Centuries hence when civilization has collapsed and survivors comb through our ruins they will come upon a large house. Searching the dusty rooms, they will find no books. The historian among them will remove his hat and whisper, “Their Kindle collection must have been enormous.”
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They will be startled out of their reverie by the sound of wolves howling, coming nearer. Their warriors will draw out from their packs full-length gauntlets that reach to their shoulder, tipped in bladed claws. These are weapons of the sacred second rite: bear arms.
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The wolves lunge from the shadows and clash with the warriors. There are too many, and the explorers are closed in. The only hope lies in the historian and his ability to open the sacred window to another world, present in every dwelling of the Ancient One.
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He approaches the sacred window, house altar of the Bright Lord. Its black rectangular surface reflects his face, and he knows he has been seen. He draws from his pack the sacred offering preferred by the Ancient Ones, an orange gourd stuffed with chilis: A spiced pumpkin.
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He trembles as he lifts up the spiced gourd. The Bright Lord remains silent. Behind the historian, half his guards have perished. Their blood stains the snow-drifts between floral sofas. He pleads with the Bright Lord, but the deity is silent.
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His only hope is the final ritual. He alone knows this secret, passed from his master as she lay dying. This ritual is most pleasing to the Bright Lord. He reaches out to caress the dark Plas-Tick surface then strikes it twice in rapid succession. Percussive maintenance.
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There is a groan, and the Bright Lord plunges backward. The cheap wall of the Ancient Ones has given way and fallen. The wolves are frightened by the crash and disappear. The Historian turns to his surviving men and shouts, “The Bright Lord has changed the channel of our fate!”
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As they escape back into the ruins, the Historian stops and picks something up. It is a piece of the Bright Lord, a fragment of divinity. He turns it over in his hands and pockets it, a sign of favor. They head home to their village, these last survivors of the tribe of Costco.
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my husband feels this way about Costco, too!