A Beaster Miracle
BY IAN MURPHY
No, it’s not immoral,” she hemmed. “But…”
“But, what?” I wondered, pinning my bright red fedora to the curly afro-wig. I checked my face paint in the side mirror and smiled.
“But,” she reflected, steering the wheel, “it is sort of mean.”
“Like teaching a small child that they’re going to hell?” I shot back. “Straighten up and fly right, Little Jimmy, or it’s Satan’s pitchfork—right in your ass—for all motherfucking eternity!” I illustrated by repeatedly stabbing the dashboard with my balloon-animal fish.
“OK!” she relented. “But what’s the point?”
I slapped my forehead and said, “It’s not that cryptic! What these people believe is a fucking joke. I’m dressed as a clown. What—what—what’s not to get?”