Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

He had been struggling with the feeling that there would be no happy
ending, that all of our lives were hurtling straight for a catastrophic collision
yet no one else seemed to see it. He had to pretend his eyes were
closed just to avoid getting locked away. For many months now, each
day grew longer and less satisfying than the one before it; it seemed like
all anyone did anymore was bark orders or obey the call of their master’s
whips: calendar, work day, weekly schedule… He was floundering in
college and couldn’t shake the feeling that it was as much of a dead-end
as working in the 7–11 down the block.
Days were lost in a gray haze. The world he was being sold was even
more disappointing when it wasn’t on television. Fear of death was nothing
to him compared to the fear of mechanization, the fear of becoming a
robot dutifully serving the machine. When he slept, he would often have
dreams of people marching in perfect rows, half-machine men with
glittering circuit boards in their heads—they were Orwellian dreams.
These dreams, which would otherwise be so easy to dismiss upon
waking, were driven home with an icy terror whenever he looked closely
at those around him. They also seemed to be falling lock-step into a
march that held no sway over him, no matter how hard he strained his ear
to listen.
Because of all this, he was more than willing to try something, anything,
that would allow him to escape from the relentless stranglehold
life had on him, to breathe freely again. And it was because of this honest
desperation that he was willing to buy anything that was sold to him,
which is what any acting guru, anyone willing to take on that role, needs
to make the first incision.
“I’m ready,” Ken said quietly. It was sub-vocalized and Alexi didn’t
appear to hear. “Am I dreaming?” he asked again, this time aloud.
Alexi put a hand on Ken’s shoulder, raising the other in the air for a
moment like it was a benediction. The air grew warmer. “We’re all
dreaming,” Alexi said enigmatically, his voice certain and calm. Ken’s
previous beliefs kicked in for a moment, and he felt the urge to laugh. He
thinks he’s fucking Jesus Christ.
He couldn’t deny, however, how comforting it felt to have someone
around who knew what was going on. At the least, he certainly presented
himself that way. He’d give Alexi the benefit of the doubt. They’d been
friends for some time, and although his recently found mysticism was a
little hard to swallow, it also presented ironically solid ground.
“The world would be a better place the moment everyone admitted
they don’t know anything, the moment they stop putting on a show,”
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