This entry hearkens back to glorious 2018, when mortals were still excited of future letdowns like Game of Thrones and Star Wars. Right then, I myself mingled with the night-going crowd of the outsourced domain, and was yet to be disillusioned of attractive single moms and punk rock babettes.
When I got bored of the routine, I jumped into the dream of this paranoid douche who lived in his almost literal ivory tower. What I saw there was a welcome change from the slog of impossible leading ladies, ridiculous story progression, and other misplaced narrative elements. Hands down, this one had the trappings of a sensible story, at least as far as mortal meanderings go.
Submitted without the need for approval of lesser beings, this is the Tale of the Occult Following…
THE CAST:
-Dion Norelli-
A skeptic of just about anything, Dion questions everything from questionable toilet products to his own steaming pile of life choices. He is in extreme odds against his own, inherited faith, and is widely considered to be the black sheep of his family.
-Edward Humphrey-
Humphrey is Norelli's friend from the good old high school days, when philosophical standpoints were not nearly as important as getting laid. They hadn't seen each other in years, making Ed's transition from fun-loving village idiot to shadow cult enforcer all the more apparent.
-Mac Finn-
Edward's cousin and Dion's unofficial best friend. As the most level-headed of the trio, it was Mac's duty to ground his friends' opposing quirks, as well as serve as the glue that makes hanging out less awkward. He was the only one to remain hometown-bound post-college. Incidentally, he was also the only one to stay sane.
-The Cult of Kerotan Strain-
These hooded pagan worshippers practice a most obscure brand of faith, and will stop at nothing to grow their ranks. On a bad day, even false advertising and reckless use of magic are fair game. On a good day, they're right up there with the creative minds behind Meadsawmar. The name was derived from their hood design, which resembled a comical frog's head minus the apple-green coloration. Much unlike their more pretentious counterpart, however, you won't hesitate to shoot them in the head given the chance.
THE GISTORY:
Religion recruitment processes always come with honey-dipped promises. Most of the time it's the exclusivity of their salvation, or how an idol held the best stats from the character selection screen. Sometimes it's about who made the least mistakes during their startup days; better yet, how well they could cover shit up and put the rest on their patron god's tab. Whatever the case, it's all just another investment scheme. Sects are projected to earn from pledges on an exponential scale. There's high market value in the manufacture of blind obedience (e.g. free labor, solicitations, human shielding, et al), and not having to worry about taxes and actual obligations further accentuate the returns.
Like crocodiles and cockroaches, the great game has endured with the times—attuned to the pains of modernization. Cultural advances like human rights and social media have forced religion to abandon witch hunts, crusades, and plague distribution to corral morons to their potluck.
Which raises the question: What if religion offered to pay you instead?
For Dion Norelli, this amounted to a whopping six million dollar deal. And if it was sent to him electronically, he'd have shrugged it off as another worthless spam—from yet another sketchy site he may have once perused. But he received the details through quaint snail mail, enclosed in velvet-black envelope, stamped, and even bound by a fancy schmancy wax seal. Everything about it stank of noveau riche possibilities, especially the inclusion of a six-grand check claimable upon sign up.
So in the following moments, he did what a rightly ambitious man would do under such circumstance: use the best friend lifeline. Mac Finn dropped by not half an hour later, offering both counsel and assistance for the ensuing research.
Turns out, the Cult of Kerotan Strain was as real as Saiyantology, just less pretentious, and not as star-studded. They reach out to a chosen few once in a while, and so far, none of them was reported missing yet. If anything, those who joined attested to changing their lives for the better, therefore wanting to do the same for the rest of humanity. You know, standard networking stuff. That being said, the institution has been around since the turn of the century, actively contributing to humanitarian and scientific movements. The crux of their mystery lie in the nature of their central avatar, which, let's just say wasn't as popular as a certain middle-eastern hippie. When it came to the rest of their practices, they were as open about them as your generic suburban coven.
There were no two ways to go about it after exhausting the sources; to dig deeper, Dion had to commit himself to the cause. He filled up the online application form, squared his shoulders, and then went to the bank for the cash incentive.
When the money checked out, the progression took a straightforward turn. Mac agreed to drive him come morning, as dreams don't have the luxury of weeklong allowances. Fingers crossed, the orientation will be just another religious shindig, where you sing songs of praise and learn to play the organ.
They knew about the Kerotan Castle in advance, but there was just no denying its stunning majesty. The firsthand experience of seeing it still left them awestruck. As Mac eased his sedan into the driveway, he was so drawn by the sight of this sprawling, morbid Thiskneeland that he almost ended up crashing the lawn. Dion on the other hand came dangerously close to a backseat orgasm.
At least six spires tapered off into the heavens, missing but the fireworks that would have made entry more inviting. They were greeted by a proper valet as soon as they hit the brakes, and another pair of bellboys ushered them into a red carpet welcome. Had Mac been just as scatterbrained as his friend, he would have forgotten why he came in the first place. Good thing someone reliable made it to this random slice of the subconscious, otherwise, it could have been an entirely different genre. He turned the welcoming committee down last minute, waved his friend good luck, and then floored it out of there to survey from safer grounds.
Meanwhile, Dion got in there, feeling like a total diva despite being underdressed. The lobby could have been Fort Knox with its private army of peacekeepers, the destination hall even more so. All the sixty-or-so participants were herded into their seats and instructed to stay put, waiting for the speaker to mount the podium.
That's when it started spinning into a full-blown nightmare.
The pastor came with six others, walking a strictly straight line to the beat of Neo-Nazism. They wore hoods over their faces, tarred as the rest of their ritual gowns, nuanced only by the fact that they resembled fat-shamed toad heads. The one contrasting element to this motif was the uniform amulet around their necks, sporting an insignia that vibed a lot like devil worship.
When they started dragging out some sixty-or-so coffin-shaped receptacles, Dion knew that shit has definitely hit the fan. It's foolhardy to expect anything less from an openly declared cult offering you the world in a silver platter.
Of course Dion prompted one of the sentries that he needed a quick trip to the comfort room. Based on how heavily guarded the place was, his only hope was to radio Mac for backup. Breaking out of there was an invitation to get a hot shower of bullets, or worse, hellfire. It was their house, their rules. They could come up with an infinite number of alibis that resulted in the death of one insignificant man. With their resources, they could even arrange it so that he was never there to begin with. Don't ask about the paper trail plot hole about the mail and cash received; barring the dream cop-out, they probably had that covered too.
Before he bolted to the bathroom, Dion gave the curious receptacles one last peek. Sure enough, they were occupied by something uber-weird—participant clone/doppelganger weird. He didn't stick around to inquire about the details, and from the looks of it, none of the inductees would be able to.
At least a couple of armed guards followed him to the loo. They weren't taking any chances, keeping a close eye on Dion at the risk of seeing his unimpressive dong. The harassment only ceased when a third cult personnel stepped in, this one more familiar and less intimidating.
Edward Humphrey didn't change much since high school. He was still shorter than average, a bit stocky, and still had that air of a local simpleton. The wardrobe improved, courtesy of his new posse, but that's just it, he didn't change much. High school was a little over two decades ago. Dion and Mac changed a lot, their seniors changed a hell of a lot more.
When he ordered the goons to leave, Dion wasn't a tad bit relieved because of this one thing. He could ignore the two semi-automatic pistols he kept in his person, even pretend to miss the same heretic necklace he wore as a fashion statement, but the candid display of immortality? Not so much.
"Ed?" Dion asked in affirmation. When Edward jester-smiled like he did in the past, and then gestured to hug him, he decided to play along. "Is it really you? You haven't aged a day."
"The miracle of faith, brother," Ed answered. "I gather you have reservations on what we do here? Am I not proof enough of its benefits?"
Dion then proceeded to inquire of the doppelgangers. To which Edward frowned then smiled again, as though he was an automaton that ran on a programmed script. "If I tell you, you're going to have to rejoin the rest—it's either that or I kill you." He laughed.
There was a degree of intensity to how that last line was delivered, and it proved enough to bar a reply in kind. But then it also hinted of an alternative, one Dion knew to pick over anything else, even eternal youth. "Does that mean I have a choice? Will you let me go if I choose to not know?"
"Yes," Edward said, nodding. "With my position in the clergy, I could arrange for your safe extraction. Just say the word. Choose wisely, what we offer cannot be found anywhere else."
"What about the money I encashed?"
"What about it? It's loose change to the order. With my position—"
"—you can arrange for anything and make miracles happen—I get it," Dion interjected. His mind was set. He wanted out. So he relayed the choice to his old friend and watched him cave into short-lived disappointment.
Then he ordered Dion to enter one of the cubicles, confusing him further. "Just trust me. You wouldn't want to go back the way you came," Edward explained.
The drift to a grimmer tone alerted Dion to something foul. Edward wasn't telling him everything about this new deal they brokered. Worse, he sensed drastic repercussions afoot, waiting to blow right in his face. He asked again before fully committing. "What about you? Are you sure that your superiors will be ok with this?"
"Let me worry about that. Just do me a favor and say hi to my cousin for me," said Edward as he shut the cubicle door. Behind it, he shifted to chanting gibberish, before abruptly stopping half a minute in.
Still flustered, Dion called out for his friend, but there was no answer. In fact, there were no other sounds for a good while. When they returned, they came as a torrent of noises funneling out of another reality. He opened the door in a burst, unwilling to take any more surprises.
The group of women waiting outside gave him a good shrill. So he booked it out of there apologizing. As soon as he was out, he phoned Mac up to regroup. He didn't know where he was, though he was confident that he was no longer in reverse Thiskneeland. The area he emerged to had kiosk after kiosk of express grubbery, and a turnstile-secure supermarket filled with normal people. He exited the place to get its name, but what he saw in the distance shocked him even more.
Reverse Thiskneeland rose past the humbler profile of the neighboring commercial complex, some two-three blocks away from his current position. Mac turned up moments later, understandably just as baffled of his friend's space-time manipulation.
The two agreed on getting as far away from there as possible. Then they bumped into another group of familiar, lovely faces, and it made them realize just how famished they were. They tagged along this dreamy girl group that just happened to spawn at their very convenient location.
Things went deep-south in the Kerotan church really fast. Thanks to Edward's cryptic farewell, they weren't even sure if they're truly in the clear of this snail-mailing group of retards. But they were also six-thousand dollars richer than they were yesterday, and if this was to be the last good half-day of their lives, they might as well waste it in some well-deserved act of debauchery.
FIN?
THE MORAL:
This sequence is rife with immorality and a saving grace is possibly non-existent. It however reveals that safer religions don't send cash upfront, and that the modus is more akin to cartels, loan sharks, and organ harvesters. Faith is almost always requested free of charge, so if it starts raining money before you've sold your soul, you'd do well to tread oh so carefully.
Until the next one, keep dreaming, buddy.