Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

Chapter 8, Grid 2
A GOOD Fish is a DEAD Fish
(Exception: Cod)
When we crucify a man…he should confounded well stay crucified.
— Robert A. Wilson
“What would you like to drink?” Barbara half-slurred. Johny knew
that this primate was called “Barbara,” and that she was “pleased to serve
him,” courtesy of a small plastic badge, adhesive, and the remarkable
invention we call language. Contrarily, the fact that she was a greasy,
tranquilized, exploited serving wench shrink-wrapped in synthetic fabric
was rather apparent to him as his eyes did the best they could to avoid
caressing her heaving form.
Johny suggested, “Coffee?”
“We’re all out of coffee. Can I get you something else?” she asked.
Johny could see that she copped some sort of masturbatory thrill from
informing customers that their lofty consumer goals could never be
sated.
“M…Mister Pibb?” he half-squeaked. Her eyes lit up as she heard
Johny say the word “Pibb”.
“Never heard of it,” our serving-wench grunted. Johny was looking at
the Mr. Pibb logo on the menu now, staring holes in it. He was busy
imagining the logo erupting into flame when, to his surprise, it did.
“I’ll just have a coke, then,” said our humble Johny. Barbara nodded,
and loafed off to the kitchen. Not wanting to waste the opportunity,
Johny pulled a cigarette from his pack, lit it from the still-flaming menu,
and sat back to smoke it. This was his first chance to observe the
denizens of the smoking section on this busy evening.
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