Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

nose still twitching at that impossible rate. Agent noticed that a monocle
was dangling over one of his coal black, beady eyes. It adjusted it with a
furry left paw, hemming and hawing, clearing it’s throat, (there was a
report that sounded like a horribly bent, wet French horn), and otherwise
making a great deal of the fact that he had forgotten his point. Yes, now I
have it… And the yo-yo encrypts us more then a thousand spider’s webs
I’m sinking into and yet all of you keep smiling Jell-O smiles and hot dog
grins. Underneath there had better be the blackness of time and water
stains that would make the Mississippi bow in shame or else you haven’t
lived like I have. And I envy you.
So it came to pass that the Agent and Jesus decided to travel to the
apartment of this Aleonis de Gabrael. With an increasingly bitter wind
hard upon their backs, they headed around the back of the club.
As they rounded the bend and headed for the car, there came a rattling
from a nearby dumpster. A form, hunched much like the building, stole
along the shadows; he attempted to move stealthily, as a stray cat might,
hunting for food in the refuse, except he made a great deal of noise, kicking
soda cans and rustling papers bags under foot. A most ineffective
thief in the night.
He seemed absolutely unaware of the sound, continuing to sneak
towards them, convinced he was the most skilled burglar to have ever set
foot within Philadelphia. Although the shadows were deep and concealed
most of his features, they could still make out a worn leather eye-patch
on his left eye, fastened with a thin cord wrapped over the back of his
oblong head. His clothes were shabby, yet they seemed to have been
regal once, a navy or marine officers uniform perhaps, even a rattling
sabre affixed to the crooked belt upon his waist. The Agent was growing
anxious, thinking it quite possible they had accidentally wandered into
one of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novels, and what a terrible time they’d
have getting out of the predicament. “Avast!” the hunched form called,
finally officially giving his presence away to the pair, standing transfixed
in the half-light of the baleful moon, hanging directly overhead, their
hands twitching nervously, eyes bugged out and pupils dilated to their
fullest extent. The Agent’s heart sank—this was more likely to turn into
a Moby Dick re-run.
“Avast, I say,” he called again, a hand held out in greeting or warning,
(they couldn’t tell which), stepping forward again. His footsteps sounded
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