Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

teenagers, not all teenagers are MHB agents. Or at least he assumed,
seeing as …
His twenty-second attention span was exceeded by this train of
thought. Johny looked down at his watch. The harsh reality of time was
inevitable; the mechanisms that drove the clock simultaneously ran the
world, through association. A chicken was an egg’s way of reproducing
itself. The messenger of Saturn affixed to his emaciated wrist grimly
reported that the time was four-twenty p.m. Batteries dead, he assumed.
It couldn’t be much past ten.
Irritated subconsciously at the universe’s lack of respect for the dead
battery in his watch, he walked toward the not-at-all welcoming entrance
to the Devon Lenny’s. As Johny approached, he realized that the loitering
patrons were downright corpse-like: sallow skin, purple bags under
their squinty eyes, (or was that makeup?), multiple body piercings, sagging
posture. They gave him a peremptory head-nod as he walked by.
By the payphone, there loitered another youth in dreadlocks. He was
wearing a pair of oversized denim coveralls that a walrus could have
gotten lost in. Out of the corner of his eye, Johny saw what appeared to
be eels, writhing stickily in the space between the slimy denim and the
man’s flesh.
“Hey kid, do you—.” he started, lifting his hand up to his mouth in the
approved ‘smokin-a-joint’ position. His voice was deep, and cracked on
every consonant.
“Y-yeah,” Johnny confessed. “I party…”
“I got the L.B.J., man.”
“Y-y-eah?” Johnny inquired. Johnny didn’t exactly know what “the
L.B.J.” was. He was pretty sure he had heard about it being the latest big
drug craze since sniffing glue.
“You know it,” the eel man said, his eyes widening. “Twenty bucks a
dose for the Transcendent Union of All Drugs.”
All doubt in Johny’s mind vanished once he heard those capital letters.
This guy knows his shit, Johny thought. As he handed over the
Jackson, our comrade-in-eels opened his mouth and withdrew what
looked to be a slender paper cylinder in a garish purple bag. He handed
the parcel to Johny.
“God is an eel, kid. Remember that,” the eel man said matter-offactly,
sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.
Johny nodded, and walked through the door and on into Lenny’s.
Normally, he would have stopped and stood in front of the counter,
trying to look as calm and in control as possible. Today, he made no
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