The Culture Bunker
Hello, My Name Is Legion
by William Ham
illustration by Space Jockey
By the time you read this, I will have gone on to a better place. Barring that, I will be dead. I am writing these words for the understanding and edification of future generations. And I am writing these words to practice my penmanship. I’ve been working on my loops. I, in addition to four hundred others of my kind, are holed up here in the Compound of Heavenly Peace and Affordable Hourly Rates (what the heathen would call the Motel 6 just outside of Oxnard), counting down the final hours, awaiting the Rapture. Hope it isn’t late like it was yesterday. If I don’t get my Rapture by noon, I’m worthless for the rest of the millennium.
They laughed at us, scorned us, and denied us our consolidation loans, but as you read these words, it is we who will have had the last laugh, provided we can get it in before the lethal dose of sinus medication kicks in. We are the Chosen, the remnant spoken of in Scripture, the elite who got their membership fees in before the March 31st deadline. It is we, the few who shall escape the wrath that will come down and lay over this pustulant Earth like a divine plastic couch cover from which the stains of mortal corruption may be wiped clean by the damp cloth of God and a little Formula 409. In just a few minutes, we will take our rightful place beside the throne of God, show Him our laminates, and be ushered into the highly exclusive V.I.P. (Very Immaculate Person) lounge in the heavens, where all is serene and your first two drinks are half-price. Hallepenjo!
It has been a long, arduous road we have travelled these many years (what the unholy would refer to as Interstate 19 out of Tuscon). Every member of the Turn Righteous At The Light flock has their own stories, but since the TV-movie and action figure rights for most of them have been sold, I am only at liberty to recount my own. It was 1982, a condition that was to persist through most of that year. Like many kids my age, I had drifted into a life of easy kicks, of drugs, cheap sex, and illicit tobagganing. I was chasing a deluded dream of rock ‘n’ roll stardom, playing electric ocarina in a pick-up band comprised of a randy bunch of malcontents, layabouts, and known mousse abusers. We managed only a handful of “gigs” (in the argot of the streets), playing the occasional Jewish Italian wedding (where the couple seals their union by breaking a glass over each others’ head) and appearing at the annual semi-formal riot in one of the posher ghettos in town. The night of my conversion was a particularly auspicious moment, one I will never forget for as long as I live, though perhaps I shouldn’t be so hasty – a lot can change in seventeen minutes. We had secured a booking at the St. Bursitis Seminary School spring dance, otherwise known as the Monsignor Prom. We had just finished a smoking set (the pre-amp shorted out) but the music didn’t matter – all I cared about was “getting some,” which would have been easier for me if there were a noun somewhere in that phrase to help me narrow my options. I set out on my search but was stopped in my tracks by the most charismatic man I had ever seen. “Where are you going?” he gently inquired.
“I’m trying to find some falafel. That’s next on my list.”
“No,” he said, “where are you going?”
I had never heard that question posed to me in quite that way before. Maybe it was the italics. “I… I guess I don’t know,” I replied.
“Of course you don’t. You’re lost, like so many others. Living that hedonistic lifestyle of yours, with nothing on your mind but blowing into that elongated ovoid instrument of yours.”
“Not really. I tried once and I had to wear a neckbrace for a month afterwards.”
“I can see you’re carrying around a great burden. I would like to help lift some of it from you, say, 65% of your combined net burden the first year with adjustments for wages-of-sin increases every year thereafter. You crave spiritual fulfillment, don’t you, lad?”
My eyes welled up. “Yes,” I sobbed. “And pickle juice, too. I’m not sure why.”
“Then come. Join us and leave this unholy life of yours. Stop chasing these foolish earthly desires. You will never find success with this ragtag band of hooligans. The only true rock is the rock of the Lord. The only true roll is… uh… well, it’s seeded and… not a bulkie… I’m going to need a few minutes to work on that. And while I do, go and quit the band. I’ll be over there, getting punch at the holy water receptacle.”
I was nervous but somehow compelled. I struggled with my conscience (as well as my fly) all the way over to the bandstand. A very big part of me (which looked even bigger when I augmented it with Kleenex) wanted to continue as I had been doing. But this strange man’s words rang true. What was I really expecting from this life? That I would be rich, famous, selling millions of records and cavorting with supermodels? How deceived I was. By the time I reached my lead singer, I had no doubt I was doing the right thing.
“Axl,” I said, “I quit.”
Within days, I was spending my every waking hour and a good chunk of my trust fund with Probationary Reverend Ted N. Shuss and his small group of followers. He also had a group of small followers, but he soon realized that none of them would be able to go on any of the rides at the Discipleland theme park he was hoping to build, so he gave them up. Despite what the newspapers and that profile in Pre-Op Nuns In Latex magazine have said, Rev. Shuss never brainwashed or coerced us in any way. I was not forced to become a member of the flock and could come and go as I pleased. “Should you decide to leave us, I understand,” he’d say. “You are under no obligation and you may cancel at any time. You may keep your free gift, though to be honest, I don’t know how much use you’ll get out of that heavy wool `I’M WITH THE SAVIOR’ jacket while you’re having red-hot knitting needles inserted into your most intimate places for all eternity.”
Those early days were positively idyllic. I was amazed to find that most of the flock were very much like me – the same age, the same stories of despair and redemption, the same tax bracket – and I never felt so much a part of something since I received that pre-approved membership in the Columbia Record & Tape Club. When Rev. Shuss wasn’t amazing us in our prayer meetings with his stunning knowledge of Scripture (I never knew, for example, that Jesus had a younger brother named Desi), we were helping out in the community. Every Thursday, we’d take to the streets, spreading the word of hope to the homeless (wearing rubber body suits so they wouldn’t spread anything of theirs to us), teaching them how to make pretty necklaces out of the teeth that fell from their head, and selling them copies of Rev. Shuss’ pamphlet of inspirational parables for the downtrodden, God Smiles At Scum, at well below list price. On Saturdays, we’d go out to the airport and sing songs of praise to passers-by. Rev. Shuss enlisted my songwriting abilities for this task, and I made him proud with my compositions “Give The Lord A Dollar And Maybe Your Plane Won’t Crash” and “Those Bald Guys Over There In The Saffron Robes (Are Staring At Your Wife).” Finally, my God-given talents were being put to good use.
After three months in their company, I knew the time had come. At the end of the regular Sunday worship service (after the flagellation but before the snacks), Rev. Shuss stood before us and said, “Are there any among you who would like to come into the righteous circle once and for all, with all the benefits membership entails?” I took a deep breath, stood up, and promptly blacked out. The next Sunday, I made it to the pulpit (thanks in no small measure to the reminder to exhale I had written on my hand) and kneeled before him. He smiled. “Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and savior?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Do you promise to renounce all worldly goods and have them placed in the Safety Deposit Box of Renunciation, except for all funds currently residing in money market accounts, stocks, bonds, jewelry and gold teeth, which will be put into the Numbered Swiss Bank Account of Piety in the name of God (and in the name of Theodore Narwhal Shuss for legal purposes)?”
“Yes. Oh, God, yes.”
“Then I accept this new parishioner on behalf of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, all of whom were unable to be here today because of a prior commitment to the St. John the Baptist Invitational Golf Tournament in Pensacola. Welcome, my son. Sign here. And there, and intitial here. The Lord needs it in triplicate.”
To be continued.
