Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

warfare. Not bombs, guns. Even economics. That’s archaic, brutal… The
way of slavery, not freedom. Did you see the wires, Johny?”
“I really don’t know what’s going on.” Johny noticed that Jesus was
carrying a smelly, dead fish in his right hand, but he did his best to
ignore it. “Well… I… Yeah. I did see them. But I see the antennae all the
time. No one else ever sees them.”
“When you explore the world, you’re exploring your own nervous
system—anything believed becomes ‘real.’” The Agent put on his sunglasses
again. They could all hear sirens wailing.
“How about we talk about this somewhere else?” Johny asked nervously.
Jesus began waving the fish around in the air menacingly. The Agent
nodded at him, and said “when a person’s world view becomes solid,
they can’t accept any experience which occurs outside of it. They write it
off, and generally forget about it. This works wonderfully well with most
cops.”
Jesus and the Agent walked calmly towards the solitary police car
outside of the store. Johny waited for a minute, and then followed. One
of the officers got out of the car and opened his mouth, apparently
preparing to say something particularly authoritarian.
Jesus held the fish above his head and cried, “There’s a sucker born
every minute!”
The cop was unimpressed.
He then paused and gave the officer a very rational look, saying “I
plun neposh. Weird needle images, frundmaulein. Avenger-angrymother-number,
loud lavender cries. One hundred and thirty-nine! Oh,
the answer! Not unavenged lies Diomedes! Too many candle-retinaburning-cherio-chickens,
saran wrap friendships and nodding nonsense.
Too many freedlemints for the cockroach, Kafka. Flip-top hat transmuting
tricks, lead to gold, lead to gold. For the used and overtired sake of
gain, you, loveless Simon and shell backed spinster, would turn me
about?! Weird needle images, messenger. Carapace gone rusty, wasted
words and rushed dinners, thousand death-chances and sword-rattlers;
rattled for State and mindless duty. ‘Come alone, and bring Teucros to do
the shooting!’ Inauthentic people, inauthentic lives.”
“Bok, bok, needleknees. Rattle loud, snake-skin-Whitesnake-hardboot
guerrilla in the mist with a cheap whore. Paid much for your fuzzy
suit, paid more for your needleknees and curious chickens, self-strangled
bodies of artificial pineapple flavor and lemon crunch.”
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