Fanatic
I hopped off the bus at Betelguese, hoping perhaps for a hot cup of coffee and some stellar company. Two dizzying years zipping around the Milky Way on the Quark Express left me with a deep-seated urge to feel the earth - any earth - under my feet and the burning desire to get the taste of space trucking meals from off of my taste buds.
The man panhandling on the corner outside the busport grinned his crazy grin - the one that promises his undivided attention until you pay him to stop looking at you, stop creeping you out, stop pretending like he knows where you hid the body.
You know the body that I'm talking about. The one in your closet only its a skeleton now, hidden and shameful and giving off a miasmic odour that you're scared will surround you until the day you're a skeleton in someone else's little pandora's box. The stench of doubt.
You can travel the galaxy and stare stars in the face until the gamma radiation turns your pineal gland into an elastic leg growing out of your forehead but you can't leave the goddamn doubt behind. It's in your soul now. It's a parasite on your conscience, one that's beaten the antibodies and now uses your own moral immune system to beat you about the head and forces you to always, always make the choice that you know is soon going to grow into another parasite. It's a vicious circle and all the relativistic phase-space jumping in the multiverse isn't going to make it stop.
Where was I? Ah yes, the panhandler. Perhaps stopping wasn't a good idea after all.
What do you do when the Galaxy isn't big enough for you and everyone else's beliefs? What would Jesus do? That's right, he'd offer himself up for his own and yours and mine and everybody's sake. Hitch a ride to heaven with Son of God. And if you don't catch that bus, then brother its time to burn.
Me? I just uncork the self-sustaining antimatter matrix and let the good stuff swirl into atmosphere of the planet with the panhandler and then set the catalytic timer to just after lift-off and catch the glorious view of an entire world consumed in an orgy of self-cancelation. I haven't got time to look for reasons for redemption. If you're on fire, consider yourself redeemed, motherfucker.
Amen.
The man panhandling on the corner outside the busport grinned his crazy grin - the one that promises his undivided attention until you pay him to stop looking at you, stop creeping you out, stop pretending like he knows where you hid the body.
You know the body that I'm talking about. The one in your closet only its a skeleton now, hidden and shameful and giving off a miasmic odour that you're scared will surround you until the day you're a skeleton in someone else's little pandora's box. The stench of doubt.
You can travel the galaxy and stare stars in the face until the gamma radiation turns your pineal gland into an elastic leg growing out of your forehead but you can't leave the goddamn doubt behind. It's in your soul now. It's a parasite on your conscience, one that's beaten the antibodies and now uses your own moral immune system to beat you about the head and forces you to always, always make the choice that you know is soon going to grow into another parasite. It's a vicious circle and all the relativistic phase-space jumping in the multiverse isn't going to make it stop.
Where was I? Ah yes, the panhandler. Perhaps stopping wasn't a good idea after all.
What do you do when the Galaxy isn't big enough for you and everyone else's beliefs? What would Jesus do? That's right, he'd offer himself up for his own and yours and mine and everybody's sake. Hitch a ride to heaven with Son of God. And if you don't catch that bus, then brother its time to burn.
Me? I just uncork the self-sustaining antimatter matrix and let the good stuff swirl into atmosphere of the planet with the panhandler and then set the catalytic timer to just after lift-off and catch the glorious view of an entire world consumed in an orgy of self-cancelation. I haven't got time to look for reasons for redemption. If you're on fire, consider yourself redeemed, motherfucker.
Amen.
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