They were building a gigantic cross out of fried chicken bones out by the big church out on 71 (south of somewhere or the other) and Calvin couldn’t quite understand what they were using to keep it from toppling over with so many human arms dangling from the damned thing. They’d probably grease him up and let him sit in the hot sun as inspiration if they’d ever heard him refer to the thing as damned (and there was some rumor that the purpose of the project was to collect the thoughts of unbelievers,) but he’d made it this close and no one came to meet him, friendly or otherwise.
He’d go a another mile closer to the damned thing if he could, having spied a good clearing in a local trailer park that would be perfect for his counter-project. His would be pure, however. His hands would be the only hands allowed to place the tacos, one by one, until there grew a satanic ziggurat to dwarf their monument to slavery. And he would stand, high heirophant and sacred architect, and his secret glue would be human blood and the semen of flawless bulls and everyone will know for he shall inform them.