Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Rite's Fee
...Well, if I say it who made it myself: that was one kick-ass Man-Making ceremony. They'll still be talking about that one a hundred years from now.
So I figure you owe me, what, something in the neighborhood of...say...nine cows. Good milch cows, too, mind you, nothing old and milked-out.
A nine-cow coming-of-age ceremony: now there's something you'll be able to tell your grandchildren about.
(“My family paid nine fine milch cows for my man-making,” you'll tell them, and they'll say, “Oh, grandpa, you're such a bull-shitter....”)
Hey, our people's cattle have always been our pride. You know what they say about us, that every word in our language means three things: something good, something bad, and something to do with a cow.
What? What? You can't be serious. You've got to be kidding.
Goats?
I give you a ritual like this tribe hasn't seen in three generations, and you want to pay me in bloody goats?
Goats. Ye f*cking gods.
I'll tell you, nobody appreciates good ritual these days. Nobody.
But...if we're talking goats, now, well...I'm going to have to see...at least 130 head, minimum, and that's flat.
And I want that big copper cook-pot, too, and...
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