Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

while needle-sharp teeth worked their way along his neck and hunted for
a vein.
A series of clicks and chirps came from above him and the monkey
leapt towards the ceiling in a flash. Gabrael’s silhouette loomed overhead,
his face tilted sideways and wearing an unreadable expression.
“I see you’ve met Suke, got him all riled up. Come down here, Suke.”
He chirped several times more and the monkey dropped back down from
the rafters, landing on Gabrael’s shoulder and clambering around to find
a comfortable seat. “Suke means sweet, in Japanese. Back in your cage
now, there you go.”
Jesus clucked to himself and looked down at 139, still lying wideeyed
on the floor. “Never bare your teeth at a monkey, man.”
Suddenly Agent 139 remembered where he’d seen the cage before, or
imagined he’d seen it. Wait, no, was it just a fleeting dream? Jesus
bringing that cage to his room, a form wrapped in burlap dangling
inside?
Gabrael nodded. “Incredibly similar, genetically speaking. Still, some
of our social mores differ dramatically. Dinner is served.”
The two of them followed him into the kitchen, where he’d already
served the meal around a wooden table. The black and white tiles of the
floor melted, smaller, then larger in Agent 139’s vision, and he stood at
the entrance-way, transfixed. Yin-Yang, broken into trigrams, hexagrams…the
I-Ching! Now it makes sense!
“I’m sorry about my friend,” Jesus said, sitting down and taking in a
deep breath of the steam that rose from the yams on his plate, “he’s still
tripping his balls off, I think.”
Gabrael smiled and said, “Of course, of course.” The wicker chair
creaked as he leaned back. “Ahhh. Have you noticed it’s been raining for
three days straight? Of course you have, of course you have.”
Jesus nodded. Agent 139 still stood in the doorway, staring down at
the tiles. He looked up, squinting, and asked, “Do you think that means
something?” Three…three. And rain. The flood? Yes, here we go: the
flood and the ark myth. Genetic transmission. The 42 days of the flood is
AMA, the mother, still dark. The 42 judges of Amenti, the 42-fold name
of the creative God. The black mother, the forces of creation in silence.
Gabrael popped some turkey in his mouth, chewed while deliberating
on the question, swallowed, and shook his head. “No, I just thought it
was interesting.”
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