Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

Agent 139 shook his head. “I can’t say, really. It has something to do
with a dream I had. I keep seeing things that tip me off to that, but when
I try to bring light to it and piece it all together, they resist.”
“I understand,” Gabrael said, his eyes glittering in the candlelight.
“You need to feel, rather than think. Dreams seldom make sense out of
their element. Instead of trying to bring them up to you and figure them
out, you need to go down to them, deal with them on their own plane.”
Agent 139 nodded and shook some salt on his yams.
Gabrael turned towards Jesus, who was sitting cross-legged in his
chair, his long white robes splayed open and revealing most of his chest.
“Care for some more wine?”
Jesus tilted his head forward, a slow smile creasing his lips. “He who
drinks of my lips shall be me, and I shall be him,” he said, cupping both
hands around the bulb and lifting his goblet to accept the libations. The
ruby liquid gurgled as it rushed from the bottle and splashed against the
glass. Jesus nodded again when it was three-quarters full, and then
looked down into at his reflection mirrored on the burgundy surface.
Everything around him brightened for a moment as he drank deeply from
his grail, various objects on the table catching his attention, crystalline
and fixed, standing still in stark contrast to the fascinating interplay of
motion on his companion’s faces.
Agent 139 was still transfixed, staring down at his yams and watching
the tiny grains of salt melt into them. He didn’t respond to the question.
“It’s good, right? I believe with those dreams you’ll find that when
you drink a little more and allow the wine to mellow your thoughts, the
mysteries they conceal will become clear to you,” Gabrael said. “So,
really, what brings you here?” As he was reaching across the table to
refill Agent 139’s glass, his elbow brushed against his own and tipped it
over the edge. Jesus watched it tumble end over end as it fell, landing
with a high-pitched crack and a slight bounce, followed by a raining
patter of shards as it struck the tiles a second time and shattered.
The sudden sound startled Agent 139 so much that he almost fell off
his chair. Blinking and looking around the room as if for the first time, he
said, “They’re the same, aren’t they? …The contents of my conscious
and subconscious, I mean.”
Gabrael, beginning to sweep the shards into a pile, paused and looked
up. “I couldn’t tell you,” he said. “Our experience, from a literary perspective,
certainly is a palimpsest.”
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