Then it happens: the big toe ignites into motion, followed by swishes lashed by the others. Another second and the man is on his feet, sprinting around the hospital room, bounding onto chairs, then leaping onto the floor. The doctors are stunned, unable to comprehend that a mere book would cure this man’s broken legs, but there you have it. A final shot of the psychoanalyst, sulking, cantankerous to the bitter end, leaves us in no doubt as to the winner of this duel.
The credits gaze at us from the screen.
“I say we go burn the Freud Museum right this very instant!” I propose to the Duke.
Not listening, the Duke enquires, “Isn’t she coming back for us? What do we do?”
The guide has indeed failed to return, the screening room empty save for us. With a great lunge I flick the light-switch. Icons adorn the walls, held loftily by still-wet jissom, the smell smothering the room.
“Shall we leave?” says I.
“Aye,” the Duke mouths approvingly.
Duke De Mondo
The digital projector behind us murmurs contentedly, exuding curious tendrils of azure light that dance and whirl demented about the airways.
“What’d you make o’ that, at all?” Sir Fleming enquires.
“I dunno,” I say, scratching at the bum-fluff on my jaw, squinting a touch. “It’s all a bit… well it’s a bit self-serving, the whole thing, is it not?”
Thinking then - Christianity, Hinduism, Islam… Which of them isn’t self-serving? Their longing for justice (whatever their definition of such may be), their professed love (to lesser or greater extent) of the downtrodden and the weak and the beaten and bruised - it’s all self-serving, it’s all in pursuit of some personal gain to be garnered far side of a bullet in the eyehole or a topple off of a cliff or a battle with the minotaur or whatever.
Perhaps Scientology is just more honest?
Heads poking out the door of the screening room, scanning the stairways either side. “Where is she?” I ask. “Do they have a Rapture, these people? Has she been plucked from out the Earth by the thumb and forefinger of L. Ron? Has she been set upon by Psychlos?”
“Hubbard only knows,” Sir Fleming replies in hushed tones, his eyes narrowed, searching. “But I will stand in this darkness no more.”
Criticisms plucked out the broadsheets and the tabloids and the blogs, considered anew whilst clambering from one floor to the next.
“It’s absurd! Aliens! Fucking… fucking thetans!? It’s absurd!”
Article comments
1 - Bennett
Great. Can't find the words to say more, as reading you two messes up my ability to form sentences. But just fucking great.
Thanks.
2 - Phillip Winn
Part two building on part one forthwith, eager anticipation is relieved. Some day perhaps we shall chat further on your keen and almost-unique take on world religions, Aarons, but until then I shall content myself with reading your tinkering in English.
Cheers!
3 - DukeDeMondo
Sir Bennett, thank you very much. I'm very glad you dug our ponderings.
Sir Winn - Thank you also, and that is a conversation i would very much enjoy of an evening.