We’ll call him Fenris Sausagefingers. That’s not his real name, of course. I can see the more precocious of you now volunteering the complaint that, of course, his name couldn’t possibly be Fenris Sausagefingers, and for those of you so inclined, I apologize. We live in an age where the pearls of divine knowledge have been cast before the swine of humankind, and most of them could not even be bothered to salivate over these little dainties sparkling meaninglessly in their mud-spattered pens.
Anyway, the point is just that while it is completely reasonable for you to know that no person is really named Fenris Sausagefingers, it’s no longer reasonable for me to know that you know such a thing. It is a terrible situation for a storyteller to be in.
Anyway, his real name would have been something like “Todd,” one of those ancient diminutions of some more heraldic eponym lost to history. Maybe it even was Todd. Whatever. Anyway, Fenris Sausagefingers had an abiding obsession his whole life with the prospect of eating his own hands. He had dreams about it, where his fingers would fall apart in his mouth like fried dumplings, and when he woke up there would be a layer of drool covering his face and pillow.
But he never ate his hands. I guess that’s sort of obvious. But what was mostly amusing about him was that his explanation to himself for why he did not engage in auto-cannibalistic behavior was because the destruction to his body would reduce his productivity. How would he work without his hands? It is a right fine concern, of course, but not really paramount in this situation. We are left to wonder whether he had ever been bitten by anything before.
Fenris Sausagehands was the sort who had other kinds of dreams, the sort of aspirational kind, but he never really developed the proper language to express what it was those aspirations entailed. Something great, we are to be sure. Something that would astonish the masses. From time to time Fenris Sausagefingers would think that he had settled upon an appropriate design to fulfill this wish: a vacuum-based hair shearing device; the lyrics to a song about young love and heartbreak; an engine that produced its own fuel as it worked. He would later discover that superior versions of his ideas had already been implemented, or what he was trying to bring into the world was a physical impossibility. His true gifts, whatever they were (although we are assured that they really did exist in some latent form), never materialized.
Fenris Sausagefingers went his whole life using his adrenal glands mainly for entertainment purposes, although he never really thought of it like that. He had a hazy idea about his ancestors, wielding axes and wearing grimy armor and usually appearing in landscape backdrops that featured snow-swept mountain peaks, oversized firepits, and happy little trees. Something stirred in him when he thought about these picture book warriors, and he would look at his hands hungrily. But then he would go back to whatever he was working on, and that was that.
He was productive enough that in middle age the powers saw fit to provide him a position requiring less productivity, and this was some kind of success, anyway. After halfheartedly looking for a woman who might love him, he settled for one who simply didn’t say no, and some Li’l Sausagefingers were produced. He lived to the ripe old age of 83, dying eventually of complications from an undiagnosed case of colon cancer.
He accomplished nothing of note in his lifetime. But that is not what is sad about this story.