Cultic Read online

time."

  "You got five death threats from that Salon article about the rigged Diebold electronic voting machines in Ohio. Three more from your article about how there are no such thing as the Ten Commandments in the Old Testament. A half-dozen from that radio show interview you did in Poland about the new regime in Belarus being pawns of the old KGB."

  "Some of those were funny, though."

  "You've spent a lot of time and energy pissing people off."

  Nikolai sighed. She was right, when she said it like that. He poked at the salmon with his fork.

  She adjusted herself in her seat and looked behind him. "Who did you make angry this time?"

  He picked up a roll, then put it back on his plate. "I'm not sure. Could be anyone. Last month the Tribune misquoted me on my essay about Southern Baptists. I came across like a raving Slavic madman. Accusing the Baptists of being proto-fascists with father issues. It was terrible."

  "No one takes that rag seriously, Nikolai," she laughed. "If you're not getting death threats than you're not trying."

  "I did get one from that, already. Written with letters cut-out from the Walmart advertisements. Said something about wanting to stand over me and bleed on me. Actually bothered me a little."

  She looked astonished. "Why didn't you tell me? If it bothered you.."

  "Ah, it passed. It's nothing."

  "But you think it's related to this?"

  "I don't know. Probably not. Let's just drop it."

  "Why don't you contact the authorities?"

  "And tell them what? About how an angel spoke to me through a pendulum at four in the morning? I'd rather not, thank you."

  "I just mean if it's bothering you this much..."

  "It's not. I don't know, I shouldn't have even brought it up. Not here."

  "Nikolai, I love you but let's get something straight. Mystery cults. Religious conspiracies. Hypocritical Christian sects. Eastern bloc dictators with unhealthy love of fascist cultic imagery. You've spent a great deal of time and energy telling pretty nearly every soul on the planet that their most cherished beliefs are wrong."

  "But they are wrong! If they only knew the truth of what they imagine to be true--"

  "Nikolai, no one wants to hear that. And some people will feel like you are personally threatening them, their way of life."

  "Someone has to. Someone has to expose the lies of the powerful. To help the powerless drop their self-imposed shackles. A better world will not happen by accident. We have to make it so. And it starts with distributing the right information."

  "So noble. I bet the 'powers that be' will probably disagree with you about that."

  "Of course they will. Or, they'll agree with everything I write, and feel threatened enough to silence me." Nikolai sighed, stabbing his salmon with the sharp prongs of his expensive silver fork. "Let's talk about something else. This food is good, but not forty-two dollars good."

  "Shhh, if you say it too loudly the chef will come out here and brain you with a cleaver."

  "Christ in a bucket..."

  He slid out of the chaos downstairs, passing two of his own books marked down to half-price on a table. The book sale was in full swing that morning and it wasn't even noon yet. The early bird collectors had descended on the first floor like a pack of starving wolverines, wolverines who knew the full value of secondhand Archaeology textbooks and early mis-translations of the Gilgamesh stele.

  He normally enjoyed the crowds, the friendly faces excitedly asking him about his current and future projects. But not today. He ducked out and went upstairs to the tiny third-floor men's restroom for a small break from the social noise.

  When he got there it was dead silent. Ah, finally. He took the last stall, farthest from the door as usual, pulled down his pants and sat down. The salmon from last night was hitting him hard this morning, causing his intestines all sorts of embarassingly loud discomfort. Thank the gods for the crowds and the noise downstairs. He loved coming to this little-used restroom. So peaceful. Few of the students even knew it existed.

  He tried pushing out some gas but it wouldn't pass. He relaxed for a bit, and went over his itinerary. Book sale until two in the afternoon, then meet with Greg in the Law School quad and get the keys to his Civic. Drive out to Cicero to the botanica, pick up the prayer cards and the herbs, along with a list of ingredients Greg wanted for some legal rite. Hit the supermarket on the way home for a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs and a 24-pack of ramen for this weekend. He would try to avoid leaving the apartment if he could help it. Better get a six-pack of Watney's then, too. He would start work tonight on a new novel he had been putting off for the last few months, watch some tv, take the phone off the hook and finish up some long-overdue projects.

  Finally, it came. A loud, whining squeak that echoed off his backside and the muffled porcelain of the toilet bowl. That's when he noticed the next stall was not empty. A pair of polished black dress shoes had just stepped inside the stall, turned toward the stall door and stopped.

  I shouldn't be embarassed. Everyone passes gas. No one knows it's me, anyways. Nikolai watched as the dress shoes scooted closer to the toilet, waiting for the pants to fall and the unmistakable sounds of man expelling excrement.

  He smiled to himself. Such a filthy place. We hide our--

  Suddenly the shoes rose off the stained tile floor. A thunk thunk on the adjoining stall's toilet bowl, followed immediately by a click of the hammer of a gun four feet behind his head.

  Nikolai closed his eyes tightly and tried to force a smile. "You know, the gun is a coward's weapon--"

  A single shot echoed off the restroom's walls. Nikolai's head and torso slumped over his knees. His arms fell to the stained tile on the floor. A pair of black dress shoes jumped off the rim of the toilet seat in the next stall and landed heavily on the floor. The restroom door opened, then closed.

  About the Author: Born in Madison, Wisconsin, Todd studied Ancient Near Eastern religion and early Judeo-Christianity at the University of Chicago before heading into the real world. He has since worked as a ballroom dance instructor, bass player, mediator, credit specialist, art preparator, janitor, journalist, copy editor, armored car money counter, technical writer, mambo dancer, and satirist. He lives in Dallas, Texas with his hyper-creative wife and two energetic children.

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  Official website: https://towersofdawn.com/