draft 2

What the fuck is this?

-auth

Draft 2
	It was a trait of the Slavs in Ada, Oklahoma that they nodded to accept a new falsehood. They nodded with enthusiasm, eager to fill their brains with belief. The Slavs wanted their minds changed, to pursue a new idea all the time. It was pleasurable to have fresh conviction. Whether or not their idea was delusional had no meaning to them. The Slavs cut off reality to become extremist.
	His long, relaxed body covered over six feet of the couch. Other greased dopeheads were messing around in his stuff.
	“Don’t steal my phone,” Steph said. The smartphone was in his lap, guarded yet vulnerable of kleptos.
    Jordan said he wouldn't touch the thing.
	Why did he feel like an ex-patriot of America? He realized it was alienation from watching CNN during the weekend. Steph couldn’t identify with American culture. It was in his blood.
	The mind-fuck about clones was part of the dark side of Elle’s arrival. This mind-fuck was dominating Jordan's monologue:
    "If she thinks we're clones, then we definitely must not be. We are validly excluded from being clones."
	Steph hoped he had a different set of chromosomes than the other Slavs in his house. The closest one to his genome was his girlfriend, hiding out in one of the houses in the town. He wasn’t able to protest the nearly incestual partnership. Elle would capture and silence him.
    She told him he was a clone of her. “Nothing matters if you consider that. I married you because I created you. I know my own kind better than the rest.”
    She accused him of being a clone to stop his mind from working. He paused, frozen in denial. He had nothing to say. His genetic cloning could be real. But why didn’t he look like her? It could be nonsense.
    "Either way, it's poison for our minds," Jordan said.
    Steph was superior intellectually to the four dopeheads including Jordan. He sent all of them over to her house, and told them not to come back. He was head dopehead, and they would do nearly anything he told them. He didn’t execute direct commands often because nothing worked for very long. Orders were hard to keep up with for the Slavs.
    Jordan led them out of the house, jumping around them like a lion cub.
    A tailored outfit hung Steph's door knob. The red, white and black miniskirt lured in Steph after they left. Its frills touched the ground.
    “Custom fitted for the regional magician of the Hermetic Order of Golden Dawn,” he said. “Who can’t return to human form after being seen by local cops. And me.”
    His newfound sense of nationalism felt wrong. Like a birthmark in the shape of Russia, he wanted it lasered: out of his body, or out of his genetics. But the Slav in him begged him to just nod, and try to accept the new conviction.
    He came full circle.