Polite Dinner Conversation
16 Sep 2020Today’s prompt: “Polite dinner conversation isn’t supposed to include religion, politics, or money. Write a scene at the dinner table where one or more of these topics is discussed.”
“You really should consider joining us for services at the Church of Starry Wisdom,” your Uncle Gregory says.
You nearly choke on your flank steak. “Why?” you ask.
“We’d just feel so much better if you did,” your Aunt Kathy says. “It’d be good for you. It’d be in your best interest.”
“I’m really not interested in any of that cult stuff,” you say, stabbing your fork through some green beans.
“Pass the mashed potatoes,” Uncle Gregory says. You hand him the bowl, and while scooping white dollops onto his plate, he asks, “You know how much a state senator costs?”
You look at him, bewildered. “I have no idea.”
“About $125,000,” he says. “I bought five of them this morning.”
“Now, dear,” Aunt Kathy says. “There’s no need to brag.”
“What do you want five state senators for?” you ask.
“To enact a law forcing conversion to the Church of Starry Wisdom,” Uncle Gregory says.
You pause. “Well. Five isn’t a majority.”
“Enough of the rest were already on board.”
“It’s for people’s own good,” Aunt Kathy says.
“Pass the gravy,” Uncle Gregory says.
You hand over the gravy boat. “Isn’t that against the First Amendment?”
“That old chestnut?” Uncle Gregory says, drizzling brown gravy over his potatoes. “The mythical wall of separation between church and state has been eroded for decades. Guess how much a police commissioner costs.”
“I really have no idea.”
“A bargain at $55,000,” he says. “Bought one of them this afternoon.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to join the Church of Starry Wisdom?” Aunt Kathy says. “The services are really nice.”
“Absolutely not,” you say.
“That’s a real pity,” Uncle Gregory says. “You know how much a district attorney costs?”
“Not enough, I’m guessing,” you reply.
“Right you are,” he says.
“Really, going to church once in a while wouldn’t hurt, you know,” Aunt Kathy says.
“Not happening,” you tell your aunt. You turn to your uncle. “So when do you start your murderous jihad for Nyarlathotep?”
“No time like the present,” Uncle Gregory says, a firm grip on his steak knife.