by Bob'n Around
Invisible matters of the mind turned real into the written word.
|“I been Cult.” Amo read out loud, hand trembling. “Damn. He know’d.”
“Don’t matter none.” Pretty Annie Fanny giggled, showing her front gold tooth. “Hell on earth no worse than one down below, I gather.”
The two escapee’s from ‘The Camp’ wore haunted eyes newly washed clear from LSD drugs. The visions they’d reaped from their Cult time made a sham of normal reality. “We can’t stick our butts here no longer. They’ll have the dogs out.”
It was Amo proselytizing to the wind. Like always, no-one else but hisself was listening. Pretty Annie dug heels into the grit kicking up behind her. The whine of the freight train shivered on the rails heading sideways into forever before and beyond. It was the kind of lonely sound her heart spoke to.
A face stared down, jawline tight, hand missing two fingers reaching out to swing her up. “Hobo Shoestring, Ma’am. Welcome aboard.” He looked what he was, a thirty year veteran traveler of the rails.
Amo watched them go, train snaking into a mountain twist, gaining speed. Desperate, he dropped the stolen Cult donations brought in by kid believers, raced his shadow to roll up on a flat bed. Instinct took hold. He wrapped an arm around a passing metal post before flying off the other side.
One canine leaped up in time to tear a flash of white teeth into his pant leg. Amo kicked in a frenzy, releasing its hold, watching the critter turn growl into howl. Their eyes met. Centrifigal force near tore Amo’s pants off along with the dog. HIs rope belt tightened, strangling breath out of Amo along with a curse. “Go find your own piece of hell.”
Their eyes lost contact. Amo lost a shoe and the dog, it rolled like Amo would have done without his metal post, lost into oblivion. The sound of the other hunter dogs grew distant. Where Amo had gone wrong was trying to elevate himself to Cult leadership.
That struggle ended with the Prophet’s children attempting to tear Amo limb from limb much like the hunter dog had done. Left for dead, Pretty Annie Fanny took pity, hid him into health with his promise to take her away.
Her free love offering in the Cult leader’s bed gave birth to a tortured child. They’d tripped out on the LSD from the Prophet’s own hoard. Fate chose that moment to aid the religious leader’s head ending up on a platter matching the gospel end of days of John the Baptist.
Ax dripping religious blood, Pretty Annie, eyes mad, went searching for the sight of Amo. “I did it. You are the leader now.”
Amo communed with himself. His abused body told him he would be the second to die a martyr’s death if he remained. More drugs and Pretty Annie became a willing accomplice to strike out on their own.
Amo hung on, cold wind whipping him into motion. The train slowed up a rise. Amo climbed the spine of the railway cars until he heard Pretty Anny Fanny singing beneath his feet. He dropped down from heaven into the opening of the box car.
“Who you?” Hobo Shoestring’s two fingered hand emerged from his pack with a machete.
“He’s mine. Thought he gone back there behind.” Pretty Anny Fanny hummed with the flash of madness returning to her eyes.
Madness flashed in the moment. The machete found its way into Pretty Annie’s raised hand. Hobo Shoestring became the second man to lose his head over her. Amo kicked and rolled the body bouncing out after. “What else is in that pack of his’n? I’m hungry.”
They rode the miles, Amo making sure the machete got flung out beyond reach. He cradled Pretty Annie Fanny’s head in his lap soothing the madness away.
There are lost innocents everywhere, living on the streets willing to play follow the leader who offers a different reality. The duo became a perfect pair of organizers. Annie’s free love and deceitful hatchet jobs did away with the dominant gang leader threat. His blood joined the blood of the lamb. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” Pretty Anny Fanny was the Lord’s right hand.
The Cult found a new home in the two new leaders in a new big city town that soon became others. The rails hummed with youthful proselytizing. The end of time came when the Cult cancer grew too huge to be ignored.
“Hobo Shoestring’s head came to me last night. He came floating, humming his mournful train call. ‘Time to ride forever from the past into the beyond.”
Amo and Pretty Anny Fanny’s eyes met. The madness in hers flickered, reflected in his. Her machete rose and fell with Amo’s blood sacrifice.
Why is it leaders reaching the height of worshipful sainthood never realize until too late they can be dethroned by their own? Faith is a fickle changeling depending on the wind.