CHAPTER 1 - A sermon From the Roadhouse Bar

The weathered possum, stood amid the patrons, his tiny pince-nez reading glasses sat far down his pointed muzzle. his tail, snapped and bent and crooked in places from years out on the road and bad decisions, twitched noisily with pops and cracks behind him as he coughed and cleard his throat, rubbing his scruffy beard with the back of his fingerless gloved hand. Somewhere in the back of the bar, an elbow slammed into another patron's side and the plug on the jukebox was yanked, the music subsided as The possum reached his hands out to the supplicant, kneeling before him, opening their mouth with a thumb, and removing a blue tablet from his front vest pocket, placed it in their mouth, saying to the assembled.

"Take this, and let it sit beneath your tongue in contemplation of the fate that has befallen you."

He raised his hands, his open shirt showcasing pink scars across his chest,

"Bow your head, and harken! take heed, you no good sackashit!
you freak! you cast-off, you hopeless good-for-nothing!
you, disappointment, you alienated faggot! You Harlot and Dyke!
All these things which they have called you, (some of which might even be true, god willing!)
All this done to honor an illusion of goodness. As lifeless as the stone to which they offer lip service. These most blind of pharisees and moneychangers, and sycophants!

Behold them as they toil in their wickedness! All to buy permission to do. what we do when we please for free; Our arms locked in gratitude and companionship!

Weep not, save from joy! For their penthouse rises high, but their view is fixed, and their grave sits just as deep as yours and mine.

Take comfort in the fact that your joy is mighty enough to make them pay for Janissaries to save them from the songs you and yours will sing; lungs full of one another.

Breathe easier!  Know their justified cruelty, their goodness, grows warped and twisted like a tree through fences, bending words and deed and back and law to safeguard a world that hates them too, but lets them get away with hurting you. "

He reached down and laid his hands atop the supplicant's head as two or three small tears, quietly rolled down her cheeks.

"Rejoice! For The almighty has seen fit to give you a sacred mission: They have trusted you to finish yourself on their behalf. Arise, for you are free now, Cast out from the kingdom of man on a holy mission to seek the sunset and the wind, the messengers of the divine, and when they have told you your true name, and with it, We sackashits, we down-and-outs, we hopeless and alienated faggots and dykes; will call you home to us. Amen."

"AMEN!" shouted the motley excuse for a congregation, before resuming their usual raucous antics, the jukebox kicking back to life, hollering and carousing, a few supportive quiet looks over shoulders at the still kneeling supplicant.

She couldn't stop crying, there on her knees with the possum's hand petting the back of her long hair. He reached down to tuck a baggie with a few more of those pills into her shirt pocket. his thumb running over the stubble on her chin again, as he lifted her gaze a little.

"We'll be here, when you get back, and you'll find more out there too. The tank's full. Go spend a couple hours thinkin'. I means it." He pressed the key into her hand.

"Like that?" She asked.
"Like that." He replied.

"Just keep the shiny side up and the sticky side down, and keep it over 50 so your tears and snot don't hit the chrome, polishing that shit kills my back these days."

She stood, and stifled a laugh by biting her lip, and striding out of the roadhouse towards the parking lot. She found the bike, batted and dented, exhaust heat wrapped, leather cracked but the engine shone with a mirror sheen. her reflection interrupted and staring back at her from every one of the cooling fins along the heads, She set about kickstarting the thing, and when it turned over, she threw her leg over the seat, and sat down, hands feeling the worn indents on the grips, the blunted checkering on the inner portion of the brake lever, and the hand painted lettering on the gas tank, a phrase that made her smile despite herself. She put the bike in gear, revved the engine, and set off for her true name.