were wearing it?”
“The robe… or the goat?” The celebrant slashes angrily downwards with the kris and slices the sacrifice’s ear off.
“Watch it! You nearly had my eye out!” she yells.

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