2012

2012

In a cave set in mountains unforgiving to most but not to the most zealous law enforcer and scoop-hungry journalist, a scraggly man’s satellite phone rings. After he hangs up, he beacons to a band of adults congregated at the cave’s mouth.

Doomsday Prophet: Brethren, I have terrible news! The world won’t end in 2012.

Doomsday Cult Female Member 1: Why? We have nothing waiting for us in the world. We endowed you with all that we had.

Doomsday Prophet: Well, I can give them back to you. (Points to the woman) I’ll return your yacht. (Points to another woman) You can have your mansion back. (Looks directly at a chubby man) Your wife stays with me but I’m returning her mother to you. Everything that you had and now mine will be returned!

Doomsday Cult Lean Male Member 1: The tanker of pesticide, Master. What shall we do with it?

Doomsday Prophet: (Frowns in concentration) Ah, yes. We cannot let good pesticide go to waste. Get the crystal wine glasses and get that damn poison. (When everything is set, the prophet puts aside his wine glass, colored because of his rank, and fills each member’s glass to the brim with the pesticide). Now, let us drink to 2012!

Cult Members: To 2012! (They drink the pesticide in one swig and wait. The chubby man drops first, followed by the yacht owner, and more until the lean man keels over.)

Doomsday Prophet: (Empties his glass of Perrier water and watches the bodies writhing and frothing on the limestone floor) To fools who believe in 2012! (He dials his satellite phone). Hello. It’s me. I have a yacht and mansion for 50 million. Find me a buyer this week. What? Alright, you can have her but screw this deal and I'll give you her mother instead. Yeah. Fifty million.


-Prospero Pulma Jr. -