Le Flygirl and the Saint of Saveloy

Adventures with an anthropomorphic fly.

But on Thursday, Le Flygirl decided to visit the shrine of Basil Gourmand, the Saveloy Saint. It was a short trip away, an hour or so by train to Stratford on Post, and although Le Flygirl had never been there she knew it to be a popular destination for large crowds of pilgrims, tourists, and self-declared (but philosophically misled) epicureans; who all gathered there on feast days and weekends. She had invited her best friend, Jené-Louise Stapleyes, but Jené-Louise had been at a commune the week before and would have no part of it, so she tried her other friend, Packing Carton.
He had been glad to come along, although he sounded a little surprised when Le Flygirl told him that Jené-Louise wasn’t going to be there – she thought for a moment about what it would be like to set Packing on fire; deciding that it to be a really bad thing to do, although it would probably be funny. Instead, she planned to embarrass him by making him feel terribly underdressed, so she flew through the rotten hole in her wall and hovered in front of her wardrobe, finally picking out her favourite black dress: it accentuated her four spindly arms and drew attention to her long, spiky legs. Just looking at it made her proboscis wiggle in delight, so she put it on and twirled in front of the mirror, admiring the contrast to her glistening wings. Le Flygirl wrapped a white sash around her waist and tied it off with a wide bow, to complement her favourite striped hat.

Le Flygirl sat quietly on the train next to Packing Carton, staring at the other people and making them uncomfortable. Packing was telling her about his week at work – as she had expected, he had dressed up for the occasion and was wearing his best label: it was square, red, and printed with a tasteless ‘This Way Up’; apart from that his sides were bleak, light brown and naked. She didn’t pay attention to what he was saying – instead, Le Flygirl was thinking about steak; about eating it and rolling in it – as usual, this led to thoughts of settling down on a good steak with some of her own maggots – though she had never met another fly quite her size, let alone found a steak big enough to raise a family on.

The Shrine of St Gourmand, with its award-winning bistro, was a hideous structure: a pile of columns and rooves that had been stacked on the corner in a style vaguely resembling architecture. Le Flygirl buzzed her wings at the rich scent of food wafting from the arched doors that towered above them, and Packing slid along beside her, obviously awed by the magnificence.
‘Gosh,’ he said as they entered the first chamber, ‘this is plush indeed, Le Flygirl’ She nodded, looking up at the statue depicting St Gourmand. It was tied to a stone crucifix that loomed over the room. His left side was torn open with a ragged wound; the sculptor seemed to have taken pains with the lumpiness of exposed flesh.  
‘Is that actually how he died?’ she asked; although the Saveloy Saint was a relatively well-known saint, Le Flygirl was not at all versed in his life and death. Something about the statue was wrong, though.
‘I think it’s like an honorific – you know, suffering in His place, all that’ Packing replied. He gave a cartonish shrug and looked at the inscription on the crucifix’s base. ‘He died for our hunger’ he read, aloud.
‘True enough – but not that way, I hope. I mean, the smell…’ Le Flygirl trailed off at the succulent thought.
‘Your, er, mouth is dripping’ said Packing.
‘Proboscis’, she muttered, sucking it up.
‘Whatever. Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go through here.’

In the next room was a display on Basil Gourmand’s life and achievements, which Le Flygirl found to be quite dull.
‘When you think about it, though,’ pointed out Packing Carton, ‘it’s fairly impressive for him – being, you know…’ someone hissed at him to be quiet – a documentary was screening on a small TV set in the corner. It showed grainy footage of the saint, preaching to a vast gathering of listeners in a busy shopping mall. Even from the long distance and dodgy filming, Le Flygirl could see that, in life, St Gourmand had been an animated speaker, swaying and jiggling upon his podium before the admiring crowd. The footage changed, a montage of trees, tribal tattoos, and fire. A giant pot of boiling water. A poor re-enactment of Basil Gourmand being flung into it by a raging mob. Claymation showing how his red skin had split like a seam in the heat that tore him open, obviously inside-out, but almost completely outside-in as well. A man next to Le Flygirl had gasped, almost a high-pitched squeal, and the film rolled to a stop. The room was silent, except for the sound of someone sobbing quietly.  
‘Oh. Right’ said Packing, ‘It was making me hungry anyway. Food?’
‘Food’ she replied, nodding vigorously.

The Shrine of St Gourmand’s award-winning bistro was, they agreed, of a very high quality. As always, Packing turned away while Le Flygirl dripped bile onto her food, lapping at it with her mouth-parts when it was soft enough. This was, she considered, getting close to her family-sized steak. There was a rustling as Packing munched on his bowl of chips – all he ever seemed to eat – and Le Flygirl thought for a while about the Saint of Saveloy, even as she spat more acid onto the meat. His miracles had been profound and inspiring: a rain of Tabasco sauce; cheese growing from barren earth on tall stalks like mushrooms; converting takeaway to edible product. His every act was in pursuit of his aim to feed the hungry – even his death. Being eaten by their own catechumen was a missionary’s occupational hazard, of course, but nobody could have expected it while running the soup van in the Botanical Gardens.
The exhibit had also explained the controversy around Basil Gourmand’s claim to sainthood – normally the Vatican required a body, to prove that it would not decompose – but his supporters had fought strongly, pointing out that the homeless who killed him had all complained of stomach cramps, found support in a local charity, gotten baseline jobs and begun working back toward society within the week. Basil Gourmand, said the exhibition, would have been proud.

After their lunch, Le Flygirl and Packing Carton continued through the shrine. The next room contained an altar; overshadowed by a large, glorious painting of Christ cradling a stylised St Gourmand in his arms, light shining from the Saveloy’s wound. Le Flygirl fluttered her wings at the sight of it.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Packing.
‘Too much colour. Hurts my eyes’ she said. ‘I’m going back to the gift shop. You coming, Packing?’
‘Yeah, alright’, said Packing.
At the gift shop, Packing bought a model of St Gourmand on the cross. Unlike the statue, this one had been hand-painted, the saint’s blistered skin a vivid plasticky red. He also bought a snow-dome showing the shrine itself, the snowflakes inside dyed crimson to resemble Tabasco sauce. ‘For my Nan’ he explained.
Le Flygirl was unsure – it all seemed like junk to her – but felt obliged to buy something, having touched practically everything in the shop; the old lady at the counter was giving her a bitter look. She settled for a little cheese-mushroom that would be easy enough to give away, perhaps even to Jené-Louise. That’d teach her.

As they left the shrine, Packing looked at her.
‘You have to admit, it’s more than your average Sav could accomplish’ he said. Le Flygirl nodded – she’d been thinking about other things, namely; dinner, and whether Packing Carton would be interested in going somewhere for chips with her – but he wasn’t finished anyway.
‘And what if Basil Gourmand had been a Kabana? Or a Bratwurst? Heaven forbid, a normal sausage!’ Le Flygirl laughed. ‘Though I have to ask, what was a Saveloy doing, walking around and sermonising like that?’ asked the cardboard box, as it shuffled along the road next to the elegantly dressed giant fly that it loved.
‘Do you want to stop somewhere for chips?’
‘Yeah, okay’

Reviews

[amyjane]

Alright, that was fun.

At the beginning I thought "Packing Carton" what a brave name, haha how funny you are with names, I am noticing, but then it was really a carton...

well, I enjoyed reading this too, and I have no constructive criticism...I tried but I enjoyed it as is, so yay. It was a nice short ride, which is all I had time for at the moment anyway, so lucky for me I got to read a good one.

[Emily B]

Very different. A unique write.

[Stonewall]

This little story has the unsettling yet slightly pleasurable tickle of a fly crawling across one's skin. Funny stuff, can't help but like Packing Carton.

[Brette Medb]

Haha, that was really entertaining and the names were really unique. Great write.


Brette

[dermal_plating]

HAHA! Hilarious.