The sign screamed HOGWASH with the voice of a child denied chocolate Santas on Christmas morn and the line forming on the highway caused concerned police helicopters to slice the air above the intersection and the more of a spectacle was made, the more the line grew. Having given up travelling at more than 3 miles an hour, I had been walking my steady pace down a minor road (leading to Somewhere, but not quickly, and Everywhere eventually, but only if you saw the long game) when I came upon the mess of metal and sweat and curses and noxious fumes.
One at a time, a car would enter the back gravel of a Denny’s parking lot, a place kept clear through sheer boredom, right back by the dumpster and the hobo fire. A large man, strength constantly blasting from beneath his ruby-red robes, would hoist a squealing hog onto a meat hook and crank a winch until the hog’s belly lined up with the front windshield of the vehicle. From his side he would unsheath a long blade emblazoned with a sneering sun and cut from the hog its life-blood, which would flow down the front of the car, into the hood. The humans inside would scream and vomit and tear each others’ hairs and the hierophant would laugh and toss the hog into the ditch on the side of the road.
I stood and watched and understood nothing of these modern religions.