EPTWhile walking the dirt road, using the last moments when the immediacy of the end of my journey wasn’t clouding my judgement, I was wondering. How come there were so many fresh tracks on this road yet I was the only one visible as far as my eyes could reach? It was the middle of the day after all, the sun was blasting my poor, exposed head while in zenith and yet nobody was traveling. Wait a second. Maybe I should take a break too?
On my left there was a wheat field, still green but already almost at it’s full height and on the right, a sparse, mixed forest offered a little shadow while threatening to kill anyone daring to travel through it with it’s root traps camouflaged in the thick foliage. The road itself still had small puddles of, well, mud at this point from yesterdays brief rain making my shoes look like I have just visited a pigsty, at least to someone without a nose.
So imagine me, meandering between the treacherous mud traps and, at the same time, trying to spend as much time in the cool shade of the nearby trees as possible, looking like I’m drunk out of my mind before noon, and paying great attention to the trees on the left, trying to find a nice spot to rest through the worst part of the day in.
About a quarter of an hour has passed and I finally managed to find what I’ve been looking for. A small clearing in the trees, a quiet babbling of a stream hitting a fallen tree trunk, and most importantly the smell of roasted poultry, all conveniently located right next to this wagon or originating from nearby it. I quickly dashed into the trees, keeping a polite distance from the wagon, and hydrated myself lavishly from the stream while waiting for an invitation to the camp. I could already see they had a sizeable fire there and had a couple small birds roasting on it. Whoever is camping, the wagon hides them from me, so I make some noises people make when they want to be noticed, spouting bullshit like “nothing like some clean, cold water for a weary traveller!!!11 oneon”.
Not a minute has passed and a woman walked from behind the wagon and started walking towards me. I quickly dried my face with my sleeve and wondered if my face is as dirty as the bottom of my clothes. I also quickly run my hand through my hair to make it a bit less of a mess. All of that had to do with the fact that all about the woman approaching me said she is one of those you hire for both protection and the eye candy. As soon as she came close enough to me to be able to talk without shouting she stopped and said:
-Hello there traveler! What brings you on this path? Is it the Shitpost perhaps?
-Indeed it is! I am a devout shitposter and this is the first pilgrimage of my adult life. I am rather excited I have to admit, even if the journey has worn me out somewhat already- I answered with enthusiasm.
-A fellow shitposter! Well, my master hired me to get his fat ass over to the Temple of the Post so why don’t you join us on our way there? Come, I’ll introduce you to him.
She waved at me to follow her and quickly marched back to the wagon, revealing she had at least two daggers on her belt, hidden behind her back expertly. Slowed down by the view, I took a few seconds to follow her. She went straight for the fire and started to tend to the meat, it’s smell wrenching my stomach tortured by a diet of ancient bread and berries for the past couple of days. I turned to the woman’s master, who revealed to be a spherically obese man sitting on a tree trunk, two cleaned bird skeletons already laying by his feet and yet he still looked impatiently at the woman handling the next two.
-Hello- I said to the man, bowing a bit- My name’s Qbek and I was offered to join you on the journey to see the glory of the Shitpost. I hope you don’t mind.
The man shrugged and extended his arms towards the woman, who was carrying the freshly roasted birds towards him. As he grabbed one out of her hands, she said:
-My master does not talk a lot, but he doesn’t mind you joining us- She smiled and handed me the other bird, which turned out to be a small pheasant and added- Mister Bartholomew Muhshit is a silent but very generous man who likes to enjoy every single bit of food life can give him.
-Pleasure to make your acquaintance mister Bartholomew- I said to the man and sat down on the ground.
-Please, just Bart. He hates his full name- the woman said quickly, but the man looked rather happy. That was probably the meat though.
-Sure, sure. And what is your name fair lady?
-My name is Cersei Lannister- She said, with a smug smile.
-What?! You’re not even blonde!
-Fuck off.
We have finally arrived at our destination, and just in time too! The Day of the Posting
was today and the town was swarming with pilgrims and monks. We had to leave the wagon amongst the tents on the outskirts and have already been working our way through the crowd for a couple hours when Bart finally lost his patience. He growled like some sort of wild animal, his face got even redder than usual and started to push through the crowd like an unstoppable mantank he was. Me and “Cersei” used him like an icebreaker and casually strolled down the street while the other people on the street were busy falling over and being outraged by such unheard of behaviour.
Bart did not slow down until we have reached the first gate of Temple of the Post where the crowd got too dense even for him. That doesn't mean he stopped, he just returned to the glacial pace we advanced at before he became religiously enraged. As we slowly walked into the vestibule the bells in the Temple’s bell tower started ringing, letting everyone know the reliquary was about to start opening, the sound of pounded brass causing Bart to double his pace again.
The vestibule was a large rectangular room, with gold ornaments being the theme of everything in it including the floor, the ceiling and the monks staying by the Reliquary Door. The Door itself was a large, golden construct decorated with the weirdest scenes imaginable carved in gold. They say the man who sculpted the thing separating the holy Shitpost from the eyes of the unworthy has transcended the ways of mortals and reached into the realm of True Shit, the ornaments on the door being the best depictions of his visions this world could handle. As I was contemplating the enlightening imagery, the door started to slowly open. All I could see at first was just golden bars, put there to stop particularly devout shitposters from defiling the Shitpost itself, but Bart must have seen it already as he threw his hands in the air and shouted:
-You'll smokers don’t even crack niggas!- as the last word was leaving his mouth, he fell face first, bowing before the glorious Shitpost.
When a man of the stature of Bartholomew Muhshit elects to fall on the floor not even a crowd as dense as the one gathered that day in the vestibule of the Shitpost Reliquary can stop him from reaching it. The shock wave created by that event has forced everyone, either directly by physical force, or indirectly by the power of peer pressure, to at least kneel down.
The door slowly opened wides and finally I could see it with my own eyes, the Holy Shitpost. A long, wooden pole in the middle of an empty room, and on top of it, a perfectly undisturbed turd. How does such a perfect pile of feces end up on a post this high?
The miracle of the Shitpost
