Never receive the mark of 666 is helpful advice
I received one afternoon from a pamphlet a
woman handed me on 42nd Street. The woman
scowled as she gave it to me and said, Do you
believe in the power of the Holy Ghost to change
lives? He could change yours, just ask him. I was
once slain in the spirit, I said, but it didn’t take.
She narrowed her eyes at me, unsure.
The mark will appear on the forehead or
right hand of the damned, I read on the train.
Kind of like a bar code to speed up the
transition to the afterlife on Judgment Day.
Very efficient, that Jesus Christ. I hope she gets
to heaven; she looked so miserable here on
earth it’d be a pity if she turned to dust and
oblivion. I mean for her sake. Maybe she’d
find it funny, oblivion. Maybe she’d like it
better. Cheer up, old Christian lady, you’ll be
with Jesus soon singing hymns and talking
about that time he turned water into wine and
rose from the dead and disappeared all those
years. All those years he was gone. But you
were faithful. Thank you for your pamphlets,
he’ll say. The production value may not be
good but you got the message right. Then he’ll
grab your wrist and say, Is that the mark of
666? And you’ll scream in horror, and he’ll
say, I’m just messing with you. You’re in
heaven now with me, for all eternity. Let’s
party. Let’s fucking party. I think that’s what
he’ll say. I’m pretty sure. Let’s get this
motherfucking party started, he’ll say. Let’s
do this. Let’s get down. Let’s get groovy. Let’s
take off our clothes and run our glorified asses
through the streets of the City of God. Let’s get
pumped. Let’s fucking do this. Let’s party. Yeah!