21 – Salvation

Washington D.C.,
Tilted Kilt Pub & Eatery,
United States

Dasher opened the computer kill switch and typed in the code Popov had given him. He stared into the screen.  Acquiring this computer had cost him everything he loved – everything earthly that is. Dasher thought about his higher vocation. Although God hadn’t explicitly told him to use Russian clones to forcefully resurrect Christianity, he was certain it was something He would have wanted. Some things could be assumed. Everyone should go to heaven, whether they like it or not. The green button flashed on and off several times. The light hypnotized Dasher, who wrestled with the decision. If he didn’t push the button and gain control of the largest clone army ever constructed, he would have a lot of explaining to do to law enforcement in regards to the body count at Tilted Kilt Bar & Grill. If he did push the button, the world was his, and everyone would worship him like the extension of God he considered himself to be. His thumb hovered around the button before resting on it lightly.

The button slowly pushed in. The feeling of it receding into the device was deeply satisfying. Dasher heard a click and the power shut off in the restaurant. He looked outside and every streetlight was off, along with every light in every house. Moments later, it all powered back on. The blinding fluorescent lights shone down as a sign from God that He approved. Dasher felt like he was floating above the stained carpet; it was the closest to God he had ever been. There was a pound at the door. Dasher looked up, half expecting to see Stacy. Instead, it was the entire cast of the show The Real Housewives of Gary Indiana. He grinned as more pounding and more clones began to appear in front of him.

Hundreds of clones gathered and knelt at his feet awaiting instructions. He parted them like the Red Sea and glanced out the window. Tens of thousands more stood at attention outside of the restaurant, more than the eye could see. Helicopters circled overhead, sirens wailed; neighbors of the restaurant looked on terrified from locked windows. Dasher walked into the back of the restaurant and climbed the maintenance ladder to the roof of the building. He stood in front of his clone army and started his proclamation. 

“May peace be with you,” said Dasher. 

“And also with you,” the army responded in unison. Dasher knelt on both knees, his hands stretched to the sky. Snow swirled around him and the spotlights from the helicopters focused directly on him. For the first time in his life, he cried. This was happiness. This was purpose.

Absurdist exploration into our agreeable descent to madness.

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