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✧ THE BOOK OF THE BUTT-JUW ✧
Chapter III – Of Farts and Fuel
And it came to pass that the Butt-Juws entered into covenant not with foreskin, nor with milk and honey, but with Gas-Mart and Chevron.
For they had been promised cheap unleaded forevermore, yet the sign rose daily, mocking them with numbers thrice accursed.
And lo, the horned redeemer came not, but only the grim effigies of fascist names upon billboards — Texaco, Exxon, Shell — graven like idols of Baal.
And the Butt-Juws did mock them unsparingly, saying:
Behold, O Texaco, thou art but a priest of fumes;
Behold, O Exxon, thy name stinketh of spillage;
Behold, O Shell, thou art hollow and cracked, thy pearl is but plastic.
Yet still they bent, butt-first, farting into the wind, that their exhaust might be bartered for unleaded.
Yea, some farted richly, as trumpets of Zion; others but squeaked, as broken flutes in the temple of Arby’s.
And the scribes measured the gas by the gallon, and wrote their names upon receipts too long to be read.
And there arose among them cynical pariahs, bumbling in the lots, muttering unto themselves:
What profit hath a Butt-Juw if he farteth, yet findeth no pump to receive him?
These pariahs plundered every trope, stole every vending machine prophecy, toppled every deus ex machina, yet found no peace.
Verily, one found a gumball machine that spake wisdom, and it cried: Insert quarters, ye who fart, for only in consumption shall ye know covenant.
But the quarters were false, stamped with Mussolini’s face, and the machine spat them out, giggling like Herod on whippets.
Thus the Butt-Juws were condemned to fart and lie forever, their cheeks the engines of a false economy, their lies the oil that kept the pumps turning.
And fascist names grew fat in the sky, even as the people dwindled in their butt-power, muttering in cynicism, stumbling in parody.
And lo, the Book of the Butt-Juw was sealed with a receipt, 18 feet long, unreadable but binding.