It had been maryjane barn. The weed was long gone and the dudes were down in Roswell, New Mexico. Summer afternoons, it looked like an oil painting, with golden sunlight and mauve shadows. The timber had succumbed to verdigris and would reflect a ghastly palor during a full moon. No one visited it, as it was full of bats.
Brother Ambrose bought it for a song. The real-estate woman was astonished with the way he crooned Donovan's "Fat Angel."
Fly Jefferson Airplane. It get's you there on time.
Before he left her office he had taken advantage of her brazen decolletage.
He parked the Skell Van at the great barn door. Got out and released the bats. They flushed into the trees, never to return. Kerosene lanterns illuminated the guano. He groaned.
He rolled a dub of his favorite apphrodesiac: Haze Plum.
"Ziggy," his dead wife whispered. "The time has come for me to leave you."
"No! You must remain with me always!"
"I can't."
*
Oh, there were grand things he wished to do with his barn. (It was to become First Church of Saint Pelagius. "You are governed by nothing but your Free Will!") First the altar, then creating a facsimile of Robert Smithson's "Feet of Christ" on the wall behind it. There was a Russian-Inuit goth chick in town who could do it, if he asked her right.
What a combination, he thought. Russian mysticism and Innuit shamanism.
Now, what was her name?
Sonya something.
