Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

At the same time, elsewhere in the club, the Agent had wandered from
the hard black floor, speckled in glistening globules of sweat and god
knows what else, into someone else’s thoughts. At least, this is the
impression he had, because he could neither feel his body nor see his
surroundings. It wasn’t that everything had faded to black—far from it.
Rather, his mind was focused on these thoughts, these transmissions he
was receiving, and had no time or attention for such decadent illusions as
sight or touch. The external roar of the crowd, even the music, seemed as
present as a refrigerator hum. This internal transmission—there was no
other way for him to think of it—was quite real, inasmuch as anything
was real. That is to say, he experienced it vividly, possibly more vividly
than the flashing neon of bookstores and video arcades that most considered
real. But his thoughts weren’t really on this boorish, philosophical
train hurtling through the bleak landscape of Platonic dialectics and
the nature of reality. No, what the Agent found most enthralling at this
very moment was the giant rodent, hiding somewhere under a bed, like
some minotaur deep in the inner labyrinths of his mind. The beehive
buzzing of his memory.
Agent walked into this bedroom, his room when he was a child, to
find that a conversation had already begun without him. The impatience
of empty rooms is unmatched in this corner of the galaxy. Hiding
amongst clumps of rabbit-like dust balls was this gerbil, it’s little pink
nose twitching at an impossible rhythm. Behind the rodent was the
stuffed dragon that he had lost as a child. Agent was somehow under the
bed he had slept in when he was seven years old, and his dead gerbil was
getting ready to talk to him. Finally, the gerbil spoke: I was pretty sure I
knew what I was talking about when I talked to my gerbil, although it’s
so hard to tell sometimes because he’s dead; claws still, neck stretched
slightly upwards—rigid, in my hands. He’s a nice guy, really. He just
isn’t very responsive. Then again, they say that it’s better to be able to
listen than speak, and he listens real well, only talking to me through
recordings using crystalline technology recorders left from Atlantis and
passed down through generations in the Masonic brotherhood and encoded
using mathematical constants found within the structure of the
Great Pyramids of Giza, the Cydonia Pyramids on Mars and the Qabbalistic
tree of life. The gerbil paused and cleared its throat rather loudly.
Now I am living between the lines, hiding in the cracks, hiding in ( )’s…
Once you’ve been processed and beaten down, they can shove you in the
ground and wash their hands of the deed. The gerbil paused again, it’s
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