Vestin Go had not used drugs or alcohol for seven months. His abstinence proved to be beneficial for his mental and physical well-being. He was making even more money, pulling thirty million dollars sometimes a day. He received a notice on his brain chip. Dr. Strong had invited him to sit down for an informal meeting with President Goshen. He accepted. He drove his Goulding coupe over to the Presidential Skyscraper. The two men had already put away the booze and sat in a sober kind of way. They didn’t laugh loudly or draw attention to themselves. Once Go had entered the inner sanctum of the president and his friend. Go stretched out his hand to shake Goshen’s.
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Submitted, Objectively
To those who’ve known and never heard of such ideas, “It’s a cult,” they yammer. Like blood spilling from their frothy lips, they speak of sacrifice and dying and suffering. They, however, never speak of joy, life, and excellence to be found on this Earth. They, still, call it a cult. The irony is overwhelming, their system of fate relates to tribalistic leanings and following mystical patterns that would herd all heads under a single yoke. After, they would be plucked one by one with the simplest assertion that their faith cannot be tested. One thing is to believe in something. Another is to say it’s real. If you believe in something, you don’t have to say it's real because it already exists.
By Skyler Saunders8 months ago in Journal
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