Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

Jesus merely shrugged. “Drink from my mouth and you shall be as I
am, and I shall be you.”
“That’s nice, dear,” she said in a sultry voice that was barely a whisper.
It came off like a slap in the face without one consonant of audible
sarcasm.
The man with the shades turned towards Frederick, and then back to
the girl.
“Show the man some respect, Pig,” he said slowly, privately wishing
he wasn’t so damned attracted to her. God damn brainstem.. “By the
way, Freddie, my name is Agent 139.” His speech was mildly slurred,
and his lips moved irregularly when he spoke, as if he was either trying
to overcome a speech impediment or chew a particularly resilient piece
of gristle.
The girl smiled too innocently. “If you don’t respect yourself…” She
trailed off and shrugged mildly.
Frederick laughed unexpectedly. “The brotherhood of man has long
been involved in the act of sodomy and incest! The pollutants and degenerates
of a society are the society, they’re it’s result, the reaction and
backlash from our own nature upon the system which we attempt to force
upon it. I know your type ‘dear,’ and it’s just another example of wasted
bacon. You could be so much more.”
“How many of you are on drugs?” Johny was forced to ask.
Everyone in the smoking section raised their hands.
“Oh.”
Jesus suddenly spoke up. “There’s a sucker born every minute.”
Johny looked his way, expecting an explanation, but none was forthcoming.
At the same time, in another reality-grid, Gabrael leaned closer to
Alexi and nodded. “This has been one of my premises in my recent
work, and I’ve done a great deal of fact and fiction reversal—writing the
fact as fiction and vice versa. I think it’s telling of our culture’s current
mindset that “myth” has been relegated to the position of “untruth.” I
don’t think most people have a clear grasp of the concept of a metaphor,
or more importantly, how it is that ones life is a metaphor relating to
itself, that all experience is strictly metaphorical, that individual
existence is a poem constructed in the language of ones internal dialogue,
the interpretation of perception. The dialogue and the reality are not only
related, they are absolutely dependent upon each other. I’ve had this
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