Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

a…but he’s having a thing with what’s-her-name. I am not like anyone
else! I am different! I have no patience for your time for your numbers
for your promotional premonitions. I woke up to your straight lines
Cartesian geometry two-dimensional planes and…six references…six
reference points to the dot not three, how could they think it was three?
Ninety three miles away is the thing, one hundred and eleven is half the
story half a union half a blot, an annihilation…the trinity! The hermit!
The nail! My fist! Sweet Jesus…”
The Agent ignored his blatant Qabbalistic references—certainly random
connections caused by the chain reaction of neurotransmitters, that
out-of-control, unstoppable train resulting from the acid. “You’re in this
mindset… It’s like everything happens fast these days. Death is antecedent
to life, and yet it follows so quickly on its heels, that you can’t even
tell the difference. Eat big meals, boy, because the cycles just come
faster and faster, and there isn’t any release. It shrivels and drops off
before it was born. You hope and it hurts you, fear and it paralyzes you,
live—and it kills you. Right?”
“Uh oh,” Jesus said, pursing his full lips as Johny continued to rant.
“I’ve got Godot in my pants! Godot in my…my…pants! Beckett means
something in the reversal. Something has changed something this day
danger came changed wicked this way comes. You can see the nothing
that has happened maybe a Wagner routine with hats playing a game of
abuse let’s make it up… Lookit—the Pathfinder bees discover Nectar
and go back to the Hive. There the Pathfinder dances, to explain to the
other bees exactly where the Nectar is. Don’t you get it? He does a figure
eight on the honeycomb…the direction of honey in relation to the position
of the sun. He speedily explains how far it is. The wings strike 250
cycles per second…two, five, zero…eight! And it’s in the key of B, naturally…”
Jesus looked over at the Agent. Two plus five plus zero most certainly
does not equal eight. “J? You don’t think we got the wrong kid, do you?
Doesn’t seem much like a Prophet to me.”
“What?” the Agent asked. “The telephone listing we used said J.
Roberts. In Devon. I’m sure of it. Hey, Johny. Your last name is Roberts,
right?”
“Yes no all the same hey, tell me though, is it true? One of them?
Remote controls, y’know? Cars?”
“Uh oh,” Jesus said again, feeling very foolish.
“Jay’s last name is Roberts.”
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