Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

lame except yourself, and maybe… (pause) that “it,” that unspeakable
thing that we chase day and night, tirelessly, is a genuine experience of
unfettered self. And it spirals… (trails off)
Ken: (nods slowly, frowning slightly.) We are driven, and the only
thing I think that can drive a man so far into things he has no business
meddling in is the urge, the need to fill that unquenchable pain and void.
It needs to be filled, but nothing does the job.
(B-Roll: People milling about outside the club.)
Alexi: (standing up) Let’s meet the crowd. More on this later.
Ken: (after him) You weren’t surprised by what I’ve said, hmm?
Alexi: (over his shoulder) Little surprises me.
Aptly enough, the club was barely lit; what light there was came from
purple and pink bands of glowing glass tubing running along the floor—
that, and rapidly flashing strobes. Columns of cigarette smoke were revealed
by the swiveling lights while thin tendrils of it reached languidly
down to the floor below.
The two of them danced for about half an hour, amidst a crowd of
pale skinned androgynes clad in velvet and leather. Finally, they took a
cigarette break in one of the plush alcoves that lined the room. A blond
teenager in a faded Mr. Bungle T-shirt tore past them, merely a blur in
their peripheral vision, shrieking “I’ve got Godot in my pants! I’ve godot
Godot in my pants!”
“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” Ken said,
rolling his eyes at the youngster as he disappeared rapidly into the convulsing
crowd.
Alexi was looking intently across the room, desperately trying to
catch the face of a man, sitting on a bench across the way. He had been
feeling an unearthly tug from that corner of the room all night, and was
almost certain it was coming from him. All he could discern at this distance
was long hair, pulled back in a ponytail, a baggy white shirt—
Victorian, almost what he fancied Byron or Shelley would have worn.
“Hm?” Alexi asked, trying to brush his now unruly and sweaty hair
from his face. “Continue.”
“There’s this hole right here,” Ken said, pointing to his chest, “and it
needs to be filled.” Sympathy? Alexi regarded him closely now.
“Metaphorically speaking. Loneliness?”
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