PRIONS 1:12

sacred sandwich

As Kevin rises from the ocean, the young kids are all back to playing now — ignoring him again. Kevin sees his grimoire, laying on his blanket. He opens his grimoire up, grabs his Mont-Blanc pen. He writes in his journal: How did all my stuff get here? Where did this blanket come from? Why didn’t I bring any food with me? I sure am hungry.

Tabitha is in front of him — she moved a hundred yards in the twinkling of an eye — she asks, “What are you doing Kevin?”

He responds to impress her, “Magick.”

She laughs, “Why?”

Kevin, ignoring her question, dismissively he asks, “Where are your parents? When are they coming back?”

“You ask silly questions, Kevin.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just told you Kevin, we’re gods, created in the image of God; children of God; able to do all our Father God teaches us. Why would we worry about when He returns? Or even if He returns? Why worry about anything?”

“What if you get hungry?”

“I’ll make a fucking-sandwich.”

“Why do you talk like that? Kids don’t talk like that.”

“First. I’m speaking your primitive language Kevin, talking just like you do. I love my neighbor as myself, even strange degenerate ones like you. If you talk like that, and I want to reach into your thick fucking skull, I need to handshake — step down to your plane of existence. You know, like a modem. If I speak at 56k and you speak at 14k, we can’t communicate at my bandwidth, so I have to step it down to yours. So, I speak your primitive 14k tongue. This is the essence of loving my neighbor.

Second. I’m not a kid! I’m a god! A child of God. God doesn’t like it when you try to deceive his children.”

Kevin’s surprised at her answer. He understands Tabitha’s bandwidth explanation, this allows all computers on the Net to talk with one another. He admires the wisdom in her explanation. Kevin is a salesman, he mirrors his client’s speech and dress to communicate with them, the way they need him to, not the way he’d like to — Kevin then changes up his first question, respectfully asks, “How are you going to make a sandwich, Tabitha? I don’t see a cooler?”

All the kids laugh. Kevin knows they CAN all, somehow, hear every word spoken between them — even though the other kids appear to be so far away. Tabitha replies with frustration, “You’re not listening to me Kevin! We don’t live in your world! Think of us not as children on a beach. Think of us as wizards, master sorcerers, connected with Source. We live in a giant playground where we can create whatever we choose.”

Tabitha, with her tiny fingers, draws the shape of a pencil in the sand. It’s imperfect, large, but it’s clearly a pencil. She shades-in the tip and where the eraser would be by digging deeper into the sand. She closes her eyes; waves her hand over the crude pencil form. Opens her eyes — with fierce chi emotion she says quietly, “The pencil IS.” The sand morphs — first into a giant wooden pencil — now yellow-painted wood, sharp graphite tip. It levitates, then shrinks to the size she needs to write with. She grasps it, carves a rectangle in the sand, It becomes a pad of paper without her saying anything.

Kevin gasps, “Wow!”

Tabitha smiles, draws a highly-detailed tiny sandwich on the pad of paper, waves her hand. The tiny drawn sandwich leaves the page — a two dimensional object — ZERO thickness — invisible from the side. It thickens, expands, transforms into a perfect small sandwich — appears to be peanut butter and jelly on white bread — appropriate in size for a young girl. He’s never seen bread manufactured that small in size before. “What kind of sandwich do you want Kevin?”

“Aren’t you hungry Tabitha? You eat it.”

“I’m not hungry Kevin. I know you are. I’m making the sandwich for you.”

“It’s too small for me. I don’t particularly like peanut-butter.”

Tabitha smiles. “You’ve seen me transubstantiate sand into paper and pencil. Then draw a graphite representation of a sandwich. Then morph that drawing into factory-processed bread, peanut butter, and jelly — which I add is not the hard part. The hard part was constructing the virtual farms, processing plants, factories and logistics required — and all the machines, ovens, employees — in my head — to manufacture this complex, one of a kind product.

Do you think I could sell such a product in stores? A mini-sandwich for seven-year-old hands? I’ve tasted this sandwich — well technically not this exact sandwich — I tasted the first sandwich off my brain’s assembly line — a carbon copy of this one — on a lower plane of existence. Kevin, I’m telling you, it’s fucking perfect for a seven year-old palate. Young kids will love it! They will throw mama-I-need-it fits in the grocery stores if they can’t get one.”

Kevin laughs. “When did you taste the first one off of your brain’s assembly line Tabitha? You’ve been here the whole time.”

“Kevin, I can live a hundred lifetimes, if I choose, in the time it takes you to blink. I’m a god, Kevin, remember?”

“If —“

Tabitha sternly interrupts him, “Kevin, be extremely careful how you ask your next question. Remember how the others set your pants aflame?”

Kevin was about to ask, ‘IF you’re a god —‘ That shows doubt, and a lack of respect — especially now when he’s seen proof of her claim. Per her instructions, Kevin carefully forms his next question in his thoughts, “Tabitha, since you’re a god — why can’t you just make me the sandwich I want? Why can’t you just read my mind and peel my desire out of my head?” — But he does not open his mouth. He’s afraid to ask.

Tabitha smiles as Kevin imagines his question, then she winks at him. Kevin hears Tabitha’s other voice — her booming-god voice — inside his head — reverberating with the bass and volume of a massive waterfall, “Kevin, of course I could peel back your thick skull like a tangerine — literally and metaphorically — expropriate your desires; then serve you whatever you choose — before you even ask — before your neurons even receive their cravings. I know everything you desire, everything your lizard-brain will ever desire, in your entire mortal lifetime, on your lower plane of existence.”

Kevin, after hearing her booming answer in his head, decides not to re-ask his stupid question. He smiles, with complete faith he blurts out excitedly, “Fried baloney! I want a fried baloney sandwich!”

“Done!”

Tabitha’s tiny PB and J sandwich levitates from her hand slowly; Kevin opens his palms to receive it. The sandwich approaches slowly, transfiguring with adjustments made — in real time — mirroring Evan’s thoughts. Fried baloney sandwich — two slices of seven-grain wheat bread — bread slices two and a half times normal — enveloping four bread-sized slices of deli-American cheese — enveloping four-huge monster slices of thick, curled-up, pan-fried baloney. Pressed together tightly — both sides then grilled in butter — until the cheese is ‘melty-melty.’ His sandwich so massive, he needs to grasp it with two hands. Eagerly a massive chomp.

Nearly orgasmically Kevin grunts with a mouthful of flesh, cheese, and bread, “MMMM. Oh my God! It’s perfect! You made it perfect!”

Tabitha smiles. “We made it together. It’s your imagination, your vision, your memory, your desire, your hunger, your emotion — I merely manifested your desire, what your brain won’t allow you to do yet.”

“Why can’t I do it?”

“Eat, then we’ll talk.”

Read more: PRIONS

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