Cult Fiction

This is the sort of moment you think only happens in stories.

There's a lame bar on the corner of Milwaukee and Western. The service is unpleasant, the food is overpriced, and it isn't worth thinking about the drinks. There's a room upstairs that's barely lit, with its own bar, and its own music, and everybody there is a wizard.

You think I'm kidding.

There's a guy with scars on his back that looks at stories like a conductor looks at sheet music. He can take it apart, knows how all the elements fall into place, and will look you straight in the eyes and ask you why your life is worth telling.

Another, the dreamer, will kiss his children on the forehead before he drags you screaming into a circus of blood and anguish. Worse, as you're chained into the madness, he'll wonder why you haven't thanked him for the privilege.

There's a sly latin man who has the wisdom of a thousand years of grandmothers, and whose sorrow you just want to kiss. Not to take away, but to steal for yourself.

These are powerful forces, gathered in a secret bar in a secret space, they could recreate the world if they wished.

And last night was open mike night.

The devil's factory was recited. God complained about the 10 plagues he -didn't- impose on the Egyptians. Refined ponies folded lace napkins.

And I was up.

I wasn't auditioning for them. I made my friends and proved myself years ago. I just need to know, as I began my path once more, if I could unlock it in myself.

And the monster came out. Dreaming of murder and torture, and the taste of flesh. Of assault made sacred.

And I came back.

Tuesdays are going to be a lot more fun. I know a place.