1.3

A short while later, we three are outside, with Mouse leading us to the gas station just down the street from Candy's. As we approach the pumps, a black metal band in full corpse-paint regalia emerge from the shadows, crossing their arms and looming ominously. Still walking stiff-legged, Mouse totters right over to their parked tour van without hesitation. I grab for his sleeve, hoping to slow his progress, but to no avail.

“They're not real, Mujo. I mean, come on. I thought you were a professional,” says Chester, drifting past me. “Can you believe it?” he says to Mouse. “This amateur's never seen holo-cones before.”

“Harlequin lore,” Mouse replies.

“Holo-cones?” I ask.

“I will drink the blood from your neck, thrall!” hisses one of the illusions as we get close. “Your mindless husk will become an offering to our perpetually carnivorous Dark Lord.” Driving the point home, one of his associates flashes finger horns and unfurls a crustacean-pink tongue. It is unusually long.

Mouse reaches into his bomber jacket and withdraws a colorful object that's equal parts video game controller and miniature mixing board. He turns a dial and pushes a few buttons, and the illusion abruptly disappears. The members of the band become over-sized orange traffic cones lined with flashing LEDs, and the weathered tour van becomes a crippled alien spacecraft jutting sideways out of the asphalt. By some miracle, Mouse's little single-seater saucer-ship rolled itself right past the island of filling stations, right past three parked cars and the air pump, and wedged itself in between the dumpster and the triple-padlocked customer restroom. I check this vessel for stability, and it does appear steady, which is good, but it also appears pretty thoroughly stuck, which is not so good.

“Okay, then. Well, Mouse, much as I'd love to rectify yer circumstances right this minute, I got myself a very important appointment scheduled for 6 AM, and that's soon. So I guess we gotta leave yer ship here for now. But in the interim, may I make a few adjustments to yer, uh, camouflage?” I ask. Mouse does not seem enthusiastic, so I explain my rationale. “Look, friend, the black metal band's a great idea for right now, but it'll be way too difficult to maintain their cover over the long term. I mean, what if some kinky swinger goths try to take 'em up on that whole blood drinkin' nonsense? What if the predictable routine promised by their reliably hungry demon god carries enough appeal to inadvertently start a cult? What if someone tries to take them out on tour? It may not be likely, Mouse, but in these here BeDeviled States of Merkaba, anythin' is possible.”

“Anything?” Chester echoes ominously.

I wave him away. “You see, Mouse, the freedom-drenched liberty swamps of Hashton, Cololina occupy a hyperbolic meta-magnetic field in which anythin' is possible and everythin' is permitted, except on Monday. Cololina's got some weird laws on the books regardin' Mondays. But I digress...” I say, interrupted by a spillage of chilled eels that slips and shivers its way up my spine. “Hmm,” I hum, observing a slight buckling in my knees and a rumbling in my rum-a-tum-tum. Something's tickling my intestines from the inside out, and I'm pretty sure it's those marshmallows I swallowed forty-five minutes ago. “Alright, friend... much as I'm enjoyin' this balmy pre-dawn calm, I'm feelin' a powerful urge to get myself ready for my six-o-clock. So let's hurry on up and replace these headbangers with somethin' a little more subtle.”

“For trouble,” says Mouse, handing over the controller. It's a beautiful device, chock full of pretty lights in the shape of happy little suns and helpful little honeybees. But as I swoop the sliders, turn the dials, and thumb the bumbles, I quickly realize that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.

“Need a little assistance?” Chester inquires, as he peers over my shoulder. “A little... knowledge? Don't worry, partner. I'm here to help. I've seen holo-cones before, and I know how they work. Start with that one over there,” he whispers, pointing out a certain knob. “No, the other one. Yes. All the way up. Then turn this one over here all the way down.”

“You gotta plan?” I ask, blindly following his instructions all the while.

“Always,” Chester assures me. “Now, hit these three buttons in quick succession, then tap this key over here. You see, Mouse, our pal Mujo is not wrong. Your current settings are in desperate need of an upgrade. What we need is something too unpleasant to approach, and yet too mundane to pay any mind to. Now, this is Hashton, and there are certain inevitabilities to be considered. Nomad camps will be broken down. Abandoned scrap will be hauled away. Street art will be vandalized by further street art. But there is one facade you can hide behind that even a dog wouldn't lift their leg to piss on,” he says. “Turn that dial to six-thirty, pull down these faders, and enjoy.”

And just like that, the spaceship transforms into a yurt, fitting perfectly into the space between the gas station bathrooms and the dumpster. The yurt is painted a pristine eggshell white, and its walls are lined with sleek and glossy pamphlets. 'Take One!' reads the sign above the pamphlets. 'Religionoscopy Information Kiosk' reads the sign above that.

“Whoa,” says Mouse.

“You see?” Chester proclaims. “A little knowledge goes a long way.”

“What the Bob Dobbs is that?” I ask.

“Come on, Mujo. Don't tell me you can't read,” Chester teases me. “This is a Religionoscopy Information Kiosk, obviously. Now, Religionoscopy is a portmanteau of my own design: a combination of two words carefully chosen for the degree of discomfort they will cause in the average adult human. 'Religion' is a volatile word all on its own, for if there's one thing humans cannot stand, it is the beliefs of other humans. Combine that with a suffix most people only ever hear in the context of an invasive medical procedure, and you have yourself a verbal chimera no sane or sensible person would ever willingly investigate.”

“Uh, this is Hashton, Cololina, my guy,” I remind him. “Population 108,000 and not one sane or sensible person among 'em.”

“You don't say,” replies the grinning mischief-maker.

“So... are these here Religionoscopy pamphlets real?” I ask. “Real in the relative sense, I mean. Like, can I go over there, pick one up, and read it?”

“Oh, of course they are,” says Chester, grinning ominously. “You can walk right up to the structure and the illusion will maintain. So go on. Take one!”

With trepidatious hooves, I approach the kiosk, and yes, the illusion holds, and yes, the slippery little pamphlets come right off the racks. I flip one open, and with burgeoning apprehension, I read a passage at random.

Religionoscopy is both a movement and an act of worship: a victorious release from the tensions and blockages of stifled modern living. It is the sanctification of the necessary, the deification of the mundane. More than that, it is self-knowledge, and is there any knowledge more valuable than your own? When you kneel before that darkened mirror, what do you see there, rippling in your reflection?

“Aw shucks,” I groan. “The last thing this town needs is another narcissistic cult. Alright, my guy. How do I fix this? How do I undo the thing you made me do?”

“You don't,” Chester purrs. “The settings are locked. You'll need Mouse's password to open it back up again.”

“Mouse? What's your password?” I plead.

“Ask her,” Mouse replies, shrugging.

“Hey, Mujo! Whaddaya got there?” asks Jonah the waffle jockey. Freshly off work, he ambles up to me with a skip in his step, blissfully unaware of the fact that his would-be tormentor is lurking nearby. “Religionoscopy? Oh man, that's hilarious,” he says, grabbing one off the rack. “My roommate's gonna love this.”

“Got'em,” Chester whispers in my ear.

“Hey, Jonah... be careful with that,” I advise. “The stuff we read's gotta way of infectin' our brains, ya know what I mean?”

“Nah, it's all good,” Jonah assures me, pocketing the pamphlet as he makes his exit. “I'm just keepin' it for the joke, ya know? I'm not one of those people who gets affected by this kinda thing.”