Notes from the Future: The Prophet's Reckoning, Part IV

"Heyyyyyyyy all you ... bunny -- rabbits? No -- jeez. Hoo ..."

Shit. That was awkward. Nice Rachel is staring at me like I'm vomiting frogs, which is what I feel like doing. So good job, Nice Rachel. You win the prize: fresh frog vomit. Okay ... Um ... what else does Tad say ... ? When you want it, know where. No. When something is wanted, it's there that you want ... shit. No. It's, it's sketch comedy, right? Is Improv the same thing? I don't know. Does it matter? Probably not. What does he say ... I think it's no whales on dry land in sketch comedy. Okay, give that a try.

"No ... uhm, no whales on land. Dry! Dry land! Whales not allowed!"

Nobody is reacting. Except Nice Rachel, who looks like she's been sentenced to Death by Prophet. Okay, try again:

"No whales! Neither by land and neither by sea! Except ... mostly land!"

A breath, maybe. A kind of shifting of discomfort; but their eyes are focused on the air above the person across the circle from them. Except Nice Rachel, who is shaking her head at me, her eyes imploring me to stop. 'No,' they seem to say. 'Wrong way! Wrong way! Too far!'

Suddenly I know what Tad must feel like, when he starts a riff that isn't working: they didn't laugh at A, they didn't laugh at B, well fuckall if I don't get them to laugh at C! Or in my case, quiver with religious ecstasy.

I take a deep breath, plant my feet and project like Jim Heiner taught me:

"No whales on dry land, I tell you!"

Hm. A clean-shaven Ezekiel just flinched like I slapped him. Let's take this a little further.

"That's right, bitches! I said it! NO whales on DRY LAND!"

That one Clean Ezekiel is glancing right and left, eyes only. Looks scared. Interesting, nobody has bit me yet. Better keep going.

"Because if the LAND is DRY, who put those fucking WHALES on it?! Right? Smackdown!"

What the hell am I talking about? Stopping to think is not a good idea, I feel like I might puke. Oh, God. I lean forward, hands on my knees. The air is so full of smoke, it's hard to breathe at all. I cough, gag, then see something in the gravel. Blood has turned rust brown and I wonder suddenly if this is Becky's blood, from when the Prophet was trying to bite off her finger ... and right next to the blood, partially buried under some gravel, is a metal disk. With a shape on it.

Feeling cold certainty creep over me, I bend down and pick it up. For a moment, I just stare at it. Copper disk, about the size of a quarter. Maybe a little bit larger. A hole through the top where a leather line used to go. On the side facing me, Om. In Sanskrit. I turn it over ...

Oh, God. A pentacle.

This is Tad's. He never takes it off. For it to be off means one of two things: the first is that it's a coincidence that it's here and I'm here, and there's blood next to it.

The second option fills me with sudden, deep and pure rage. His words to his students come back to me: "The successful actor knows what she wants and how she is going to get it; with nothing else, you can succeed where all others fail."

I look up, straight at the skittery Clean Ezekiel.

"You!" I shout. He freezes, but his eyebrows get all hinky. Like he's constipated. "Yes, YOU! You are full of doubt! But are you afraid of rabbits?!"

I am not full of doubt. I want Tad out. I want Max safe.

"You worry that the Prophet is a False Prophet! You worry that he is cruel and vicious! But still you have no fear of rabbits!"

The man looks terrified. I know his fear. I was like him just a couple minutes ago. That is behind me, now. I am calm.

"You wonder if we should all just go home to our families and try to find the lost, heal the wounded and save the endangered! Like rabbits would be, if more people feared them!"

The man looks like he is going to run. He doesn't. That's good. I can use it.

"You wonder that, but you do not run. You do not run because you are faithful. You have faith in the Prophet! As the Lord sayeth -- hamanama-nama-nama-hamana-hamana-hamana -- DOUBT is a sign of FAITH!"

This is easier with my want clearly in mind. Tad was right. I might even tell him about it, once we're safe. But I have to stay focused: I'm trying to remember what Tad said in the car before he passed out.

"Rabble-ringle-pringles-rinka-chinka-ching-chong!" I shout. "Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the Bunny Trail! Hippity-hop, Easter's on it's waaaaaay!"

More of the Rachels and Ezekiels look confused, and there is murmuring, low and cautious. It seems like the Bearded Ezekiels may be murmuring the most. Yay!

Then I hear a door open and I see the Prophet nearly run onto the balcony, staring at us. The nerves hit and I sink to my knees, fighting the urge to throw up.

"Who permitted this whore to speak?!" he shouts.