Chapter Three: The Money Womb

Du grabbed a two liter bottle of cola and doused the flaming Asshole who sat melting a hole in the center of the orange shag carpet. Asshole grinned through the steam as Karma ordered the two fraternal amoebas to their rooms.

If you nurtured kindness in your soul you might look upon the amoebas’ ciliated heads and flagella limbs and establish a charity based upon children such as these.  However, the urgency of their plight would not instill lasting charitable inclinations or calls to action within you. Regretfully, and instead, with dark, self-indulgent, secret enthusiasm, you would cheer for Asshole’s victory under muttered breath.

Karma picked up Asshole to find the face of Jesus burned into the carpet.

“Blessed be Karma! It’s a miracle! Like that piece of burnt Jesus toast in the news last week!”

“..Or the Jesus bruise on that woman’s toe –  it’s a sign Du, it’s a sign!”

Karma iced her hand. Deep in reptilian musing, a single coherent thought percolated like a primordial swamp burp and landed on her lips.

“Du, I’m on a new spiritual path.”

She looked at her latest vocab builder crossword and whispered “…I’m on the precipice Du.”

Before Du attempted a reply, as if from a break in the clouds blasted Carl Orff’s “O Fortuna“. Karma and Du locked eyeballs and in unison stood erect to see if Jesus spoke from the shag.
Asshole in hysterics plunged his brass-knuckled hand into the couch and shot-put the phone
across the room.

Ever hyper-vigilant, each looked to the moments unfolding as grand intervention, steeped in prophetic foreshadowing of preternatural happenings.

Du caught the phone coinciding with the opera’s dramatic climax. A voice hollered from the speaker.

“Du?! I’m looking for Du Nothing!”