Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

Alexi: (looks over at Ken.) It makes me wonder why every new level
apprehended is paradoxically another cage to escape for the sake of the
next; each “advance” is met with higher demands, lower rewards, and
stronger cage bars. Bizarre, bright blue alloys and snake-like dancing
girls. (He shrugs with a chuckle.) I don’t know, Ken. It seems you think
your personality has fractured. Why?
Ken: The writing is metaphorical, but when you get down to it, those
fragments are all just a piece of your self. They’re more distinguished
then a mood.
Alexi: (takes off sunglasses, glances at his twin reflection in the
lenses, and places them on the table) I ask because I’ve theorized the
same thing. I mean the fracture, of course. I find myself wondering why
it would happen…whether it’s a natural process… (after a dramatic
pause, begins speaking to a third person who’s not there in one of the
empty chairs): Masks that people wear for everyone else. A problem
arises when the mask becomes too natural; the person can’t differentiate
between “self” and “it” any longer. If I experience something, doesn’t
that make it real? Picture an onion, sliced in half… (Alexi chops downward
with the edge of his hand. His hand stops just short of a wine glass
seated on the table. There is a loud noise, a clear, crystalline note, and the
glass explodes all over the table. Ken and Alexi sit, blinking at each
other for a moment, before Alexi continues as if nothing ever happened.)
Uhm… The layers build up on top of themselves, there’s no “core,” no
“absolute.” My persona has not only split, it’s growing an awareness, a
decision-making capacity, of its own. There isn’t one persona, one self,
that rules. The act is out of control.
Ken: (nodding and smiling subtly.) I think we can do what we want,
unbound boy. It’s such a trivial thing to say that there are no absolutes,
though. Self contradiction? Is that phrase absolute? Everything I think I
know is untrue, and probably not even useful to the task at hand… I am.
I can be reasonably sure of that. Everything else? A madman’s dream?
Objective reality? Ovaltine? (pause) If you can follow the no-arrow
thread that runs between my words and think the non-thought that can be
the only true thought, I’ll give you a cookie-dough dispensing phallus.
(He stands abruptly and gestures towards himself.) Follow me.
Alexi: (follows curiously.)
Ken: (leading him to the coat room.) You remember how silly I used
to always be, and how overtly masculine?
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