So, I've been feeling vaguely artistic lately. That's usually a bad sign.
It made me spend an hour and half at work yesterday jotting down a story.
Wanna read it?
Jesus has returned but all he's doing is goosing girls down at the mall
He felt up my neighbor's teenage daughter and now she won't go to church.
She just sits in her room in front of that poster and "prays" all by herself.
The other day some guy in a suit and tie asked her for change for a dollar and she kicked his teeth in.
She has a hungry look in her eyes. Even her father has felt it. Like he's a piece of steak in tight underwear.
She's trying to get the bank to give her a loan.
It's a bit of an annoyance really, because she's put me down as a reference.
You must understand: I've got quite a good reputation with this bank.
Without their help, I could never have purchased that Temple in Thailand.
Here's the thing.
She wants to open up a vitamin store at the mall, as a front to sell drugs.
Says she has it all figured out.
She's dating this guy named Peter Garbage. Claims to be some kind of lawyer.
He assures me that if anything goes wrong, there's no way it will be traced back to me. But I'm not so sure.
"Look, Peter Garbage," I told him. "I'm a respectable prophet. Not one of these shopping mall messiahs with a thing for the honeys. I've got responsibilities to my followers."
Peter Garbage says they'll cut me in on the profits. All strictly off the record. The money will come in as a "donation" at the temple.
I say it all sounds like a good way for me to get hung. Afterall, the Thai government isn't as "understanding" as ours.
To make matters even trickier, I've been getting flack from the Temple prostitutes.
They say if they're gonna lay dirty old men for the cause of the Prophet, then the prophet better be getting them high.
Mind you, I never wanted to be in the business of pimping out young girls. I find the whole thing rather tawdry.
But that's the way things are done there.
It's the way they've always been.
And it's pretty tricky to speak for god with all your fucking teeth knocked down your throat.
So, I'm playing ball.
All kinds of ball.
So, I call up my neighbor's girl. She's living loose and cheap down at this seedy flophouse Peter Garbage rents from.
I tell her what the deal is:
"You find a way to get your drugs to my girls in Thailand and I'll sign any form the bank puts in front of me."
She just sort of laughs.
Then Peter Garbage gets on the phone and he tells me another way it can be.
He says that maybe if I don't sign that bank form, then maybe, just maybe, some cold motherfucker's going to come over to my house some night and cut my dick off.
I don't need this. I never asked to be a prophet.
I never asked to be a pimp and I never asked to be a drug dealer.
All I wanted to do was protect the breeding ground of a rare species of monkey that lives around the Temple's gardens.
The old Prophets at the Temple were going to sell the place and have the whole sacred acre turned into a sewage treatment plant.
They said THAT was the word of God.
That's the only reason I went to that doctor in the hills.
The only reason I let him cut open my head and put that radio in my brain.
The radio that's tuned to the mind of God.
You can't possibly think I wanted anything like that in my head, could you?
But I did it for the monkeys. Monkeys need me. They need my help.
And I need my motherfucking cock as an antenna for this holy radio in my brain.
Otherwise I lose the temple.
But, on the other hand, I also have to keep the girls happy. And frankly they could care less whether I have a cock, as long as there's a fix waiting for them behind the altar.
So, I go outside and I get into my old Dodge Rambler.
And I drive down to Peter Garbage's place.
The whole place is dark except for Garbage's room which is lit by like a million candles.
Garbage is there. So's she. I can here them breathing from underneath a quilt on this moldy looking futon.
From underneath the quilt, I hear someone cocking a gun.
"This," I say to myself, "would be a bad time to be afraid."
So, I turn up the radio in my head.
As far as it will go.
Until all I can hear or think is the word of God.
For a moment, it's like too much light. Too much light in my brain. Then I can feel my hands and feet moving on their own.
They're doing stuff and it feels nature is doing it.
Like I'm a storm or a volcano.
And when the fuse finally blows in my head, and the word of God cuts out, and the blood in my eyes jerks me awake, it's over.
I'm standing there looking at their dead bodies, wondering what kind of animal or industrial machine could have done that to them.
Then I'm wondering why my eyes are bleeding. And if they'll ever stop bleeding.
And I realize something:
I feel like I've just had the biggest orgasm in the world.
Two weeks later, I'm looking at everything I own boxed up in crates.
Big fucking crates bound for Thailand.
I'm on the phone with the doctor.
The new Holy Radio he installed is working fine. And plans are set for him to come to Thailand.
He's going to install some more radios for me.
In the head of every one of my girls.
The temple prostitutes will get you off while they're getting off on the word of God.
And maybe a few of their customers will end up dead, but not many.
And that sounds all fair enought to me.
And everything will work out for me and the monkeys.