“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—”
“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.”
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 crush it. 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 gripped up a single item of the horde, and prayer-teleported 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 front entrance. 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 gregory-mortal 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 loud 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 too early too wrong, so the Founder’s face back pancaked smack flat. And that was the end of that.
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 asshole hit him in the face with a damned solid steel rock-hard broad-assed professional grade coal mining shovel for no good damned reason at all except they hated his guts, but; enough of this. As said earlier, think a minute.