Most people can’t get past the first word of the phrase Suicide Cult without thinking about depressed, lonely, deluded assholes dressing like angels and tearing apart their insides with sugar-berry strychnine punch. They forget about those of us that know what the fuck we’re doing here.
It isn’t like they say. We didn’t drink the punch unwittingly, masturbate in a circle while holding lightning rods, or even listen to a sermon about how the comet was coming to save us all. Those of us who made it to the final level didn’t need any of that shit. We only drank the poison because our bodies were so pure that our blood was already venom and poison was like a mild narcotic and it tickled your belly just right. Our eyes were already on the comet, and I mean that literally. We plucked them out and shot a whole bag of them out of a space cannon. As a present to the comet, yes, but also so that we could see the icy castles we would be living in for the next few centuries. Know where to put the couch and such. You know.
And we made it, you fucking unbelievers. Throw our bodies in the ocean like you do your trash, Earth-shackled slaves. We ride the void and eat shaved ice for breakfast. We haunt eternity. We’ll be back for more of you and and ready to meat party in spirit form.