Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

Somewhere, in a galaxy far, far away, Agent 139, Agent 506, and
Jesus were all seated in the interior of a cream ’91 Nissan Maxima,
swiftly on their way to Lenny’s.
“Dreams last night…first one starting out in this authoritarian school.
I’m involved in a game, looking for someone around all of this computer
equipment. Macintosh, midi, overcast. Fades into a post apocalyptic city.
I’m sitting at a restaurant, flickering lights overhead. There’s an explosion,
fragments of rocks, metal everywhere. I scream a name, ‘Alexi,’ I
think, and then…just the pain. Lying in darkness, not sure if I’m alive or
dead, wetness running down my face, sticky in my mouth. Darkness, and
I’m walking now, a survivor of whatever wiped everything out, a tower
belching smoke and fire on the horizon, a Prophet, mighty in Work and
Word, looking around this burnt out city…visiting the society that is now
nothing except dirt and ash, having pity upon them in their spiritual
death, their Wake-less dream…it used to be the city of my dreams, but
something destroyed it. Used to be people, real humans, that lived in this
terrain… I’m not sure how I knew this…but they’d all long since gone
away. Not with a bang, with a whimper. Rows of uniform buildings like
teeth. But the explosion just finished it all off. I see myself lying prone at
my own feet, whimpering. A broken, bloody shell. Begging for the seconds
to disappear, fade into the light beyond darkness in eternity. I share
the light of my eyes with his blindness. This is the secret of grace, I realize.
I, Jesus, the son, am reborn to myself. I am Osiris and Horus, begotten
by the word, living in my former death. But the dream doesn’t end
here, I keep walking. Factory here and very tense—the machines are still
running, sparking. Factory workers are on the periphery—never really
quite visible, but eyeing me—and then it goes to this party, lots of combat,
lots of fireworks. I build some sort of explosive device for a woman’s
approval, but Mary gets pissed. It alternated with a Quake style
movie that I’m also a part of. The woman is suddenly playing a dimplechinned
Mike Douglas character… She has the best gun—interfaceable
with her computer through little sensor boxes and Windows 95. Cars are
involved, and my brother, Patrochlos? Greek. Telemachos and Patrochlos?
Anyway, he discovers that I’ve been driving his car—sunnier, newer
dreamscape for this, the party flashes back, with alternate suburban
house ’scapes. Then I’m back in the Quake movie, a tough, well-armed
girl being eaten alive by a monster that has a looped digestive system. I
keep thinking I’m going to get out as I watch my skin blister and waste
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