Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

“That’s no good. You have to cut it the long way…look.” A boy sat
forward and pulled his shirt up to reveal numerous scars and lacerations
along his right arm, including the name “KURT COBAIN” cut in deep—
and probably permanently—with a pocket knife.
Agent 139 wisely decided to head downstairs.
The bathrooms were made of corrugated metal, the air thick from
sweaty bodies. As crowded as the room was, strangely, all of the bathroom
stalls were unoccupied.
A cluster of young men and women hovered about the sink, speaking
rapidly. Johny quickly brushed by a very tall, skinny black man with
short dreadlocks and a fishnet shirt. He moved closer to the sink as he
saw one of them bend over and snort a line of something yellow.
“Hey kid,” he said, absently wiping his nose and sniffling. “Want
some Dexedrine?”
Johny declined and was about to head to one of the stalls when a piece
of paper on the floor caught his attention. Another typed message.
Gentlemen;
It is in great optimism that I write to you. Attached is a portrait of my
left wrist as it is today, the source of unspeakable grief in my life.
It was manipulated to its current state by a salvage operation performed
in October 95 by Dr. Hozan of the Temple Sports Medicine
Center; an attempt to rectify a malunion resulting from a closed set of a
break in late 91 when I was involved in a sport that has since been outlawed
in 48 states. The frustration resulting from this handicap has
waxed consistently since then, not to mention my frustration, considering
that I was an incredibly talented in the writing.
And I now feel that it presents an unacceptable hindrance to my
quality of life, as well as the myriad of other things that I enjoy doing
with my wrists and joints. You can’t imagine how much it has damaged
my income. I lie awake at night, staring at my wrist. I cry out to Allah:
“WHY?! WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME?!” Doctors repeatedly
advise me to submit to the joint’s mediocre performance, and that
complete rectification is an impossibility; but I assure you, sirs, my
body says otherwise! Please know that I refuse to compromise, that I
love my wrist, and that i have not a doubt that my body will be delivered
again to it’s natural state.
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