Cult Crashing

Flash Fiction by Jay Honstetter

Whenever I tell anyone I’ve joined a new cult they look at me like I’m some kind of asshole. But with so many cults out there and so many people emptying their bank accounts, surrendering their basic human rights, or injecting themselves for the big sleep, there’s gotta be something to it. Right?

Think about it, you’ve got sex cults, religious cults, black magic cults, political cults, you name it, they’ve got it. And I’m kind of a freewheeling cultist. I like to bounce around from cult to cult. A cult jumper or a cult crasher if you will. When it comes to culting, I’m what you call promiscuous. 

I’ve learned a lot of things from my years of what us freewheelers call going hard. I’ve spoken prayers, cast magic spells, cleaned out bank accounts, scored a few STDs, and, well, let’s leave it at that for now. I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging. 

And, for the record, I’ve never joined a political cult because you have to be an actual asshole to do that.

So, how did I manage to jump from cult to cult without getting killed or something worse? Easy, I started my own cult. My followers think of me like a God. They watch me rise through the ranks from fellow bottom dweller to top dog of my chosen cult, and then take over. I leave nothing in my tracks. Then they follow me right out the front door and join my cult. So, we’ve got a little bit of something from every cult, and that makes us better. We’re like a gang but made up of members from all the other gangs. Catch my drift?

But then there’s Dirk. Now Dirk came from an outside cult and, at first, I wasn’t entirely sure what his motives were. I didn’t recognize him off the bat, but it takes a freewheeler to know one and I suspected he was up to something.

Then I figured it out. So, I explained to Dirk that joining our cult takes a certain amount of sacrifice and some initiation. He didn’t blink an eye, handed me money I demanded, and was led to a chamber. In this chamber one of my prized sex cult sweethearts, Esmerelda, took him to bed. He fell for her quickly and let her in on a little secret. He confirmed my suspicion that he was my long-estranged half-brother. He was joining my cult in an attempt to “connect with me.” In other words, he was down on his luck and wanted something. But he was the spitting image of my father. The sole recipient of everything my dad left behind. The reason my mother fell to drink and took her own life.

This disgusting little creep was the result of an adulterous affair my dad had with one of many women from a sex cult he joined under the guise of it being some kind of rehab center. He had a drug problem and was a total sociopath. My half-brother clearly inherited the idiot gene from my dad, and a lesson would follow.

When we were young, he avoided me like the plague. He had money, property, and everything he wanted at his fingertips. I, in turn, was orphaned. Poor. Last time I saw him was maybe 20 years ago when I came around his way looking for help. Technically, we were blood. He told me to fuck all the way off. Left me for dead. And that was that. But here we are. Who’s leader of the pack now?

After a few nights in the chamber, Dirk is led to an open field to meet me and wrap up what he thinks is the rest of his initiation.

“Who are you?” I ask him, and without hesitation he tells me what I already know. What he told Esmerelda. He’s so confident. Cocky even.

“You’re not welcome here,” I tell him. “And now you’ll pay.”

My followers bend a knee and begin speaking in tongues. Dirk looks uncomfortable as I remove a knife and a voodoo doll dressed like him from my satchel and say, “Dirk, you should have never come here.”

He laughs smugly and tells me I’m crazy. I stab the doll repeatedly looking him dead in the eye.

“Wow, you’re dumber than you look,” he says, “what a fool I am coming here, I should have known better. Dad was right about you.” He twists on his heels and walks away, never to be seen again. Perfect.

I know that voodoo dolls and talking in tongues is bullshit, but mom always told me, when you come face to face with dumb, simply outsmart it. Play dumber if you have to. My dad died with more than just trace amounts of arsenic in his system, I can tell you that for sure.

A year later, Esmerelda succumbed to the AIDS virus she had been suffering from for years. We celebrated her life with libations and a night of storytelling and revelry. I miss her dearly.

I’m sure Dirk does too.

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Bio: Jay Honstetter is a writer originally from New York City. He spent his 20s cheating death in a beater van while touring the country playing punk rock, his 30s wrapping up a degree in journalism and film, and he now resides in a suburb just outside Philadelphia. You can find his work in, or forthcoming from, Close to the Bone, Cowboy Jamboree, Broken Hearts Gallery Literary, and 96th of October. Follow him here: Instagram @friendstergram and Bluesky @jayhonstetter.bsky.social

Cover photo by: pexels/Rene Terp

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