Sausages

By Selmoore Codfish

When an order of nuns claims that the savior is at their mental asylum, can Neal resolve the most important question – Does he qualify for insurance? Do the other patients have insight into the mind of God or are they simply bonkers? Can a group of DNA analysts provide Neal with proof that the supposed savior is the heir of God? Is Neal too inept to see that Angela is interested in him? Sausages is the second Neal Harris faith-based insurance satire-mystery. The romantic comedy subplot of the first novel is continued.
19 chapters, Approx. 60,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Selmoore Codfish
• Release date: Apr 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301566020

Selmoore Codfish

Selmoore Codfish is not really a fish, but a chicken. He’s hiding because celebrity would show that he is not actually funny, just faking it. If the public knew Mr. Codfish’s identity, they would demand that he be funny all of the time. However, he would prefer to remain a dour, grumpy person. Funny people don’t get respect but are thought of as special or different. His friends and associates appreciate his dry seriousness and they shouldn’t be let down by humor.

Book preview

Sausages

By Selmoore Codfish

Copyright 2013 Selmoore Codfish

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Table of Contents

Sausages, Chapters 1 to 19

About the Author

The Impartial Friend, Chapter 1

* * * * *

Chapter 1

His name is ‘Squirelly Squirrel’.

The man held up a baby bunny.

A that girl I had not seen before screamed and grabbed my arm. Bunnies and squirrels obviously didn’t look the same to her.

I’m sorry, he said, confused and contrite as he pulled the bunny back and petted it.

I took a second look. No, it was definitely a bunny.

Squirelly is my cousin, the man said.

That’s nice, I said. It’s best to humor the self-delusioned. Pointing out their inconsistencies only made them worse. People believed what they wanted to believe. That’s what made gambling a sport and politics a gamble.

The girl didn’t seem to know what to do. As I followed her up the path to the building, I hadn’t paid much attention to her. I guess I thought she must have been one of the nurses.

Now, I looked at her more closely. She looked like she couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Well, she might have been a very anorexic eighteen year-old with a young face.

Her nametag said Volunteer, then JEN.

Two men came out the door and down the steps towards us. Maybe they would know what to do with escaped mental patients. The first man down the steps wore work clothes and carried a toolbox.

I made eye contact with him.

Hello, I said.

Hello, he replied.

Then I nodded my head repeatedly at the patient, Squirelly’s cousin.

Hey, plunge the toilets. I don’t shrink the heads, said the maintenance guy, replying to my nodding.

Pardon? I asked. I tried to make eye contact with the other young man, but he kept his eyes straight to the ground.

I reset the clocks. I don’t do the shocks.

Huh? I replied.

I fix the drains. I don’t scramble the brains, said the maintenance guy.

There might have been a small amount of reason in that one.

So you’re not the cook? I asked.

No, and I wouldn’t worry too much about this one. When it’s hot like this they let them run around a bit, he said.

Thanks, I said as my petrified escort and I went in. She peeled away from me and walked through a door labeled Ward A.

The office I was looking for was straight ahead. Sister Fern had given very good directions. She had said to come in on the circle drive and pay no attention to the buildings that looked mostly like abandoned 1960’s era college dormitories. As requested, I paid no attention to them. Then she said to park in front of the large old brick structure and come straight to her office. However, she hadn’t said how to handle escaped mental patients. That seemed to be the most important part which made me wonder about Sister Fern.

I could see that she was talking on the phone, so I sat on a long bench outside her door. Across the hall was another bench with two men dressed in dark grey robes. They were likely members of one of the many religious orders within the Mother Assembly. However, they couldn’t have been members of the order that ran the asylum because the sisters didn’t admit men.

The Sisters of Sympathy were all Sisters. They administered hospitals and asylums such as this one. They got their name from the sympathy they offered their patients. If you needed sympathy, all you needed to do was yell, S-O-S!

A Sister would run up and ask, Yes, dear, what is the problem?

I’ve been in a car accident and I’m injured, you would say.

You poor dear, the Sister would say.

I’m bleeding from my head and I feel dizzy, you would say.

You poor, poor dear, she would say then.

I’m going to fall unconscious . . . , you would say. At this point, you would totter about, clutching onto whatever was available to demonstrate your imminent blackout.

You poor, poor, poor, dear.

You would sigh with appreciation and resignation.

Without help I will probably die, but you have made me feel much more comfortable with my death.

You’re welcome, she would say.

Then when the ambulances arrived, she would give the paramedics sympathy for being so slow and worthless. That would make them feel arrogant and competent despite their obvious lack of skill and dedication. They would have much to say about the Sisters’ help in the newspaper the next day.

On the bench across the hall, the first man shrugged.

I am just worthless compared to our savior Ralph. I am the dung from a cow, he said.

I am less than that. I am the slug that feeds on the dung from a cow, the other man said with a shudder.

The first man leaned forward.

Brother Grimm, I am less than even that. I am not even the acne on the slug that feeds on the dung from a cow.

I am far less, even than that, Brother Glumly. I am not even the pus on the acne.

I wish our Savior would return with a hail of comets to destroy all the banal works of man, the first man evoked.

Everything man does is a waste. Only the works of our Savior will survive the calamity, the second man added.

Yes, why do anything? The first man leaned back and tried to disappear into the wall behind the bench.

Hum.

I am not even the stain left by the pus after it . . . .

I walked away ponderously, but not thoughtfully, leaving them to their pus, waste, and acne. They had a lock on self-pity and they didn’t need my cynicism to brighten their moods.

I wondered if any worthless stains would remain on the planet after a calamity of comets struck. Possibly, but it was not my concern at that moment. As I moved farther away from them both, I realized it was not my problem at all.

No, that day my concern, and the reason that I was at the SOS Sanitarium, was to get more information about a claim for a patient’s benefits. The Sacred Recluse Self Insurance Group (SRSIG) insured all of the religious orders in the Assemblic movement.

We offered a wide range of insurance options. One of our standard hospital policies required the policyholder to pray for healing from God for two weeks before seeking emergency room care. It was the SRSIG’s opinion that healing from above was much more fulfilling than anything humankind could provide. Since it was free, with no premiums due except a lifetime of devotion to the prayers and rituals of an arbitrary institution of Ralph, it was the most popular form of universal healthcare ever devised, despite the drawbacks.

Blessedly, we had a very low claim rate for urgent care. Coincidentally, we had a very high turnover rate due to mortality. The life insurance premiums were steep, but the health premiums were a bargain.

The mental health premiums were also very low. It must have been the spiritually enriching nature of locking yourself in an isolated cloister that promoted strong mental health. It may also have been that it took a very highly developed person to want to be cut off from society. He would be less prone to mental deficiency.

Some detractors have said that believers who isolated themselves seemed happy only because of mind control. What was mind control but controlling your mind in a controlled manner? Some believers needed that.

But I digress. My concern today was not to dispute the sanatorium staff’s opinions that one of their patients needed confinement. My concern was whether he was even covered by any of our policies. The claim was submitted electronically to my office. On the claim, the order membership or employer was listed as the Sacred Recluse. I knew everyone that works for the SR in the area, and I hadn’t heard that any of the High Sire’s personal staff was in town.

But this wasn’t what first caused my computer to reject the claim. The rejection was simply because the field for the last name was left blank.The claimant’s first name was Ralph. That was a very common first name since many families liked to show respect for our Savior by having a namesake. The claim could have been anyone and we needed to be very clear before we paid anybody anything.

I sent a standard email back to Sr. Fern at SOS Sanatorium asking her to specify a last name.

Son of God, she had replied.

With this information, I knew that this would not be a typical case. I had called Sister Fern and set up a meeting. I looked around, waiting for her, thinking about what she had said. Without warning, I felt someone behind me. I don’t like when that happened, but I tried not to make a scene. I ignored the presence, but it remained.

Someone tapped my shoulder. I whirled around. It was Sister Fern.

Speak of the Devil, and she will appear.

Neal Harris? she said.

I nodded. As I got up, I noticed Sister Fern wore normal street clothes. I felt a little cheated. A Sister should dress like a sister, not a sister. Clothes were very important in identifying who was whom.

I heard a disgusted grunt from one of the two men across the hall. When I looked up, I saw they were enviously sneering at me for cutting in line.

Don’t worry about them, you poor dear, comforted Sister Fern sympathetically.

They will just add it to their already too long list of grievances.

We went into her cool, air-conditioned office and she closed the door.

The Brothers are members of the Corpus of Corpses, or the Body/Group of the Dead. They reside at the Sanatorium because they need to have carefully administered doses of psychoactive drugs that enhance their religious experiences. The drugs heighten their perceptions of the coming of the End of Days, or the Cataclysm. Unfortunately, the drug tends to make them depressed, and sometimes constipated.

Oh. I see. I hoped not to see too much constipation.

It’s just expected that with the Corpses around, we will need to provide sympathy for the most mundane of problems. You probably haven’t heard much about them because they are voluntarily committed to the Sanatorium and thus must pay for their own treatments. We feel grateful that we are able to help those that are not naturally blessed with suffering to become blessed. We have to let them have their way since they pay their own bills, but sometimes it makes me feel like the chickens are ruling the roost.

I nodded, trying to appear sympathetic, but in reality I didn’t care. People who were drawn to the mundane, either as a sport or as a reason for complaint, didn’t interest me. I assumed the reason for their obsession with trivia was because they had small minds, and only minutia would fit in the minuscule allotted space.

Speaking of claimants, I said, trying to get back on track before we’d gone passed the station, tell me more about this person named Ralph.

She nodded and leaned forward. I could see every wrinkle on her face. I wanted to shake my head to shake the image, but I figured I’d insult her at best or garnish her sympathy at worst.

He was found by the police wandering the streets. Disoriented, he couldn’t remember his last name or where he was from. We are the only residential mental health care facility left in the State, so they brought him here. The Governor has closed all of the public facilities to save money. We have a contract with the state to provide for extended patient commitments, but it only pays a pittance of the actual total cost. What can we do? We can’t turn away people who need our sympathetic treatment.

I shrugged and shook my head. I’d heard about the closing of mental health facilities all over the country. Usually, some governor in some backward state decided to allocate more money for government requisitioned bathroom supplies, and had to find the money somewhere. Mental health was second on the list, right after education.

I have had to enact a hiring freeze and limit purchases of supplies. You can see why I was so receptive when Saint Kidder said that Ralph was The Son of God. The Son of God is the head of the Assembly and rules it from Heaven. Therefore, he would be covered through the SRSIG. She looked very solemn and clasped her hands in front of her in pious supplication.

I clasped my hands in the same manner following her lead. Maybe it was the right thing to do or maybe it wasn’t, but it certainly didn’t hurt to imitate the Rituals of Ralph. No one could be hauled away by Social Services for following a religion of any kind, no matter how questionable the results of the rituals.

She seemed pleased by my imitation of her gestures, and she nodded with approval.

I nodded because she’d nodded. I was getting a headache, but it was a small price to pay for devotion. Every good Ralphian knew that the High Sire, got his instructions from the Son of God before he made his infallible proclamations.

The important question is, however, is how does Saint Kidder know that this is THE Ralph? I asked.

Saint Kidder resides here . . . .

How is that possible? I asked. In order to be declared a Saint, the candidate Saint must have died.

Brother Kidder did die, the poor, poor dear, but miraculously he was revived shortly later. That was his first of two miracles that qualified him to be a Saint. He had a fatal case of acne, which is a side effect of the medicines he was taking. One day he saw himself in the mirror and it shocked him to death. His second miracle occured after he was revived. His acne went away. He healed himself.

Is acne another side effect of the depressants that the Corpus of Corpses takes? I asked.

No, Saint Kidder is a member of the Order of Divine Diviners, or the ODD. They are prescribed a different psychoactive drug that helps them hear the voices of God and his angels. Unfortunately, it makes the poor dears dissociative.

The side effects were always worse than the initial problem. Yet, the pharmaceutical companies said they were a necessary part of the treatment for the initial condition. That always made me wonder which side needed to be secured in a maximum security mental facility. Perhaps the patients were created for profit.

They are anti-social? Do they become very rude?

No, they disassociated their life from reality. They often hear many other voices besides those of God. Actually, Saint Kidder has had a third miracle. He was able to continue being a diviner even though we discontinued his treatments immediately after his close call with the afterlife. I think that in death, when his soul drew near to God, it enabled him to see God more clearly.

So why does Saint Kidder say that Ralph is The Son of God? I asked, intrigued.

Well, I’ll admit it does sound improbable, but he is at a highly esteemed sanctuary for believers. It seems natural that Ralph, or the second coming of Ralph, would be drawn to a place of intense belief and sacrifice. You can’t discount the words from a Saint without a rigorous investigation. She raised her eyebrows in challenge.

I backed down right away.

Yes, I see. However, I would have expected Ralph to drop a line to the High Sire. Such as, ‘Hi, it’s me Ralph, The Son of God. I’m here and I thought you should know.’

Mmm, that would have been helpful, but the ways of God are not the ways of men, she said with what I presumed was a knowing sigh.

I needed more information.

May I meet with Saint Kidder and with Ralph?

Yes, they are both in Ward A.

I stood, ready to leave, when I remembered something.

Oh, that reminds me, I said. As I came in, there was a patient loose on the grounds.

That was probably Ralph. I saw him out there earlier, she said. The residents on Ward A are more trustworthy. They are mostly the voluntary and religious admissions. They have free roaming privileges. Where would they go on a hot day like this anyhow? We are two miles off of Main Line Road.

Two miles didn’t seem too long if someone really wanted to get away. However, if he thought he was a summer squash, that might make the trip seem longer.

Ralph was holding a baby bunny that he called his cousin, I said.

She smiled in recognition.

The poor dear. All of us have a need to form connections and relationships. When someone loses his memory, the need for connections can be heightened.

Made sense, except I’d seen Ralph and the bunny.

So is he bonkers? I asked.

The need to form connections is normal human adaptation. She didn’t flinch.

What about his loss of memory? Does that prove he’s bonkers? I pressed on.

So did she.

Memory loss can result from many things including physical trauma, although when he arrived and we applied our first aid sympathy, we didn’t notice any trauma. Memory loss is somewhat innocent and doesn’t indicate any mental deficiency.

She motioned for me to go out of the door. We went back into the early summer heat wave. She closed her door behind us.

The Corpses, Brothers Grimm and Glumly, followed close behind us.

She’s dragging us all over the place in the heat today, Brother Grimm said.

She must be trying to kill us through heat exhaustion, Brother Glumly said.

Brutal! Brother Grimm said.

But it’s not very painful, just fatiguing.

Then she’s trying to wear down our wills.

Very devious.

Sister Fern ignored them.

* * * *

We walked into the large dayroom in Ward A. About twenty residents sat in chairs or paced the rooms. They wore hospital gowns, street clothes, bathrobes, religious order robes, and a mix of those. The room had a nurse’s station, several rugged and uncomfortable looking chairs, two circulating fans, and a television. One fan was near the nurse’s station and the other was near the television at the other end of the room where many of the residents congregated. There were window air-conditioning units, but they weren’t running.

These people consist of the entire membership of the COC and ODD orders in the state, said Sister Fern. The poor dears can’t keep their memberships up. The Corpses have a high mortality. They don’t seem to want to avoid taking fatal risks…

The Sisters sympathize us to death. Brother Glumly interrupted, "‘you poor