Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

turning to all of his old haunts, trying to rekindle the magic that he felt
before his mental collapse.
One of the lights directly over his head was flickering slowly, like a
strobe. He felt a moment of deep dread, déjà vu from a nightmare. This
sensation was horribly disquieting to him, and he got up to change tables,
motioning for his friend Ken to follow.
Making their way past the usual Lenny’s patrons, waving offhandedly
to some, they sat down in the opposite corner of the room, beneath a
plastic potted plant dangled octopus-like from above.
They couldn’t help but hear an angst mantra (if ever there was one),
coming from behind them, a scratchy, desperate sound: “…ever conceived
of by…monkey soups. We’ll be breaking, taking, and stealing
everything you motherfuckers ever dreamed up, every logo you have
ever designed, even if it’s bolted down. Split the spine, forward, then
backwards, then straight up and through the roof. It’ll be the biggest,
baddest, meanest Dionysian revolt of rock’n’roll and anti-Semitic Jews
that Corn Flakes have ever set their greedy little eyes on. Yes, we’ll be
swimming in the septic tank offices of the everyday. We’ll be coughing
up whole lungsfull of Kurt Cobain and Tickle-Me-Elmo dolls in malls.”
Ken glanced behind him. The boy rocked back and forth slowly, the
hood of his blue sweatshirt pulled over his dome-like head. Glassy eyes
stared fixedly at the half-empty cup of coffee before him. Wait, I haven’t
bombed the Lenny’s yet. I’m just writing my future in a daydream, getting
ahead of myself…
Likely another ADHD Ritalin burn-out, Ken thought. Alexi was
forced to look away. He felt momentarily nauseous. Déjà vu…again? Or
was he just remembering the remembrance?
“The revolt from the inside didn’t work. I played your games, bought
your albums and wore your fucking t-shirts. The only solution to a circle
is a straight line, a straight beeline out, over, beyond! The Mother Hive
Brain syndicate must be the line, beeline! and hit them where it counts.
I…triangle!” the boy exclaimed, leaning back, his eyes bugging out.
“Triangle!”
“Beep! A beep it goes!” He looked around suspiciously as he linked
three paper clips together in a triangle, dipped it in nearby imitation
maple syrup, and stuck it to his forehead regally, as if it were a crown.
“This is where… This is how I contact them. Jam the signal! Ha…”
Banging on the table with his fist, he continued, “Their transmitter
device, which transmits its insipid reality to the masses, receiving mes-
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