THEFT WITHOUT END, AMEN, AMEN
I steal shit and sell it online. You’d be surprised what sells highest. Bible software nabs a ton. Heard of Agora’s? It’s like Hastings, but Jesus-y. They trust God so much they don’t have antitheft tags. So I go in dressed as a Mormon cyclist, fill up a backpack with Bible software, then stroll out the front. I pay tuition by fucking organized religion and big business with the same dick.
The manager walked up to me Tuesday, backpack filled with his shit.
“Seen you here a lot,” he said.
I braced to run.
Then he offered me a job.
My last day, I left the smoke shack to walk over to the center’s first garden. In the shadow of two pines, a beaten green bathroom stall door jutted about four feet out of the ground. In the dirt around it were the old garden’s remains: dead tomato plants, other dead brown things. On the front of the door, “But For The Grace of God, There Go I” was written in yellow paint. On the back in black marker was written, “WHO WANTS TO GET FUCKED BY A LEGEND?” Beneath it, in perfect cursive, was “yung yeti is a faggot.”