Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

In the booth immediately next to him sat three boys in their early
teens. One of them, a round smiling youth in a Rage Against the
Machine T-shirt, was busy defending an important issue to his two blackclad
associates.
“This is the only t-shirt I own that isn’t black!,” he argued. “All my
pants are black, all my underwear is black, all of my lipstick is black.
Hell! Even these fishnet stockings I’m wearing on my arms are black!” A
fine example of the gothic underbelly, Johny thought.
His friends seemed to be losing interest quickly, as were our eyes-andears
manifested in the plebeian form of Johny. He looked over just in
time to see Jesus Christ walk by in a floral skirt and a see-through
sweater, followed by another long-hair carrying a home-built sitar,
wearing green goggles and a surplus Army trench coat. Jesus was wearing
a navy blue T-shirt under the sweater that read “Death to all Fishes.”
Johny had a hard time believing that either of these two had ever done
any time in what his Marine-Uncle liked to call “The Service”. They
were “funny,” as he’d say: “not funny ha-ha but funny queer.” Behind
these two strode an auburn haired man wearing mirrored Ponch shades, a
black wife-beater with the word TOOL emblazoned on the front, camo
pants, and combat boots. All three of them reeked of marijuana.
“Can I get you something to eat, sir?” growled an underpaid Barbara.
Johny snapped out of his daydream. Something in her eyes suggested
that she had either asked Johny that particular question one time too
many, or she was rabid and fading fast. He could swear that there was
frothy spittle flecking her chapped lips.
Johny quickly replied with, “A Super Bird, please?” By the set of her
eyebrows, Johny was convinced that some dearly loved relative of hers
had just died—and that it was somehow his fault. She stared at him for
just a moment longer before she harrumphed back from whence she
came.
There was a loud metallic clatter when one of waitresses walked into
the cook. Jay, the mystery cook, looked over at Barbara. She scowled at
him. He shrugged nonchalantly and tried to put his puffy white hat back
on straight. As she walked away, he thought he noticed a tiny antennae
poking out of the back of her dress, but his conscious mind quickly wrote
it off. His brain, like all brains, was programmed to establish its set of
rules, (the catch word was “reality”), based upon the present, established
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