Reverend Lucian Vermillion. Hallowed Springs, Darkansas.
“It was a joke at first,” he says, fingering the tiny silver shrimp pendant on his neck while people drift past. Some nod politely; most avoid eye contact. “I found this thread online, one of those half-serious, half-joke corners of the internet. People were talking about Shrimp Christ—a holy shrimp, part messiah, part meme. At first, it seemed ridiculous. But I couldn’t stop reading—and soon, I wasn’t laughing. In all honesty, do I really look like the laughing type?”
“When I was younger, I’d stand up there on Sundays, reading from the Bible or whatever, and it felt… I don’t know, flat? Not because I didn’t believe, but because it seemed like I was just repeating what people wanted to hear. I’d look out at the pews and think, ‘Is this it? Is this all there is?’”
“I’ve been a priest for years now, but something essential was missing. Even my parishioners were going through the motions. Then, I started reading these posts online — people talking about Shrimp Christ like it was this unholy, hilarious beacon of hope in the digital wasteland. Crazy, I know, but it felt like real faith. Peculiar, yet bizarrely believable.”
“But my congregation just didn’t get it. I overheard rumors about my joining a crustacean cult or having a full-blown nervous breakdown. One older lady even tried to stage an intervention,” he says, laughing. “She brought me a cross pendant and a tub of cocktail sauce, claiming they would ‘bring me back to the light.’ She obviously didn’t see what I was wearing; light would clash with my aesthetic. I’m still a man of the cloth, even if it’s from the Killstar catalog.
“I know that I’m not your conventional priest material, but faith is supposed to be about making sense of things, right? And maybe it’s not the traditional way, but I’m finding meaning here. I’m finding something that makes me feel like a part of this crazy world instead of just standing on the sidelines, reciting verses.”
“I’ll be real, I’ve lost some parishioners over this. Every Sunday I can see them whispering at the back like schoolkids when I try to explain about ‘finding the divine in the unexpected’. But I’m pumping some new blood into the parish. People come and go naturally—some older folks leave in disgust, while the younger ones stay, intrigued by my message. It’s like they’re looking for something to believe in, but they’re tired of being told what that has to look like. They’ll ask me questions after the service, like, ‘Is this real? Is Shrimp Christ, like, an actual thing?’ And I’ll say, ‘Well, why not?’”
He pauses, watching a teenager snap a picture of him from across the street. “It’s funny,” he says, “I didn’t set out to be the role model for the disenchanted and disaffected. But if they can find something here, something that helps them feel connected or less alone… then yeah, I’ll be that priest.”
Lucian tugs thoughtfully on the pendant, looking up at the towering church behind him. “Maybe one day they’ll understand that this isn’t just a gimmick. It’s a way of seeing the world, a way of saying that the divine can be absurd, that faith can live anywhere—even in the strangest, most unexpected places. Even in a shrimp.”