Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

mous gibbering organism. We are seated cross-legged on red satin
pillows. The walls are black. Purple smoke. Lights dim and the thousandvoices
grudgingly die away. There is a tickling from the base to top of
my spine, and my legs feel like rubber. I have to consciously keep my jaw
from clenching. Deep breathing, focusing my attention on my tailbone,
allowing that attention to build there—most of the unpleasant symptoms
subside. Music has started, chanting— I turn around just in time to see
the silhouette of a naked woman. More dance out from behind the smoke,
into stark, intense lighting. The phosphorescent sheen is now a wave of
colors and fractal patterns that coats the forms of the bodies in front of
me. Suddenly I am incredibly aware of the sound of breathing in the
room—the music is barely audible over this cacophony of fat belly
breaths, open mouthed pants, and nasal hyperventilation. Why is the air
a liquid?
I’m not sure how much time has passed but now I’m staring at an
entirely gold, cherubic naked girl. (It looks a lot like Her. Could it be?
What is she doing up on a trapeze?) The breathing, the fat gnomish old
man sitting beside me that keeps poking me in the ribs with his paradoxically
bony knees, the thick smoke that smells like soap, the incense—the
whole scene comes to a grinding halt. Where have I seen you before? My
attention is totally pulled, and though I can’t be sure, I don’t think it is
just because she is naked, painted gold, and wearing a wig. This isn’t a
dance club—this is a pagan ritual!
No, no, this is not your head. This is my head.
She reluctantly agrees. That wasn’t what he was asking, but it was
what she heard, what she knew. It was, then, what he was asking. She sat
alone in a corner of the club; Agent didn’t know she was around. But
their trips were intertwining. She lit a single white candle on a stand
beside her. And it was her dream all over again—a chance to break out
of the pattern?
Oh my God! In my next incarnation, she will be my wife. Both of them
would have to die, be reborn—
“Sure God’s rockin’, but does he have lips?”
He couldn’t place that voice. Does he mean that a God that doesn’t
speak to his followers is worthless? She couldn’t speak. Looked around
anxiously at the throng around her. Felt small, frightened.
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