The Missionary's Weapon

The missionary stood, out in the clearing, as if frozen, motionless. Two lions had arrived, the midday sun was hot, he saw a group of zebras, grazing on dead grass, and a herd of wildebeest, crossing a dry river bed, two vultures circling overhead. He looked up to the sky, but only saw a cloud of gnats, where God does live, he prayed an expedited prayer and made his point that time indeed was of the essence. There was no answer, none. No lightning and no thunder, no sign to frighten them, he felt his sphincter squirm, and said his pater noster, and even hurled the words Pax vobiscum at them. It was the signal for the beasts to come closer, while licking and smacking lips and tongues. So, as a final gesture, this man, a man of God who felt abandoned, got on the toes of brown-stained Colorados, and yelled at them, as loudly, and convincingly as time and nerves allowed. 'You dirty rotten scoundrels go away! ' 'I am a man of God', and worse. And God, who likes it when the words and deeds get hairy, and lively, sent down a message to the cats. Once home again, his learned colleagues, all eager to prepare themselves, for life among the predators on earth, were quite astonished when they heard about the secret weapon, that had saved his life and would come handy for them all. 'When I threw shit at them, my brethren, it was as if the clouds had parted, and not my cheeks, they jumped and turned and ran away at once.' 'And where', the bishop asked, 'where, pray tell, did you obtain the weapon? ' 'Oh, there was plenty, father, really, and it kept coming like a sign from heaven.'