With a great deal of relief I decided to continue making love to any one and everyone who suited my whim; celibacy is not the type of lifestyle I crave. This recent escapade had convinced me that I, and only I, have the word and the power and the glory that was always going to be mine. Sharing is not an Opps family virtue, and definitely not an option I wish to pursue. I feel so relieved.
I ran out to the garden, without looking around to see if anyone was watching, and started dancing around wildly shouting, “I’m the man, I’m the Prophet. I’m the one. There will never be anyone as great as me. That’s the word. I’m the Messenger. I should know. I’m the Prophet. I’m the man.”
From the kitchen of the mansion where my faithful flock was watching, listening, and preparing to party again, I could hear a collective sigh of relief as all in one voice they said, “Amen.”
Happy days were here again and all was right for this feckless group that made up the bulk of my entourage. They were so happy; they spent most of the rest of the evening cooking up a drug infused stew. It was smooth and velvety, yet heavily laced with a liberal sprinkling of canibas and the fine liquor of a pungent and thoroughly corrupt life style.
The pervading aroma of unpredictability wafted up from the stew through the open kitchen window and out into the garden where I was standing in the bright moon light, washing myself, and mimicking the stone cherub statue in the goldfish pond. I breathed in deeply, relief flooding through every pore in my body, nostrils flaring, as the unpredictable smell of the insatiable all consuming stew hit my nose.
I was getting myself ready for what was to come. I continued my prophetic crazed dance of shifting images, alternate visions of reality, and quantum language chants as I prepared to program a new beginning for my flock and myself, but who is programming me? Maybe it’s the Game Master. Maybe it’s the Almighty Maybe they are the same. Maybe all I’m missing is a little pinch of love. I wish I knew who I was.