The Salamander

When I was twelve, I wanted to start my own religion. For shock value, and because I was reading a lot of books on the occult and demonology, I wanted to create a pagan cult. This, mind you, was the time of The Great Satanist Scare in the late 80s when parents all over the Metro and its suburbs were convinced that Devil worshipping wretches were out to get normal, God-fearing folks’ sons and daughters and their little dogs too. Thus, in our rightly Christian town of Los Bastos, the fear of the Metro Manila Luciferians infected local parents and teachers by way of osmosis. And in our little school I was looking for my inner cadre, the lieutenants who would spearhead what was to be my vast army of fanatical mujahideens. Eventually, I found a couple of gullible blokes who did my unholy bidding, surreptitiously leaving flyers in toilets mostly. The Grand Scheme was underway. The world was mine for the taking. That is, until my cult was discovered and promptly aborted by some teachers. They laughed it off as part of a weird kid’s delusions of grandeur and my peers suspected that I was a Satanist well until college.

Was I licked, you ask? Obviously. Is the Grand Scheme over? Hell, no.

I’ve learned a few things since I was twelve. First off, I will never start a pagan cult again. No, I’ll start a Christian cult. It’s more easily swallowed by the sheep. Look at Felix Manalo, Ely Soriano, Mike Villanueva, and the like.

Second, I must remember to sell faith to those who need it. Marginally educated people would swallow my hoodoo more than the rich folks. Poor people would give their entire savings to a television evangelist. Rich people will expect salvation in return.

Third, I must must must know the Bible by heart. It will go along way. It’ll be a terrible embarrassment when, in one of my fellowship meetings, someone points out that nowhere in the New Testament does Jesus feed the multitude with spontaneously appearing Big Macs. Note to self: buy a Bible. One with pictures.

Finally, I should find another Christian cult to vilify as the Whore of Babylon. It’ll justify the purchase of 12- gauge shotguns. Note to self: ask if they make shells in pastel colors.

Eighty six thousand cigarettes later and I’m bored. Do you understand, mon ami? I’m talking about the silent fandango. The race towards entrophy, relentless and inevitable. The clever lies we tell ourselves so our brief lives will have the illusion of meaning and thus help us get out of bed in the morning and putter through the rest of the day doing things that will have no meaning whatsoever in the scheme of the universe.

Art is nothing but a movie trailer. We never saw how it started. We’ll never get to see how it’ll turn out.

Science is nothing but a vanity. The universe does not like us.

Birth is nothing but death in slow motion. When I reached thirty, it’s when I started paying attention to the treacherous sonofabitch I call my body.

Sex is nothing but a distraction. What’s the use of perpetuating your fucking genes when your DNA does not carry your soul?

So why do I even bother? Because I have nothing else. I want a gun in my hand and the whole world in my sights. I want a molotov cocktail to light a joint. I want legions of screaming teenagers lining up to have my baby. I want poetry like lightning bolts escaping my asshole to cleanse the earth. I want blood on my fists. I want more silicone tits than Hindus have gods. I want a sledgehammer cock that shoots flaming naptha. I want a 12-hour orgasm. I want 360 degree vision. I want to howl at the moon. I want heaven and hell lain at my feet. I want apotheosis.

Do you understand?