Saint Tinfoil of the Dumpster Fire

Chapter One: The Gospel According to Tinfoil

The air above the Sunbright Municipal Landfill shimmered with the aroma of decaying egg salad and hot asphalt. It was a holy day — or at least, Saint Tinfoil had declared it so. Draped in a patchwork robe made entirely of plastic shopping bags, the self-proclaimed prophet stood atop a precarious pile of discarded office chairs and broken Christmas lights. In one hand, they held a golden scepter crafted from a mop handle and the remnants of a traffic cone. In the other, the Holy Receipt.

“My children of trash!” Saint Tinfoil cried, their voice ringing out like a triumphant crow over the stench of yesterday’s lasagna. “Today, the goddess Eris speaks to us through the Word of the Clearance Bin!”

Below them, the congregation of sanitation workers, dumpster divers, and other assorted disciples cheered. Some waved banners made from shredded curtains, while others brandished mop spears and shield lids emblazoned with slogans like “Workers of the World, Compost!”

Saint Tinfoil adjusted their crown — a magnificent construction of crumpled aluminum foil and bottle caps — and unfurled the Holy Receipt. It was a three-foot-long scroll of thermal paper from a local luxury grocer. “Lo,” they began, their voice quivering with dramatic fervor, “the goddess has decreed that the hoarders of wealth are but hoarders of moldy bread, expired yogurt, and broken promises!”