Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

attempt to hide the sweat rolling from his brow or the eagerness in his
eyes. He didn’t stop until he was in the men’s room stall where he then
unbuttoned his pants and sat down.
The toilet seat was cool and slightly damp to Johny’s naked, nervous
buttocks. He fished around in his pants pockets until he had produced the
L.B.J. (or T.U.O.A.D. as it is known to DEA agents who still refer to
joints as “marijuana cigarettes”), and a lighter. Expectation and happy
anxiety flooded his mind as his fingers opened the bag and removed this
preciously engineered chemical marvel. When he got a good look at it,
though, he was thoroughly disappointed. To him, it looked like the battered
old joint he found in his “crazy” Uncle Eddie’s flight jacket from
Vietnam.
He and Uncle Edward Crowley sat on the porch one day and smoked
it down to the end. Johny, who was only six at the time, had found the
next two hours of the day rather confusing. He then ate, and went to
sleep for a while. Uncle Eddie was rambling something fierce about
“Those damn V.C.! Motherfucking A∴A∴! I’ll hunt the bloody Templar
to the end of the earth, fucking goat-headed turn coats!” when he ran off
into the wilderness of suburbia, never to be seen again. Johny thought he
saw him riding around on a lawnmower in the backyard at four in the
morning, but when he ran out, shirtless and out of breath, he just found a
path of cleanly cut grass, leading off into the forest. He had tried to pursue,
but—
He looked down, alarmed at the burning joint in his mouth. One
minute he was holding it… He looked at his watch. It was still fourtwenty.
How the fuck did it get so late? He must have been in here for
hours!
“Aw hell!” Johny mused. He took a deep drag…
…held it…
…and exhaled about a thousand years later. The entire bathroom
swirled around him at a delirious right angle to the first three dimensions.
He took another drag, and another. The cherry on the end of
this…this…spaceship…glowed long and true and the smoke went deep
and bubbled up through his spinal cord, through his brain, past his mind,
and deep into the hollow bowl where his soul would have been.
Presently, half of the joint was gone, and the bathroom swirled on triumphant
as the Steely Dan tune on the bathroom speakers took on more
depth and texture than one would expect out of a bunch of ex-Bard students.
It flowed through delicate sonic channels, it lingered on the quivering
petals of flowers, it leapt and it spun and flew and danced and…
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