Welcome to Is(sue) 9, kinfolk! This also marks the 5th anniversary of this ezine. Thank you for loyally contributing, reading, and sharing! It is you who make this ezine and you who keep it breathing. The tenth regular is(sue) will go live on December 15, 2021. See Sub(missions) in the menu (for more information).
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"the 12 phobias"
Kon Markogiannis , Greece
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"Polka Dots: Small Dotted History"
Charles A. Swanson, Virginia mass textiles dance craze Minnie Mouse smallpox itsy bitsy bikini
Twiggy Frank Sinatra Godey’s Lady’s Polka-Dot Man Miss America dotted-Swiss Czech peasant the plague N. Smallwood Marilyn Monroe not formal male virility polka suspenders cheeky Tour de France Leprosy Desdemona African art quinconce and moonbeams polka-dotted line taboo Brian Hyland magical person lunares Czech pulka Carolina Herrara handkerchiefs polkamania Rockabilly Yayoi Kusama thalertupfen Bob Dylan only feminine? sentence period "The Isle of Light (for Varavara Rao)"
Gabriel Rosenstock, Ireland
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Avant(Stories)Please make sure to address story submissions to Dave Sykes. Thanks!
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"The Summer I Was Henry Rollins"
Josef Steiff, Wisconsin
Josef Steiff, Wisconsin
For one day, I was Henry Rollins' personal shopper. I bought him fluffy white towels and power bars. I took him to the Apple Store and waited as he purchased his first iPod. I brought him lunchmeat, lean, no fat. I might have been in love.
One of my friends once commented that with all of his muscles and tattoos, Henry Rollins was the perfect gay fantasy, you know, the one that involves prison cells and bunk mates.
Maybe that's why I'm so fascinated by him. I once flew to New Mexico to see him live on stage.
I know what you're thinking.
Maybe that's why I'm so fascinated by him. I once flew to New Mexico to see him live on stage.
I know what you're thinking.
Stalker.
But I'm not one, I swear.
Before I ever met Henry Rollins, I felt a connection with him. Besides lust. That affinity came into focus one summer, when I had to learn everything I could about him, when for a brief moment I actually became him.
But before I could be Henry Rollins, I had to be a dog.
Let me explain.
But I'm not one, I swear.
Before I ever met Henry Rollins, I felt a connection with him. Besides lust. That affinity came into focus one summer, when I had to learn everything I could about him, when for a brief moment I actually became him.
But before I could be Henry Rollins, I had to be a dog.
Let me explain.
The summer I was Henry Rollins, I was living in England and taking an acting class. For the first couple of weeks we had to be an animal, and I had chosen to be a German shepherd that had been beaten as a young pup.
One of two things happens when you beat a dog – either it turns mean and vicious, the ultimate alpha dog that will get in your face if not your throat. Or it becomes timid, swallowing all of its anger and digesting it as fear, no longer an alpha or even beta, but rather an omega dog.
Unlike those farmers who fed their dogs gun powder and deliberately tormented young puppies to make them mean, my family took good care of our dogs, which helped assure they wouldn't join the wild packs that sometimes ran the hills, killing chickens and other animals. Once a dog goes wild, the only thing to do is kill it, and sometimes at sunset, we'd hear distant barking and gunfire as the neighboring farms defended themselves against the packs.
In acting class, I became an Omega Dog. I would skulk around the edges of the group, putting chairs and plants and tables between me and the other animals. I growled whenever anyone approached, though what I really wanted was to be invisible.
In acting class, I became an Omega Dog. I would skulk around the edges of the group, putting chairs and plants and tables between me and the other animals. I growled whenever anyone approached, though what I really wanted was to be invisible.
My biggest revelation as a dog was how much I needed a tail. Sitting on your haunches is really difficult without something to balance you. To keep you from falling over.
After being a dog, we had to transform our animal into a famous person, doing as much research as possible. We would then inhabit the skin of that person, remaining in character for hours at a time. Our instructor Lisa would put us in various situations and interrogate us in order to weed out inconsistencies.
Which brings us back to Henry Rollins. That summer I studied his pictures and taped them up in my dorm room. I wondered about the progression of tattoos, whether they were a way to enhance his beauty or destroy it. Or were they about something else entirely.
I wondered about his childhood and the thinly veiled references to his father that appear sporadically in his writing. His best friend was also named "Joe" and one night as they were bringing pizza home for dinner, they were mugged in front of their house, and Joe was shot and killed.
I wondered where is the human tail that can help us balance anger with fear, desire with repression, hope with fatalism. What is the difference between action and reaction?
Throughout the summer of being Henry Rollins I learned that the more we talk about other people, the more we say about ourselves.
Throughout the summer of being Henry Rollins I learned that the more we talk about other people, the more we say about ourselves.
Years ago I had a dream wherein I was this small kernel, a smaller self, inside my own body, not quite filling up my skin. I struggled to expand to fill the space, the empty void between the me inside and the me everyone sees. Maybe this is why I've often felt alone, even within a relationship. Though I don't mean to, it always seems that I hold back, hesitant. Whether with sex or love, there's a distance – but the distance isn't between us, it's within me.
Where is that human tail that balances absence with presence?
The summer I was Henry Rollins, I embraced my alpha dog. I was a bitch in heat. Suddenly in England I was popular …
The summer I was Henry Rollins, I embraced my alpha dog. I was a bitch in heat. Suddenly in England I was popular …
… maybe it was the accent.
It was also the first time I had been single in nearly 10 years, and that summer I doubled the number of people I had slept with, which isn't really saying as much as you might think.
A couple of the guys were married and assumed I was as well; the other one had a boyfriend. They were surprised I was single and never played around when I wasn't.
It was also the first time I had been single in nearly 10 years, and that summer I doubled the number of people I had slept with, which isn't really saying as much as you might think.
A couple of the guys were married and assumed I was as well; the other one had a boyfriend. They were surprised I was single and never played around when I wasn't.
What is the balance between belonging and independence?
After the summer is over I will return to the United States. By myself, I'll go see To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything. It's a movie where drag queens make the world a better place simply by being themselves.
There's one scene where Stockard Channing is standing in the kitchen, arguing with her husband, who will raise his hand and she will flinch. He doesn't touch her, but that flinch will say everything I've been trying to.
I will sit in the dark, and not remember anything that happens in the film after that point, though I think she eventually realizes that she deserves something better.
I can't say for sure because I'll be lost in my own thoughts as I realize that I no longer flinch. I'll try to find the exact moment that changed.
Maybe it was the summer I was Henry Rollins. Maybe it was that last day before summer ended, when I was packed and ready to fly home. Though I had been making this trip for several years, I was no longer sure how to return to my life. For the first time, there was no one waiting for me. Nothing expected. No one to impress or let down.
There's one scene where Stockard Channing is standing in the kitchen, arguing with her husband, who will raise his hand and she will flinch. He doesn't touch her, but that flinch will say everything I've been trying to.
I will sit in the dark, and not remember anything that happens in the film after that point, though I think she eventually realizes that she deserves something better.
I can't say for sure because I'll be lost in my own thoughts as I realize that I no longer flinch. I'll try to find the exact moment that changed.
Maybe it was the summer I was Henry Rollins. Maybe it was that last day before summer ended, when I was packed and ready to fly home. Though I had been making this trip for several years, I was no longer sure how to return to my life. For the first time, there was no one waiting for me. Nothing expected. No one to impress or let down.
I walked along the ocean cliffs of Torquay. The world appeared limitless. The ocean and sky were the exact same color, and the horizon was seamless.
I heard the crunch of paper under my feet and glanced back, bold black letters upside down behind me, crumpled in the gutter along with leaves and gum wrappers and rubble. Something about the upside down letters made me stop. I had to walk back to be sure.
I looked down at the flier, the paper's once-bright color now faded pastel by the elements. But the black letters still shone through, announcing a rave that happened months before. I hunched down to smooth out the paper with my fingers, its damp dryness creating a series of small cracks around the name of the rave – a single word, spelled out, now clear:
I heard the crunch of paper under my feet and glanced back, bold black letters upside down behind me, crumpled in the gutter along with leaves and gum wrappers and rubble. Something about the upside down letters made me stop. I had to walk back to be sure.
I looked down at the flier, the paper's once-bright color now faded pastel by the elements. But the black letters still shone through, announcing a rave that happened months before. I hunched down to smooth out the paper with my fingers, its damp dryness creating a series of small cracks around the name of the rave – a single word, spelled out, now clear:
Transform.
I only worked for Henry Rollins one day. But in a way, I spent an entire summer with him. If I were ever going to make a film about that time in my life, maybe I'd call it something like: "To Henry Rollins, Thanks for Everything."
I only worked for Henry Rollins one day. But in a way, I spent an entire summer with him. If I were ever going to make a film about that time in my life, maybe I'd call it something like: "To Henry Rollins, Thanks for Everything."
"Epilogue"
Cathy Thomas Brownfield, Ohio
Cathy Thomas Brownfield, Ohio
The room was hardly more than a walk-in closet. Virginia may have said a woman needs a room of her own and her own money in order to freely write, but how many hours had Grandmother spent at that battered desk writing with inadequate financial resources? From all appearances, nobody had disturbed her things; perhaps everything was just as she’d left it. Not even mice had come to clean up the cracker crumbs from the rug under her chair. The spiders weren’t so discriminating, however. Their webs were spun in corners, undisturbed.
Anna Baker sat down to remember the older – never old – woman. Pencils, pens, paper, paper and more paper. Grandmother had always had a plentiful supply. Her writing supplies were her toys. She had entertained herself for hours. Nobody in the family could comprehend why she would isolate herself here. Swiveling the chair, the view from the window caught Anna’s eye. She lifted the lower sash to let in the sounds, the scents and fresh air from the sunny, autumn day. Perhaps Grandmother hadn’t been so isolated as everyone had thought.
A gentle breeze fingered the leaves on the oak tree. Grandmother had loved that tree for some reason. It was tall and straight, and its shade had kept the temperature in the backyard at least ten degrees cooler than in front of the house where concrete sidewalks, the highway and driveways held the heat of the day less than ten feet from her door. Anna could hear the traffic now, including heavy trucks hauling coal and other goods along Lincoln Highway. Grandmother hated U.S. Route 30 above the Canton Bridge. Too many young people had lost their lives there in crashes – most generally with semis loaded for bear. She used to tell Anna’s mother and her aunts to be very careful when they used that stretch of road. Deadman’s Curve, she’d called it. There’d been talk of a Route 30 bypass but it still hadn’t happened so the weight of the heavy loads the eighteen-wheelers transported continued to break down the village’s main drag. But the drivers often stopped to eat at the greasy spoon so someone in town could do a million-dollar business every year. There still were too many empty storefronts. It had been chronic for too many years. But the parks in the middle of the business district looked real nice. Mama said Grandmother held held hope for the economy to get better so people here, friends and neighbors and family, could all afford to live better.
The buzz of a power saw caught her attention. It was somewhere down the street. She couldn’t see it. A lot of people were looking for alternative, cheaper ways to heat their homes because the cost of public utilities had gone much too high to be affordable. It wasn’t uncommon to hear power saws all hours of daylight. Folks had to do what they needed done when they could eke out the time, even as the last light of the day dimmed and went out. There was too much to do and not enough hours in the day for anyone. Busy. Everyone was so busy. In a hurry going nowhere, as if this were the only life they must concern themselves with because there was only the now and not a better place after this one. Still people worked hard from get up to go to sleep.
But not at Grandmother’s house. Grandfather didn’t have much interest in anything since Grandmother was gone. To be honest about it, even before Grandmother was gone, he hadn’t had much interest in anything domestic. Anna didn’t understand why.
Anna heard the voices of children laughing and playing. They were out of sight but Grandmother would have heard them and enjoyed them. They were like critters, she would have said. You could trust children and critters because they just took you as you were instead of having any expectations or plans of exploitation. Neighbors greeted each other over fences and property lines. In the kitchen window of the vacant house across the alley there was a candle, though Anna couldn’t recall seeing it lit and nobody had lived there for, well, she wasn’t sure how long.
Grandmother had had a window on the world, a window populated with people and nature and a way of life. Had she preserved in her scribbling any of those things outside her window? She’d always had paper and pen in hand, more than a computer, even though the finish on her laptop where she’d rested her wrists was rubbed away. The silver finish on the built-in mouse was white where she’d hit it with her thumb so often. The white letters on the “N” and “L” keys and most of the “M,” “S,” and “A” were gone. She had used her computer a lot. What secrets did this room hold, things nobody knew about the woman who had tried so valiantly to hold her family together?
Turning her back to the window, Anna’s eyes fell onto the small bookshelf unit within reach of the desk. Denise Giardina, Harriette Arnow, Sharyn McCrumb, Lee Smith, Appalachian writers, all. The Mack History of Columbiana County, Women Who Run with Wolves, Dr. Zhivago, Madame Bovary, and works of Doris Lessing. And several journals. Journals. Grandmother’s journals! The dust hadn’t been disturbed. Nobody had touched them. They probably hadn’t realized what they were!
She pulled the first one from the shelf. It was bound with a heavy-duty spiral. She opened it and found an envelope simply labeled, “Granddaughter.” The envelope was not sealed, the tab simply tucked inside. She pulled it free and took out the letter.
My dear granddaughter,
This Sunday morning the sky is gray. A few yellow-brown leaves still cling to the branches of the old oak tree outside my window, and they rustle almost constantly, whispering, whispering. If I put in my hearing aids will I be able to detect the message they convey? Or is it possible that I can discern the words in my heart, learned over time, reaffirming who I am and why I am? I strain to listen and hear, but there isn’t a syllable I can translate, not even a bird’s song. Ah! There is one so far distant!
And that oak. It stands sentry between me and the brutal sun of global warming proportions. Across the alley there is a tree. It’s a maple, less than half of the leaves green, yet whose skeleton will soon be exposed. Further away is the wooded hillside that shields the village from the worst of storms – there are no mountains here. Though October is mere days from this moment, there is more summer than autumn in their colors. It is obvious there are few days and nights before gray skies reign through a long hard winter. Short days. Cold. Bitter cold. Hard times. What did Dickens know that I do not?
It seems that my days and months and years might have the same, the look of summer, not quite autumn. I’m rambling. Too much rambling today. My thoughts are like storm clouds hovering over my emotions. It is difficult to digest that someone I love so much would wish to hurt me so irreparably. How will I manage to keep placing one foot in front of the other? How could this be? I would never have dreamed in a lifetime that this – Too, too much rambling. I don’t dare make issue of these happenings. Be strong. Bear my burdens in silence. There are others worse off than me. He could be much worse. He could get drunk and beat me, but he does not. I should be grateful for what I have. I surely don’t want to be labeled a neurotic, old woman, paranoid, lunatic. I am not neurotic. I am experienced. I am not paranoid. I am conditioned. I am not a lunatic. I have learned caution. Too, too, too much rambling.
I write my ramblings in a journal thinking my words will never hold meaning for anyone in the world but me. I suspect that if anyone reads these meaningless lines, it will be you, though at this time you are less than two years old and likely napping. You may find these words, abandoned … forgotten. You may study the faces in the photographs, faces of people you have never met and never will. You will study my handwriting, some days, even and legible, other days rushed scribbling because there wasn’t time to pace the writing. Some days there was so much frustration I couldn’t put down any words at all. I couldn’t find the energy to pick up a pen, to put words to paper to describe the heartbreaks I couldn’t do anything to change.
Will you be able to read between the lines and just know?
It seems I’ve spent a lifetime trying to read between the lines, between the generations ahead of me, and behind; the secrets that couldn’t be shared, the misunderstood oral histories that were passed down in whispers, never recorded in written words.
Amaris Jewett
September 28, 2009
Anna Baker sat down to remember the older – never old – woman. Pencils, pens, paper, paper and more paper. Grandmother had always had a plentiful supply. Her writing supplies were her toys. She had entertained herself for hours. Nobody in the family could comprehend why she would isolate herself here. Swiveling the chair, the view from the window caught Anna’s eye. She lifted the lower sash to let in the sounds, the scents and fresh air from the sunny, autumn day. Perhaps Grandmother hadn’t been so isolated as everyone had thought.
A gentle breeze fingered the leaves on the oak tree. Grandmother had loved that tree for some reason. It was tall and straight, and its shade had kept the temperature in the backyard at least ten degrees cooler than in front of the house where concrete sidewalks, the highway and driveways held the heat of the day less than ten feet from her door. Anna could hear the traffic now, including heavy trucks hauling coal and other goods along Lincoln Highway. Grandmother hated U.S. Route 30 above the Canton Bridge. Too many young people had lost their lives there in crashes – most generally with semis loaded for bear. She used to tell Anna’s mother and her aunts to be very careful when they used that stretch of road. Deadman’s Curve, she’d called it. There’d been talk of a Route 30 bypass but it still hadn’t happened so the weight of the heavy loads the eighteen-wheelers transported continued to break down the village’s main drag. But the drivers often stopped to eat at the greasy spoon so someone in town could do a million-dollar business every year. There still were too many empty storefronts. It had been chronic for too many years. But the parks in the middle of the business district looked real nice. Mama said Grandmother held held hope for the economy to get better so people here, friends and neighbors and family, could all afford to live better.
The buzz of a power saw caught her attention. It was somewhere down the street. She couldn’t see it. A lot of people were looking for alternative, cheaper ways to heat their homes because the cost of public utilities had gone much too high to be affordable. It wasn’t uncommon to hear power saws all hours of daylight. Folks had to do what they needed done when they could eke out the time, even as the last light of the day dimmed and went out. There was too much to do and not enough hours in the day for anyone. Busy. Everyone was so busy. In a hurry going nowhere, as if this were the only life they must concern themselves with because there was only the now and not a better place after this one. Still people worked hard from get up to go to sleep.
But not at Grandmother’s house. Grandfather didn’t have much interest in anything since Grandmother was gone. To be honest about it, even before Grandmother was gone, he hadn’t had much interest in anything domestic. Anna didn’t understand why.
Anna heard the voices of children laughing and playing. They were out of sight but Grandmother would have heard them and enjoyed them. They were like critters, she would have said. You could trust children and critters because they just took you as you were instead of having any expectations or plans of exploitation. Neighbors greeted each other over fences and property lines. In the kitchen window of the vacant house across the alley there was a candle, though Anna couldn’t recall seeing it lit and nobody had lived there for, well, she wasn’t sure how long.
Grandmother had had a window on the world, a window populated with people and nature and a way of life. Had she preserved in her scribbling any of those things outside her window? She’d always had paper and pen in hand, more than a computer, even though the finish on her laptop where she’d rested her wrists was rubbed away. The silver finish on the built-in mouse was white where she’d hit it with her thumb so often. The white letters on the “N” and “L” keys and most of the “M,” “S,” and “A” were gone. She had used her computer a lot. What secrets did this room hold, things nobody knew about the woman who had tried so valiantly to hold her family together?
Turning her back to the window, Anna’s eyes fell onto the small bookshelf unit within reach of the desk. Denise Giardina, Harriette Arnow, Sharyn McCrumb, Lee Smith, Appalachian writers, all. The Mack History of Columbiana County, Women Who Run with Wolves, Dr. Zhivago, Madame Bovary, and works of Doris Lessing. And several journals. Journals. Grandmother’s journals! The dust hadn’t been disturbed. Nobody had touched them. They probably hadn’t realized what they were!
She pulled the first one from the shelf. It was bound with a heavy-duty spiral. She opened it and found an envelope simply labeled, “Granddaughter.” The envelope was not sealed, the tab simply tucked inside. She pulled it free and took out the letter.
My dear granddaughter,
This Sunday morning the sky is gray. A few yellow-brown leaves still cling to the branches of the old oak tree outside my window, and they rustle almost constantly, whispering, whispering. If I put in my hearing aids will I be able to detect the message they convey? Or is it possible that I can discern the words in my heart, learned over time, reaffirming who I am and why I am? I strain to listen and hear, but there isn’t a syllable I can translate, not even a bird’s song. Ah! There is one so far distant!
And that oak. It stands sentry between me and the brutal sun of global warming proportions. Across the alley there is a tree. It’s a maple, less than half of the leaves green, yet whose skeleton will soon be exposed. Further away is the wooded hillside that shields the village from the worst of storms – there are no mountains here. Though October is mere days from this moment, there is more summer than autumn in their colors. It is obvious there are few days and nights before gray skies reign through a long hard winter. Short days. Cold. Bitter cold. Hard times. What did Dickens know that I do not?
It seems that my days and months and years might have the same, the look of summer, not quite autumn. I’m rambling. Too much rambling today. My thoughts are like storm clouds hovering over my emotions. It is difficult to digest that someone I love so much would wish to hurt me so irreparably. How will I manage to keep placing one foot in front of the other? How could this be? I would never have dreamed in a lifetime that this – Too, too much rambling. I don’t dare make issue of these happenings. Be strong. Bear my burdens in silence. There are others worse off than me. He could be much worse. He could get drunk and beat me, but he does not. I should be grateful for what I have. I surely don’t want to be labeled a neurotic, old woman, paranoid, lunatic. I am not neurotic. I am experienced. I am not paranoid. I am conditioned. I am not a lunatic. I have learned caution. Too, too, too much rambling.
I write my ramblings in a journal thinking my words will never hold meaning for anyone in the world but me. I suspect that if anyone reads these meaningless lines, it will be you, though at this time you are less than two years old and likely napping. You may find these words, abandoned … forgotten. You may study the faces in the photographs, faces of people you have never met and never will. You will study my handwriting, some days, even and legible, other days rushed scribbling because there wasn’t time to pace the writing. Some days there was so much frustration I couldn’t put down any words at all. I couldn’t find the energy to pick up a pen, to put words to paper to describe the heartbreaks I couldn’t do anything to change.
Will you be able to read between the lines and just know?
It seems I’ve spent a lifetime trying to read between the lines, between the generations ahead of me, and behind; the secrets that couldn’t be shared, the misunderstood oral histories that were passed down in whispers, never recorded in written words.
Amaris Jewett
September 28, 2009
Appal(Trad)
"Mud Tracks"
Linda Hudson Hoagland, Virginia
Linda Hudson Hoagland, Virginia
Follow the mud tracks, Susan shouted
to Annie as she pointed to the
vinyl covered floor. They both tiptoed
and whipped their heads side to side searching
for the uninvited visitor.
It’s got to be here. I saw it as
it slid over the threshold, she said.
Right there! screamed a panicky Annie.
Snake!
to Annie as she pointed to the
vinyl covered floor. They both tiptoed
and whipped their heads side to side searching
for the uninvited visitor.
It’s got to be here. I saw it as
it slid over the threshold, she said.
Right there! screamed a panicky Annie.
Snake!
Avant(Serial)
Avant(Serial): a section dedicated to publishing a novel by chapters in much the same way as novels were published in Dicken's day. Each is(sue) will feature a chapter of an exciting experimental novel - one chapter per is(sue) until the entire novel is thus published. Avant(Serial) will not accept unsolicited manuscripts by submission. Serialised novels in this space will be chosen by joint agreement of all AvantAppal(achia) ed(itors) and will not be Arch(ived). See Sub(missions) for more information.
"Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection"
a novel by Jim Meirose, New Jersey
Chapter 2: Introductory Materials
a novel by Jim Meirose, New Jersey
Chapter 2: Introductory Materials
The Overgivers at the Resurrection Club may seem an unusual and yes, maybe even frivolous name for a serious group with a serious mission and serious destiny or whatever other words may apply to describe a vicious angry desperate thrust at the seemingly unchangeable future; the future that says no matter what we do or achieve or fail at or anything at all in that direction, there is only one for-sure ending to it all. That is the wall at the end that cannot be broken through and that we have as a breed simply accepted the invulnerability of, and that wall has only a one word one syllable name that everyone on the planet knows; and that word is death. And after that the hiding away of the body in a grave or a crypt or whatever so it does not lie around in full view to scream at us all with its stench and its deteriorating physical putrefying skeletonizing self, that that is where we all end up being so why bother with anything anymore what's the use no? We all transform into bags of nonliving used-up worn-out rags and bones and general unidentifiable scraps and shreds and dry mummy meat, fit only to be scraped from the pavement and shoved and swept into a hole to be covered over and hidden and forgotten and then worshipped and prayed to and thanked for and slowly day by day forgotten and dumped into the stagnant bucket of uselessness which is improperly called the past. This is just accepted. The murderer inside us all that we are born with and which stretches and grows and wakens unseen and unfelt within us, as the years pass that start to stretch and sicken us from within in the guise of the inevitable old age ailments physical and mental which we all nod at and pray about but, alas, there's nothing to done at all to prevent. What has been done to us to brainwash us into accepting like sheep that this is how it has to be for each and every person born down through all the generations all around the world to suddenly have the murderer within waken fully and abruptly within us, and know in an instant it must kill that which gave it birth; and the sum of its presence in the form of all the ailments and vices and infirmities pile up into a final great drain-clog in the drain we must all spiral into at the very end, and then with great effort much like giving birth, the clog releases its grip and it's sucked away sucking the life down away with it, and then we all must, one by one, in this terrible inevitable way, give up to the great lord death who shoves the flimsy boat our remains have just boarded out into the raging surf tug tow and sink thing, to accept us as just this morning's drowning hoard, and take us down forever, to eternity.
But no, it does not have to be that way. It does not have to be that way since the bright sunny sunup over the great wide space of life is really, though we can't mow it, the final wild purple grassy lawn of life. Lawn grows, God cuts, seed the lawn sonny here seed it seed it before the time's all gone down that final drain. Reseed quick, reseed fast; reseed reseed reseed, and cheat death, yes, because we know you can. And that is what we, the Overgivers of the Resurrection Club, intend to develop the ways and means to do, working between now and out twenty-five or thirty years. Mark the calendar mark it mark it, if you don't have a calendar for out that far, check our online store on your way out, we even stock calendars in such off-center unused anymore quite silly languages as Latin, Cyrillic, Esperanto, and of course even Pig Latin, and also realize, before you go there, we only accept payment in old-school Communist Rubles.
But let’s jump back down into it. Our reasoning is drawn from direction given in the human race’s great assembly and operators manual, otherwise known as how-to-drive-your-life all the way to the great empty unknown manual, yes, yes, yes—the Holy Bible; it has provided hint after hint that what we label resurrection from the dead is possible. At the highest most stratospheric general level, it is simply possible because we just need to wriggle out into the other side of death, burrow by hand losing all our vainglorious fingernails because it is rough and tough work, and catch the supposedly now-dead soul from the labia-like portal on the back side of death, also known as the reaper. Then we cap and kill the pseudo-labia, and it’s done but for the shouting. It’s a kind of reverse birth, that’s how we see it. As natural as a regular birth but very very different. Be aware that as we are starting to suspect but cannot be sure, the majority of and possibly virtually all the regular births are really the backside of some resurrection or another. And we have all stood by blindly. Yes, we have all stood by as blind as bats, blindered horses or like that you take it from here; but! Our great secret founder likes to repeatedly recall the moment of revelation which struck him like a baseball bat blow to the back of the neck while he was recovering from spinal surgery administered absolutely perfectly by a big fat eternally hours late maddeningly unfeeling black-clad superloud tightly necktied brain surgeon waddling around like some kind of big fat quite unlanky imitation but branier-than-hell slenderman. Picture the moment in the TV room of the split level the founder shared with his inimitable spouse, who also must remain a cipher. The founder jerked off from a spell of lazy sleep and expounded, My word, Mary—I have just had dreamed up within me a great big stinking honking deal of holy revelation!
What, said Mary, continuing to knit. What is it this time you’ve been told by God?
Life can be restarted after death! I know it is true, Jesus Christ did it, it’s in a bestseller nonfiction book, a very fat book and thus quite important book too, can you guess?
I, uh—maybe it’s that German book by Hiller or Titler or whatever she calls himself--
No, by God! Don’t joke me! I am talking about the bible, sweet Marie.
Oh, yeah. The bible. Sure, I’ve heard of the bible. We might even have a copy or two stashed away in the storage locker.
Storage locker?
Yes, that is what I said! Jeez!
The big wad of vomit-colored tastelessly bulky and pilled-up knitting she held before her pounded softly into her lap, pulling her spotty veiny hard callused hands open and down to a tight crush. The knitting was her actual boss. Her marriage to the Great Founder was nothing but a way to survive. The Great Founder when younger had worked them through three separate waves of near-condemnation of their large old Victorian former Union Hall and chiropractic office for hoarding; each and every time he had caused his earliest waves of disciples to swarm onto the property, each one of the million separate disciple-souls gripping up a single item of the horde, and prayer-teleporting to the bank of one thousand storage units in less than a blink each, all simultaneously, that the process server arriving on the condemnation deadline day, all set to pin the uninhabitable habitation notice on what remained of the rotting bulging and splintered apart wood-slab they called a front door sometimes, and other times they called it a main entrance; and he came up and knocked and the Great Founder and Foundress opened and the process server stopped and looked through the door at a sight that bulged his eyes to nearly bursting. A spotlessly uncluttered house looking freshly renovated and free of any rot stain or moldy waterlogging, or any unknown nameless growths of slimy dark greenish yellow splashed all around and aimlessly growing for all these disease-free years. And not even a single dead or near-dead sackful of bony cats dogs or any other gregorymortal remains or drippings of Hong Kong or his sons. The process server began to speak but the miracle he was witnessing in some-word-bigger land beyond the door leafing all over in the blowing bursting wavy floaty flowy lacy curtains in the great beyond, beasts may instantly surge this house may be a baited trap for young rising pizza-entrepreneurs feeling the pressure of their first five-to-fifty year no personal salary there to draw the company is large but maybe not large enough to break even on the money we’re exhaling vs. inhaling from day to day with not a cent leaking over to swath us away future big and important job; remember that, honey! she snapped loudly enough to actually hear herself snapping and popping telling the old small-town sex maniac from way back that he should never be a motorcycle because to be the ridden not the rider is always a raw cheap deal. The Great Founder himself said, What do you want? What? That is what you must know to have direction! Otherwise, you are the Ridden and not the Rider!
Lord, God, no, no, I cannot will not never would assume the mantle of Ridden, shouted the Process Server and then he slammed the door in the face of the founder. And this is the end of the initial legend of the Great Founder which explains perfectly why people usually say behind his back that he looks like some forgotten size large angryman hit him in the face with a d----d solid steel rock-hard broad-a---d professional grade coal mining shovel for no good d----d reason at all except they hated his guts, but; enough of this. As said earlier, think a minute; what had triggered The Great Founder to spring through the gates of wakefulness; was the final phase of the reaction triggered in him by his thorough reading of a page or two of the bible every several years or so, and always when he indulged his alcohol problem? Each time he did that, when drunk enough he was remorseful to the point that he was sure if God took his property and its surroundings as well and then the surroundings of all those surroundings and ad infinitum, the world would suck down in a big wide spiral and fall down through and be gone—or worse be actually never was. So he closed over the bible for the last time and drank down the last bottles of alcohol that he had in the house and he sat down. Once sober, and having forgotten all doom because God had automatically caused it to immediately become forty years later; this line of reasoning was also laid on him—Jesus was able to raise the dead two thousand years ago, with just words and hands. Other new and old testament figures were also able to raise one or two dead people each. Jesus was even able to raise himself from the dead, even though his body had been reduced to nothing more than a bloody rag of torn and ripped flesh and a sack of broken bones and pain which death was merciful enough to fall upon and snuff out in a flash.
Mary, said the Great Founder, wakening from his reverie, It has hit me, what we need to next accomplish and make the last and greatest accomplishment of our super-illusory virtual lives. Guess what it has turned out to be.
What, dear, she said, muting the TV so she would be sure to hear every word, because it was seldom that the Great Founder deemed her worthy of address.
Think—Jesus and other biblical figures, who lived thousands of years ago, were able to raise the dead with just their words and their hands and their faith, and using absolutely no technology. What they mean to me is that, it is quite logically self-evident that with the technology we have developed over the last few thousand years, we should be able to focus research and study and harness the laws of nature and find a way that an initiated and properly equipped one could with a wave of their hand, do the same.
The same being what? Raising from the dead?
Yes! Raising from the dead! Here let me get to work!
And, he did. He worked and traveled and buttonholed scientists the world over of all disciplines telling him about this new project, which he mind-molded into a thrusting steeple aimed at the rapidly beating fearful heart of that dark creature, Father Death. But it will take time; we will need years. Money, too; but mainly years.
And--
It will take money.
Yes, evil money.
And this is where you come in. It’s unavoidable, but anything worthwhile takes money. We all know that you know that they know that everybody knows that but yes everybody, but—for you it will take just one million dollars, paid over the next twenty to twenty-five years. That’s a mere forty thousand a year. Also, only three thousand three hundred and thirty-three a month. About the mortgage for a second home, which can be easily afforded by the upper-crust people of high potential intelligence and great genetics, that we hope to attract to join in this venture. We only feel it is wise to resurrect the cream of the human crop. This will over time, elevate the race; a kind of forced evolution. And remember, over time, that amount of money will be less and less of what you earn because of the effects of inflation on incomes and expenses expenses and incomes abracadabra it does make sense you have to have trust—plus, it’s a small amount to pay to be one of the first modern humans to be brought back from the dead, again and again and again, lifetime over lifetime over—we think you get it. It’s called living forever. And if you buy in in a big way, you will get that big a result; so welcome.
Welcome.
Welcome.
So--
Welcome, to au Club de le Resurrection! Yes, yes, yes; we invite you to invest all you have into our company, which intends to do research to duplicate Jesus’ miracles. If he did it two thousand years ago, with no technological help, we should certainly be able to do it now with two thousand years of amazing technology behind us, and before us, and building and building and so on to the point where, we project that in twenty-five years, we will be able to revive the dead. And you, as an investor, may, yes, that’s right, you; it’s you we’re speaking of, you in the flesh, can be among the first to be revived and work with the other immortals we will create to build and move forward the brave new death-free world. Oh, yeah; after all, many believe the following is possible why should what we dream not be possible yes if you believe in God you may not want to think we can do what God did but yes, we can do it yes do it and do it more and better more and better surely for sure better. Heard of undertaking? Well, we do Overgiving. This is a new word, made necessary because our way of processing the dead is the opposite of undertaking, hence, the play and bounce and murdering of words say, in totally improper English, we do Overgiving. Here is just one of many broad examples, explained as we tend to do, which is simply ad nauseam; in 1 Kings, the bible states that Elijah resurrected the son of Zarephath's widow. Here’s what happened. The kid got sick; if it was this or that or the other bug that bit him, is not relevant. It’s enough to say that he was beginning to fever-dream that he was in a ship now being driven toward the edge of the used-to-be-thought-flat earth with no signs of slowing or stopping and the mother was biting her tongue and yelling and this brought in the rag man, Elijah, and his tightly chained thousand-breed mutt-dog.
Sister, he said—Sister, what’s wrong, you like to wake the dead you do!
Ah, uh—no, I hope no; I hope we don’t have to end up talking about raising the dead. If I am lucky my boy will not die. But there’s a good chance he will, yes, so, I’m crying because I know that if God hears me crying he will put my son at the top of the list of freshly dead he will immediately tear from their soul-pods and lift quickly as possible to heaven tonight by midnight. But, what can you do? Have you come to speed up my son’s death?
Listen, lady. Let me take him to my place. I’ll make sure he gets over this.
Why should I trust you? You are just a—oh, yeah, I’ll say it. You are a big ragged wild man, is what you are. Yes, you are; just a crazy old wild man with a house of guns.
I will not argue, he said—but I must take him. Make way!
She stepped back and in some strange way that seemed impossible of course, because there were no cranes or winches invented yet way back when, Elijah moved the boy onto the wide long soft back of his outsized great filthy mongrel of a dog, and he trotted the dog and the boy back to his place, but alas it was too late. The boy had died. Elijah slipped the wormy corpse into the long hot dog roll bed which clasped the boy vise-tight so he could not wriggle off the oh so childlike precious small child styled hot dog roll bed, yeah, yeah; Elijah clamped up the boy tight and looked up and berated God, who sat in the upper corner of the room, dozing a series of hypnogogic dozes, with his customary full flaming corn cob pipe, that hung superglued from his finger to avoid a repetition of the time three or four centuries back, that he had dozed and the pipe fell in the folds of his bedsheets and he nearly accidentally torched an entire spread out super-long and triple-large cloistered monastery complex, which today is in ruins and serves as a great tourist trap for buses to stop and let the paying passengers enter to pretend to pray their eyes out until their ship-of-fortune finally gets called in. Some stay and become monks at the neighboring monastery-fast-food restaurant and retail store. But most are disappointed in the long run.
God! Yelled Elijah. Let’s do it! Bring this corpse-boy to his next new life!
I will, boomed God. He then took a large drag from his corncob and sucked out into the future to get the process we will develop in the next twenty-five years and draw it all smoky and stinky but still serviceable back into Elijah’s hovel and spread it deep into the boy and hot-ovened him at four hundred degrees for several months, until at last the boy sprang from the stove a fully formed fully rejuvenated man, who just also by the way, happens to be in tip-top original showroom condition and ready to roll for any occasion but that for insurance purposes, must always be garaged. The boy-man realized he was naked and his modesty powerplant drove him instantly back to his Mother, who did drop dead of shock in the end, but only after leaving Elijah a voicemail saying, Truly you are a prophet of God. I will believe and be saved.
Yes, you see, there’s another proof that we can cure death.
It worked because here he is wolfing down a hot dog.
It worked because it has always existed but has been hidden for thousands of years.
It worked because we developed it and tested it and put it on the shelf of God for all generations past and future and now of course also to use when the dark terrors of looming death crop up to be once more defeated. Our product is ancient and cutting-edge at the same time.
So, sleep on it, then decide thou screaming front-row most-probable God fan, if you want to join us or not. For the right individual young or old or in the middle, the decision should be a no-brainer, now that you have read the big pitch; you see, the thing’s already done, in fact, just like everything’s been done already, but. Can’t get off track. You got the story. If you’re still on the fence, or even closer maybe, hey; it just so happens we also offer cheap quick online courses on opening your mind wide enough to be able to see the clearly wisest decision to make. And, remember, like any decent restaurant so to speak; yes, yes, kids eat free!
But no, it does not have to be that way. It does not have to be that way since the bright sunny sunup over the great wide space of life is really, though we can't mow it, the final wild purple grassy lawn of life. Lawn grows, God cuts, seed the lawn sonny here seed it seed it before the time's all gone down that final drain. Reseed quick, reseed fast; reseed reseed reseed, and cheat death, yes, because we know you can. And that is what we, the Overgivers of the Resurrection Club, intend to develop the ways and means to do, working between now and out twenty-five or thirty years. Mark the calendar mark it mark it, if you don't have a calendar for out that far, check our online store on your way out, we even stock calendars in such off-center unused anymore quite silly languages as Latin, Cyrillic, Esperanto, and of course even Pig Latin, and also realize, before you go there, we only accept payment in old-school Communist Rubles.
But let’s jump back down into it. Our reasoning is drawn from direction given in the human race’s great assembly and operators manual, otherwise known as how-to-drive-your-life all the way to the great empty unknown manual, yes, yes, yes—the Holy Bible; it has provided hint after hint that what we label resurrection from the dead is possible. At the highest most stratospheric general level, it is simply possible because we just need to wriggle out into the other side of death, burrow by hand losing all our vainglorious fingernails because it is rough and tough work, and catch the supposedly now-dead soul from the labia-like portal on the back side of death, also known as the reaper. Then we cap and kill the pseudo-labia, and it’s done but for the shouting. It’s a kind of reverse birth, that’s how we see it. As natural as a regular birth but very very different. Be aware that as we are starting to suspect but cannot be sure, the majority of and possibly virtually all the regular births are really the backside of some resurrection or another. And we have all stood by blindly. Yes, we have all stood by as blind as bats, blindered horses or like that you take it from here; but! Our great secret founder likes to repeatedly recall the moment of revelation which struck him like a baseball bat blow to the back of the neck while he was recovering from spinal surgery administered absolutely perfectly by a big fat eternally hours late maddeningly unfeeling black-clad superloud tightly necktied brain surgeon waddling around like some kind of big fat quite unlanky imitation but branier-than-hell slenderman. Picture the moment in the TV room of the split level the founder shared with his inimitable spouse, who also must remain a cipher. The founder jerked off from a spell of lazy sleep and expounded, My word, Mary—I have just had dreamed up within me a great big stinking honking deal of holy revelation!
What, said Mary, continuing to knit. What is it this time you’ve been told by God?
Life can be restarted after death! I know it is true, Jesus Christ did it, it’s in a bestseller nonfiction book, a very fat book and thus quite important book too, can you guess?
I, uh—maybe it’s that German book by Hiller or Titler or whatever she calls himself--
No, by God! Don’t joke me! I am talking about the bible, sweet Marie.
Oh, yeah. The bible. Sure, I’ve heard of the bible. We might even have a copy or two stashed away in the storage locker.
Storage locker?
Yes, that is what I said! Jeez!
The big wad of vomit-colored tastelessly bulky and pilled-up knitting she held before her pounded softly into her lap, pulling her spotty veiny hard callused hands open and down to a tight crush. The knitting was her actual boss. Her marriage to the Great Founder was nothing but a way to survive. The Great Founder when younger had worked them through three separate waves of near-condemnation of their large old Victorian former Union Hall and chiropractic office for hoarding; each and every time he had caused his earliest waves of disciples to swarm onto the property, each one of the million separate disciple-souls gripping up a single item of the horde, and prayer-teleporting to the bank of one thousand storage units in less than a blink each, all simultaneously, that the process server arriving on the condemnation deadline day, all set to pin the uninhabitable habitation notice on what remained of the rotting bulging and splintered apart wood-slab they called a front door sometimes, and other times they called it a main entrance; and he came up and knocked and the Great Founder and Foundress opened and the process server stopped and looked through the door at a sight that bulged his eyes to nearly bursting. A spotlessly uncluttered house looking freshly renovated and free of any rot stain or moldy waterlogging, or any unknown nameless growths of slimy dark greenish yellow splashed all around and aimlessly growing for all these disease-free years. And not even a single dead or near-dead sackful of bony cats dogs or any other gregorymortal remains or drippings of Hong Kong or his sons. The process server began to speak but the miracle he was witnessing in some-word-bigger land beyond the door leafing all over in the blowing bursting wavy floaty flowy lacy curtains in the great beyond, beasts may instantly surge this house may be a baited trap for young rising pizza-entrepreneurs feeling the pressure of their first five-to-fifty year no personal salary there to draw the company is large but maybe not large enough to break even on the money we’re exhaling vs. inhaling from day to day with not a cent leaking over to swath us away future big and important job; remember that, honey! she snapped loudly enough to actually hear herself snapping and popping telling the old small-town sex maniac from way back that he should never be a motorcycle because to be the ridden not the rider is always a raw cheap deal. The Great Founder himself said, What do you want? What? That is what you must know to have direction! Otherwise, you are the Ridden and not the Rider!
Lord, God, no, no, I cannot will not never would assume the mantle of Ridden, shouted the Process Server and then he slammed the door in the face of the founder. And this is the end of the initial legend of the Great Founder which explains perfectly why people usually say behind his back that he looks like some forgotten size large angryman hit him in the face with a d----d solid steel rock-hard broad-a---d professional grade coal mining shovel for no good d----d reason at all except they hated his guts, but; enough of this. As said earlier, think a minute; what had triggered The Great Founder to spring through the gates of wakefulness; was the final phase of the reaction triggered in him by his thorough reading of a page or two of the bible every several years or so, and always when he indulged his alcohol problem? Each time he did that, when drunk enough he was remorseful to the point that he was sure if God took his property and its surroundings as well and then the surroundings of all those surroundings and ad infinitum, the world would suck down in a big wide spiral and fall down through and be gone—or worse be actually never was. So he closed over the bible for the last time and drank down the last bottles of alcohol that he had in the house and he sat down. Once sober, and having forgotten all doom because God had automatically caused it to immediately become forty years later; this line of reasoning was also laid on him—Jesus was able to raise the dead two thousand years ago, with just words and hands. Other new and old testament figures were also able to raise one or two dead people each. Jesus was even able to raise himself from the dead, even though his body had been reduced to nothing more than a bloody rag of torn and ripped flesh and a sack of broken bones and pain which death was merciful enough to fall upon and snuff out in a flash.
Mary, said the Great Founder, wakening from his reverie, It has hit me, what we need to next accomplish and make the last and greatest accomplishment of our super-illusory virtual lives. Guess what it has turned out to be.
What, dear, she said, muting the TV so she would be sure to hear every word, because it was seldom that the Great Founder deemed her worthy of address.
Think—Jesus and other biblical figures, who lived thousands of years ago, were able to raise the dead with just their words and their hands and their faith, and using absolutely no technology. What they mean to me is that, it is quite logically self-evident that with the technology we have developed over the last few thousand years, we should be able to focus research and study and harness the laws of nature and find a way that an initiated and properly equipped one could with a wave of their hand, do the same.
The same being what? Raising from the dead?
Yes! Raising from the dead! Here let me get to work!
And, he did. He worked and traveled and buttonholed scientists the world over of all disciplines telling him about this new project, which he mind-molded into a thrusting steeple aimed at the rapidly beating fearful heart of that dark creature, Father Death. But it will take time; we will need years. Money, too; but mainly years.
And--
It will take money.
Yes, evil money.
And this is where you come in. It’s unavoidable, but anything worthwhile takes money. We all know that you know that they know that everybody knows that but yes everybody, but—for you it will take just one million dollars, paid over the next twenty to twenty-five years. That’s a mere forty thousand a year. Also, only three thousand three hundred and thirty-three a month. About the mortgage for a second home, which can be easily afforded by the upper-crust people of high potential intelligence and great genetics, that we hope to attract to join in this venture. We only feel it is wise to resurrect the cream of the human crop. This will over time, elevate the race; a kind of forced evolution. And remember, over time, that amount of money will be less and less of what you earn because of the effects of inflation on incomes and expenses expenses and incomes abracadabra it does make sense you have to have trust—plus, it’s a small amount to pay to be one of the first modern humans to be brought back from the dead, again and again and again, lifetime over lifetime over—we think you get it. It’s called living forever. And if you buy in in a big way, you will get that big a result; so welcome.
Welcome.
Welcome.
So--
Welcome, to au Club de le Resurrection! Yes, yes, yes; we invite you to invest all you have into our company, which intends to do research to duplicate Jesus’ miracles. If he did it two thousand years ago, with no technological help, we should certainly be able to do it now with two thousand years of amazing technology behind us, and before us, and building and building and so on to the point where, we project that in twenty-five years, we will be able to revive the dead. And you, as an investor, may, yes, that’s right, you; it’s you we’re speaking of, you in the flesh, can be among the first to be revived and work with the other immortals we will create to build and move forward the brave new death-free world. Oh, yeah; after all, many believe the following is possible why should what we dream not be possible yes if you believe in God you may not want to think we can do what God did but yes, we can do it yes do it and do it more and better more and better surely for sure better. Heard of undertaking? Well, we do Overgiving. This is a new word, made necessary because our way of processing the dead is the opposite of undertaking, hence, the play and bounce and murdering of words say, in totally improper English, we do Overgiving. Here is just one of many broad examples, explained as we tend to do, which is simply ad nauseam; in 1 Kings, the bible states that Elijah resurrected the son of Zarephath's widow. Here’s what happened. The kid got sick; if it was this or that or the other bug that bit him, is not relevant. It’s enough to say that he was beginning to fever-dream that he was in a ship now being driven toward the edge of the used-to-be-thought-flat earth with no signs of slowing or stopping and the mother was biting her tongue and yelling and this brought in the rag man, Elijah, and his tightly chained thousand-breed mutt-dog.
Sister, he said—Sister, what’s wrong, you like to wake the dead you do!
Ah, uh—no, I hope no; I hope we don’t have to end up talking about raising the dead. If I am lucky my boy will not die. But there’s a good chance he will, yes, so, I’m crying because I know that if God hears me crying he will put my son at the top of the list of freshly dead he will immediately tear from their soul-pods and lift quickly as possible to heaven tonight by midnight. But, what can you do? Have you come to speed up my son’s death?
Listen, lady. Let me take him to my place. I’ll make sure he gets over this.
Why should I trust you? You are just a—oh, yeah, I’ll say it. You are a big ragged wild man, is what you are. Yes, you are; just a crazy old wild man with a house of guns.
I will not argue, he said—but I must take him. Make way!
She stepped back and in some strange way that seemed impossible of course, because there were no cranes or winches invented yet way back when, Elijah moved the boy onto the wide long soft back of his outsized great filthy mongrel of a dog, and he trotted the dog and the boy back to his place, but alas it was too late. The boy had died. Elijah slipped the wormy corpse into the long hot dog roll bed which clasped the boy vise-tight so he could not wriggle off the oh so childlike precious small child styled hot dog roll bed, yeah, yeah; Elijah clamped up the boy tight and looked up and berated God, who sat in the upper corner of the room, dozing a series of hypnogogic dozes, with his customary full flaming corn cob pipe, that hung superglued from his finger to avoid a repetition of the time three or four centuries back, that he had dozed and the pipe fell in the folds of his bedsheets and he nearly accidentally torched an entire spread out super-long and triple-large cloistered monastery complex, which today is in ruins and serves as a great tourist trap for buses to stop and let the paying passengers enter to pretend to pray their eyes out until their ship-of-fortune finally gets called in. Some stay and become monks at the neighboring monastery-fast-food restaurant and retail store. But most are disappointed in the long run.
God! Yelled Elijah. Let’s do it! Bring this corpse-boy to his next new life!
I will, boomed God. He then took a large drag from his corncob and sucked out into the future to get the process we will develop in the next twenty-five years and draw it all smoky and stinky but still serviceable back into Elijah’s hovel and spread it deep into the boy and hot-ovened him at four hundred degrees for several months, until at last the boy sprang from the stove a fully formed fully rejuvenated man, who just also by the way, happens to be in tip-top original showroom condition and ready to roll for any occasion but that for insurance purposes, must always be garaged. The boy-man realized he was naked and his modesty powerplant drove him instantly back to his Mother, who did drop dead of shock in the end, but only after leaving Elijah a voicemail saying, Truly you are a prophet of God. I will believe and be saved.
Yes, you see, there’s another proof that we can cure death.
It worked because here he is wolfing down a hot dog.
It worked because it has always existed but has been hidden for thousands of years.
It worked because we developed it and tested it and put it on the shelf of God for all generations past and future and now of course also to use when the dark terrors of looming death crop up to be once more defeated. Our product is ancient and cutting-edge at the same time.
So, sleep on it, then decide thou screaming front-row most-probable God fan, if you want to join us or not. For the right individual young or old or in the middle, the decision should be a no-brainer, now that you have read the big pitch; you see, the thing’s already done, in fact, just like everything’s been done already, but. Can’t get off track. You got the story. If you’re still on the fence, or even closer maybe, hey; it just so happens we also offer cheap quick online courses on opening your mind wide enough to be able to see the clearly wisest decision to make. And, remember, like any decent restaurant so to speak; yes, yes, kids eat free!
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