Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

hungry look, like a wolf that had gone far too many days without a good
meal, and was now desperate enough to consider human flesh a suitable
entree. The man paused in the middle of his monologue and asked Johny
if he knew her.
Of course, Johny realized that aliens only take redheads, because the
aliens are actually Japanese. The Japanese like redheads. Wisely keeping
his opinions to himself, he merely nodded. It was certain that, if she
hadn’t been abducted yet, she was soon to be.
The man in the wife beater leaned over. He had apparently been
listening in on the conversation. “I used to date her,” he said, pulling his
shades up for a moment to reveal bloodshot eyes. As if anyone in a ten
mile radius hadn’t at least slept with her.
Jesus, suddenly recognizing the bird woman, became livid and leapt
from his seat beside his militant pot-head friends. Simultaneously, Wirywheelchair-man
spun his chair around like a motorcycle driver, leaning
into the screeching turn, following Jesus, who shot over to her table,
ejaculating a long monologue which reeked of sarcasm even more than
Frederick’s onions.
“I want you. Not because I know who I am or who you are, or what it
means when people say stuff, or why there are three pieces of bread in a
club sandwich, or what animal bacon really comes from, or for what reason
I feel the urge to strangle myself at least four times a day. But people
tell me that I should want someone. So I guess they’re right. Or, even if I
don’t guess they’re right, they’ll probably sneak into my head late at
night and make me do their bidding anyway. I find myself, sweating
feverishly, my eyes half open—they never seem to fully close—wondering
about pigs. And if, under your skin and jewelry, there is a fresh club
sand-which lurking, waiting. It makes me hungry, and so I start to think
about Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. But anyway. I think about meat on a
hook a lot too. Sort of hanging there, maybe still twitching a little bit.”
He paused for a moment to nonchalantly stick one of his fingers into a
nearby ketchup bottle, wiggled it around a moment, withdrew it with a
slurping spurt of scarlet and licked his fingers clean. Everyone at the
table watched him silently, incredulously.
“Mmm… The pits of Abaddon.” He licked his lips. “Sex makes me
feel better about myself. A club sandwich! God damn. I’m getting
excited just thinking about three pieces of white—or even wheat—bread.
Contained within those alluring and yes, mysterious, layers of white
bread is fried pig flesh, a mystical revelation clothed in the obscuritanism
of toast! All I really care about is the pig flesh. Sweating pig flesh.
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