Undersiders, please welcome back Ed, whose previous story here at US can be found here.
The story below would be at home with Black Mirror, not because it espouses the evils of technology, but how humans often misuse and abuse technology (or religion) for their own gain, and consequences of such actions can snowball…
Okay, I’ve bored you all. It can be a morality fable if you want it to be, but it can also just be entertaining. Go be entertained!
Patron Sainting
by Ed Ahern
The scam was so obvious I almost missed it. I was surfing my GETABOT3000 AI program when the subject of patron saints popped up. I almost scrolled past, but hesitated. And started asking questions.
“How many patron saints are there?”
“In the Roman Catholic church, approximately 8,000.”
“Are there patron saints for sinners who are greedy?”
“Fifty.”
“Whoa. Even murder?
“Five.”
“Holy crap!”
“Four.”
I squint when I think, and my eyelids were squished together. Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of supplicants in need of a patron saint to grant their wishes—no reason it needed to be confined to Catholics—no patent rights on saints—written, verbal, video spiritual guidance. My God (ahem), there was a fortune waiting.
I called Agnes. “Sweetie, listen—no don’t yell at me—I’ve got an idea you’re going to love… no I’m not trying to get back together… just hear me out?”
She did. “Horace, you neanderthal, that’s not half bad. But first some ground rules: I handle the money because you suck at it; any decision has to be mutually agreed.”
“Sure.”
We riffed off each other, certificates designed like papal blessings, hundred dollar minimums, success not guaranteed but viewed as more likely. By the end of the call, Agnes had warmed to me sufficiently not to curse when we said goodbye.
She called the next day. “Listen, your randyness, I just talked with a lawyer. He’s going to check and see if what we’re thinking about is legal, or at least not prosecutable.”
“And I had the bot draw up plans for a website, Instagram and Facebook pages, and podcast. We should talk about it over dinner.”
“Not a chance. It’d be like sharing finger food in a leper colony.”
But I’m persistent. By the time we’d launched, Agnes and I were eating delivery meals together, although she kept reminding me that Agnes was a patron saint of chastity.
In addition to certificates and bot-generated influencers, we sold key fobs, mugs and, my personal favorite, a genuine pressed-wood plug-and-play kneeler with AI video and speech of a patron saint facing the penitent. Testimonials and money poured in.
And then the monk arrived at our office. Bleak of face and garb, gaunt of visage, stern of speech. Agnes put her hand in her purse, where I knew she kept a Berretta for self protection, hopefully not against me.
“My name is Savonarola.”
“Wasn’t he?...”
“Yes, condemned, hanged, and burned because he followed religious principles. You can imagine what I think of you devil spawns.”
The room seemed considerably darker than before his arrival. “But we’re doing God’s works, and charging only a modest stipend.”
The monk snorted, nose hairs quivering. “You’re deluding sinners that they can buy favorable outcomes, worse even than the pardoners of my namesake’s time. Demented customers are declaring miraculous visions and events. Hell comes soon for you, unless you repent.”
I gave Savonarola a closer look. Scary, sure, but frail, so I wouldn’t be taking a beating from him. “Ah, friar, our sales all have disclaimers about any magical powers,” (in eight point text). “How people interpret our services is on them. Besides, it gets them looking at something religious rather than ogling porn sites. I like to think we’re doing God’s work.” I smiled as winsomely as I could.
“You loathsome corpse fly, retribution is forthcoming.” With that he turned and left, beads clacking.
Agnes took her hand out of her purse. “I don’t think he’s going to be a subscriber. Still, he’s sexy in a kinky, Draculish kind of way.”
I realized I was jealous. “You’d break his holy bones. I figured we’d get an attempted cease-and-desist order from a cardinal, or at least an archbishop, not some famine-fasting monk.”
The con played on. Agnes and I got obscenely rich. She never did let me resume our relationship, so I kept online dating. We bought stained glass windows from a closed-down church and installed them in our office—about the only thing I felt uneasy about doing. One afternoon, in an otherwise empty boardroom, sun streaming through stain, Agnes and I sat facing each other.
Despite elaborate electronic and human security, Savonarola walked back in, beads clacking. He was actually smiling. “Day of reckoning, sinners.”
“Ah, hi? How did you…?”
“Get in? We’re seen when we want to be. I was required by protocol to give you fair warning, which of course you ignored. We let you run the string for a while because some of the religious overtones swelled the ranks of believers. But your rapacious swindling has come to an end. As we speak, credible spokespeople are denouncing you on your very own podcasts and web sites. The IRS is notifying you of audits which will reveal your tax evasion. Your houses are occupied by squatters. Your assets are being electronically stripped and diverted to various charities—”
Agnes grabbed her iPad and began frantically tapping. “I’m frozen out!”
“Don’t interrupt.”
But I did. “You can’t do that. You’re a spiritual organization, not a worldly one.”
A sigh from the brown robe. “Forget your bogus dispensations. We got a legitimate one of our own against you. You’re now broke and hated by almost all of the people you touched up. If you go for a walk, people will urinate on your shoes.” Savonarola turned to go, then turned back. “One consolation. A patron saint has been assigned to you both. Jesús Malverde.”
“Never heard of him.”
“A patron saint of drug gangs and swindlers. He won’t do anything good for you, but at least he’ll understand what you’re complaining about.” The clacking died away as he left.
Agnes came around the conference table and hugged me. “What the hell can we do, Horace?”
I had no idea, but the hug felt good.
Meet the author:
Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over 600 stories and poems published so far, and twelve books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he squats on the review board, and at Scribes Micro, where he’s the idle figurehead.
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