Leather to the Corinthians

By Tom Lucas

Celebrities grown in nutrient vats.
Holographic sex clubs where anything is possible.
A church that worships superheroes.
A military force of carnival clowns and plushie killing machines.

Welcome to The Village -- home to a mad despot known only as The King, the mega-corporation Sell Inc, and the 10,000-channel media conglomerate Network One.

A coup has reduced The Village to rubble. Now, a nameless soldier struggles with his humanity, a priest faces a crisis of faith, a salesman falls in love with a digital mistress, and a post-punk tribe of motorized merchants fights for its very survival.

It’s going to take a while to clean up this mess. Hopefully, someone brought snacks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Lucas
• Release date: Jul 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9780988526112

Tom Lucas

Tom Lucas was born and raised in Detroit, and although currently enjoying the lack of snow and ice in Florida, remains a son of the post-industrial apocalypse.He is the author of the bizarro novels PAX TITANUS and LEATHER TO THE CORINTHIANS as well as a featured contributor to several anthologies.When not writing, Tom likes to drive fast and take chances.

Book preview

Leather to the Corinthians

Tom Lucas

Copyright 2012 Tom Lucas. All Rights Reserved.

Published by Tom Lucas/Room1331 Media at Smashwords.

Smashwords Edition License Notes:

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events and places are used fictitiously. Resemblance to actual events, locations, corporations, products, entities and or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN-13 EPUB: 978-0988526112

LCCN: 2012919854

Leather to the Corinthians

Your gratitude should really begin now...

Contents

Incoming…

1. Come a Little Closer

2. An Account of the Invasion of the Village by Hostile Corporate Forces

3. And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

4. Let’s Get Ready to Rumble

5. We Will Be Right Back After This

6. Battle of the Networth Stars

7. A Pause for Station Identification

8. The Passion of the Sweeps Week

9. An Important Message from the Management

10. All Things Be Going Down on Palatial Grounds

11. Only the First Ten Callers Get the Deal

12. The Dodge Tribe

13. This Is Only a Test

14. Sell, Sell, Sell

15. Act Now and You Will Get a Second One Free

16. Now New and Improved

17. But Wait, There’s More

18. CTRL+ALT+DEL

19. Stand By…We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties

Rumors & Lies

Snake Oil

Become an Official Sidekick

Acknowledgements

Fax Transmission

12.2789/A/46.0-01

Dear Mother,

I know that you really didn't want me to get into the wage wars, but I really didn't have much choice. I was not born with a silver spork in my mouth and there is no denying otherwise. I was put on this green grocer to work. I know that now.

I have joined the General's Army. Now I know that we always went to the King for his Deals but I'm in it for the Perks and valuable Cash & Prizes. The bottom line is that there are two types of people in this world: Servers and Customers. You know what father taught was always right...if I work hard at the first, I might become the second.

Work on the General's line is difficult and I must still deal with the rush. However, I'm beginning to see the Lite. The rumors of continued outright aggression towards the King leak about, and I can't help but think that the General is thinking about closing up early for the King. This is known in industry lingo as Dis-His-Franchise. I am resolved and ready to fight. I will fax or e-mail you as often as possible.

Your son’s name here,

A soldier.

……end transmission

1. Come a Little Closer

Exterior: You are in a bleak field, filled with weeds and trash.

A crowd gathers and you recognize many of your friends and co-workers among the strange faces. An older man appears on a soapbox. He wears a large top hat and a bright red tattered tuxedo. He raises a megaphone….

I know what ails you!

Gather round, all you tattooed, lost soul wandering, Wi-Fi/Lo-Fi mutants! Come!

Come over here, all you swollen pineal gland, third-eye having, genetically crossbred hybrid super-freaks! Get on with your bad selves!

Turn on, all you telepathic, degenerate, UFO subterranean gaping-mouthed, prehensile tailed monsters!

Come see the true reality! Come see the answer!

I know what ails you.

I know what troubles bring you forward in droves to stare at the mighty juice, the glorious oil that transforms the beaten into full-blown raving geniuses. What I offer will not only satisfy, it will fulfill. I know this because I have looked into your shallow eye sockets and have seen the blood-stained traumas and horrors of your ancient astronaut ancestors – ancestors whose bio-seeds gave birth to the many-armed succubae tormentors of your secret psychic souls. Your years of meta-body personal apocalypse, for which no self-help book can assuage, are nearing their end as you drop open drooling jaws to this ultimate, extreme wonder-product of the new and improved age!

A tonic to exhilarate! An oil to lubricate! A cure for all that ails you!

Yes, come closer. See the cure. Witness its power. See for yourself that which you have sought all along! For I alone, have the cure for all of your miseries, mysterious diagnosed conditions, typed and phenotyped.

A blitzkrieg of postmodern, avant-garde consumption is what stands before you, sporting a gleaming showcase and stellar package design. Know that great pains were taken by reality contest-winning champions of marketing and psychology to achieve such consumer-leeching greatness!

Admire its modern sleekness with a nod to past tradition. Absorb its glorious aura that speaks to a wisdom beyond your miniscule sensory abilities. A Holy Tribute to all concepts of mass marketing, it plunges bull's-eye darts into your dark demographic, laser-sighting all of your self-flagellating desires.

All your life you have wanted to know what could fill your personal void. What spackle could handle a hole that size? You always knew there was something missing, and you have paced trenches into your Astroturf trying to figure it out.

Well, by fucking golly, here it is! Here is the panacea for your stunted and lackluster existence.

Wait – before I show you, there is much, much more.

Oh, what’s that? Do I hear moaning? Do I hear whining? Will the sound of a thousand bloggers flaming this humble salesman rock the night sky?

Please— I know you're excited, but you really need to swallow the instant-action medication of your choice and take a deep fucking breath.

I know that your vertebrae have strained and snapped under the wheel of the MAN. I know that your condemnation to LIVE BY THE SWEAT OF YOUR BROW has incarcerated you in the prison of your manual labors. Oh, how the blood and tears have dribbled off your skin and fallen to the ground only to evaporate without acknowledgment! No crime so great should go unpunished. Honestly, I know. It's really too much for anyone to bear.

That is why I am here.

You scream, GIVE ME MY SALVATION!

I hear you.

You scream, I'M MAD TO SELL BECAUSE I CAN'T BUY ANYMORE!

I hear you.

I know what ails you.

You scream and pull your hair out and nothing seems right. No amount of manufactured content can satisfy that deep, dark hole that you possess. The more you consume, the more you have to demand. This is truly madness!

I won't toy with you for much longer, my fine multi-celled beastly brothers and sisters. Mark my words, you will dig deep for this key to tomorrow's satisfaction. Your excitement is palpable! Rejoice in finally knowing that there is a final destination for your carefully-monitored paycheck.

That is why I am here today with my powerhouse product.

I know that what I offer you will silence the screams. It will ease the suffering and bring peace and serenity to all. Yes, it will cost you.

But then again, my friend, what does not cost you?

I see your eyes darting about at the searingly, clear-coated, and vending-machine-ready collection of fine goodies I place before you. I know that you ache to reach out and have these all-fulfilling objects of Styrofoam, aerosol-inspired creation. But know that the one true human emotion, WANT, will not so easily be vanquished by a mere touch. The desire to possess is beyond measure, but remember, the chase is always better than the catch.

Always, always leave them wanting more.

Unlike this lifetime, this all-purpose product has a warranty and a guarantee! And coming soon? A 24-hour, online support chat-room. So come closer and I will show you more!

2. An Account of the Invasion of the Village by Hostile Corporate Forces

He pulled at his tight regulation uniform shirt. Its plastic/polyester mix molested his skin and its resistance to his sweat made the shirt sickly damp and nasty. They told him that the artificial fibers would make him feel eight percent more efficient. At best he felt thirty percent more irritated. He snorted in disgust.

He pulled at the shirt until it slipped free from the elastic waistband of his pants. It was a soldier's duty to keep neat and clean, but it had been a long morning, and he just didn't care anymore. Grease stains mottled his once pristine uniform shirt, and the collected grit and grime of the rush over the hill jammed deep and black under his fingernails. A stench of putrid fryer oil and fetid meat permeated every false fiber of his uniform. At one time, he may have, but now he certainly didn't look like the blotchy-faced teenager on the recruitment poster the General had stuck on every wall in town. His uniform had failed to seal in his freshness.

Giving up on one of the General's favorite slogans, Neatness Counts! he decided that it wouldn't hurt to look around. His crew was busy tending to the wounded, straightening their squashed clown noses and wiping off the offending mix of blood and makeup from their faces. The logistics of outfitting an army completely with clown costumes were staggering, and prolonged battles revealed certain flaws in such an aesthetic decision. The General's ego, however, had to be appeased.

He pulled a smoke from the pack he kept taped to the front of his visor. Placing it precariously on his lip, he bent in search of his lighter. Fumbling through his Smoking Is FUNdamental promotional fanny pack (obtained through redeeming a large number of empty cartons), his fingers eventually found their target, and he pulled it up, smiling in victory. He put the death stick up to his smudged lips and cracked a smirk only someone who has been to flavor country could appreciate. He took a long, slow drag holding it deeply inside his lungs. Exhaling, he knew this feeling of joy would not last.

In fact, it was over.

Standing in front of him was the General.

The General's permanent smile had turned into a frown. Veins popped in his white forehead.

Soldier! the General screamed, Smoking while off duty is not allowed! Extinguish that cigarette and tuck in that shirt!

Quick to obey, the cig dropped immediately from his lips and his hands rushed to stuff the offending shirttails into his striped stretch pants.

The General was not finished.

Soldier, do you know why we don't smoke in this man's army? Because it's bad for the corporate image, son. We have licensing agreements to uphold, the General said matter-of-factly. Look, it's been brutal today. We have pounded the Village below for hours, suffered three charges by the King's troops, and all our taps are out of soda. How long have we held this hill? How long with nothing but kid’s meals for rations and no fucking prize inside?

The General broke into an even wider grin than his perma-makeup would normally allow.

Too long. I know the time of day is beer-thirty, but we must press on. We must take the Village and depose the King. His marketing strategies are starting to take hold, and if we don't crush him now, the Village may never be ours. This is why we fight, son. This is why I fight. The King is mad and his food is bad, and it’s up to us to end his tyranny! I am counting on young men and women such as yourself, to get into the trenches for me and make all of this carnage worth a fucking damn.

The Soldier stood silently. This guy was pretty inspirational, now that he thought about it. He felt his spine straighten a bit.

Why did you join my fight, son? the General demanded.

The Soldier stammered. Because life under the King was bullshit, sir. I…I wanted a better life. I wanted to make a difference... I…I wanted opportunity!

Fight hard, and you will have it! The General boomed.

The General sashayed away, motioning the Soldier to follow. The General's charismatic grin killed any resistance. He followed. The General, majestic in his creamy orange jumper (which lent a pro-styled chic look that contrasted nicely with the chemical burst fade of his fiery engine-red hair) carried himself across the battlefield with a strut befitting Alexander. The Soldier found himself in complete and captivated awe.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, bands played glorious marching music. Drumlines became white noise. Clearly, there was something in the secret sauce he was forced to add to every meal in the mess hall.

The General stopped in his tracks.

You know, young man, there is something that I really like about you. I can see you going very far in this organization, assured the General.

The Soldier nodded. The General was most certainly right. In this moment, he felt like a real team player. He felt like a real people-person who could interface with key clients.

The General looked deep into the Soldier's eyes and barked his orders.

Soldier, I want you to round up the troops and make a reassessment. Really think out of the box on this one! Write me a report using no less than four software suites. A report that dazzles the mind – the kind that everyone will download and share with friends and families. And, I want it printed out in triplicate. You hear me? the General ordered.

Yes sir! the Soldier responded obediently.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Scratch Microphone looked out from a small grove of trees down toward the Village. There was not much movement in the smoky rubble. Perhaps the red-haired one had finally polished off the Village's inhabitants. It made no difference to Scratch. This fierce warrior, head of the Dodge Tribe, bowed to no one and would conduct business as usual with the final occupants. The Elders of the tribe had always preached that one shopping channel is as good as any other. Yea, verily.

Scratch pulled out his supercool infrared zoom lenses to take a better look at the carnage.

Wow, this place is pretty fucked up.

Many buildings were destroyed or on fire. Heavy smoke hung in the air. It blacked out the sky and choked all hopeful light into nothingness. The only evidence of the sun was a strange orange glow that made everything above the horizon a sea of fire.

It would make for a great scene in a movie, like that end-of-the-world flick with John Cusack.

The King's castle seemed intact, as was the highly protected corporate enclave known as the Sell Inc. Executive Living Complex. Its sparkling glass towers and high concrete barricades were completely untouched. Surely, their higher-ups had made some kind of deal prior to the attack. Scratch could see sweating consumers on their treadmills in the gym on the eighty-eighth floor. It would appear that they were completely unfazed by the morning's events.

Scratch continued his voyeuristic recon.

He could see the church. In the distance, a dark-cloaked figure was practicing slam-dunks on the half-court behind it. The figure played in a clumsy and awkward manner. Whoever it was, they had no game. Scratch made a mental sticky note to school this person proper when he had more time.

Everything else he could see looked seriously trashed, and Scratch wondered if there would be much business out of the Village anytime soon. He reassured himself that even bad business is better than no business, attempted to wipe the smoke from his eyes, and took another look.

At first, it seemed that there was little movement. Scratch waited. Soon he could see a green glowing figure, courtesy of his awesome binocular device. He really loved his eyepiece. Soon the glow multiplied, and they were all over the place.

Shit, the media has arrived.

Scratch decided to head back to the tribe's encampment. There he would consult with the Elders and come up with a plan. His original thought to hit the Village for books of old Green Stamps and the random crate of Spa-ham Lite for the kids would simply have to wait.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$

The side door to the inner chamber flew open, and the King charged in with purpose. His sudden entrance caused his underlings much distress as they had been leaning instead of cleaning, and the King was not one to tolerate anyone fucking off while they were supposed to be at fucking work.

The Royal Announcer quickly grabbed his microphone, cleared his throat, and bellowed the King's introduction with the biggest big-boy voice he could muster.

Hailing from the gated communities of Nowhereimportantsville, let's give a big welcome to the Master of Disaster, The Purple Monster, the Underpayer of Manual Labor, the Man with the Plan, the One, the Only, his Majesty...THE KING!

There was brief, staccato applause – nervous and tentative – as the King looked over at his announcer and winced. The King slumped in his throne. His advisers continued to swarm the royal chamber, quietly chatting about their current favorite shows and arguing about the funniest home videos they had ever seen. Was it the one where the skater crunches his balls on a stairwell railing? Maybe the child vs. bear cub fighting video? It was truly a debate that had no objective conclusion.

SILENCE! the King shouted. I can't believe I ate the whole thing. Somebody get me a Bromo.

The royal advisers scrambled. Sane was not a word that one would use to describe the monarch and he was clearly upset. As was his stomach. The problem was that the more upset the King would get, the less sense he would make until he spoke only in slogan, search engine results, pop-ups, and jingles. The King was not all that friendly in these times. Considering that half the Village lay in rubble and smoke, he had a perfectly good reason to be all worked up.

There once had been a time, one spoken about only in whispers, when the King had been young, kind, and mentally stable. As time passed however, either the power or the responsibilities of the job had caused him to slowly unravel, and now merely speaking ill of him could mean death or the third shift.

An aide dressed in the royal polyesters approached the throne with a tonic and lime. The King, in perhaps his frumpiest of bathrobes, sat slumped in a relatively unknown yoga position – the Lebowski.

Your Grace—

Call me Ishmael! insisted the King.

Whatever. Lord, thou hast grown weary from stress of battle and the months of siege upon our Village and castle. I fear that your eye for battle wishes to close from its rotten vision. I suggest you confer with your military advisor.

Huh? I wasn't really paying attention to you. Did you say con-fer? What is that? Person or place? Seems kinda familiar.

Sir, your Commander of Armies is here, said the aide with a sigh.

Send him in.

The great revolving doors of the chamber spun, and Commander Thighmaster came thundering in, his black armor greasy and caked in filth. His thick black beard contained smears of blood and gristle. He also had the unmistakable stench of death upon him. The King pulled his slumped form up in his chair.

My Lord, I bring news from the front, boomed Thighmaster.

And what is it? enquired the King.

All is lost. We are half past the monkey's ass and a quarter to its balls, whined Thighmaster.

There, there, Boo-Boo. I'm not mad at you. Tell Daddy what happened, crooned the King in smooth, sounding tones, the kind you’d hear in a kid’s TV show.

We lost the Colonel and all his men today on the hill, Thighmaster sniffed. He said he had the secret recipe for victory, but it turned out to be a big bucket of shit! Then the foul General let loose with viral attacks, sneaky pincher moves, and released his demonic Kroftian beasts! We were hit from all sides, and possibly even from within. By the time it was all over, our men lay dead or dying. But that wasn't enough for the evil General, no sir. He then whipped out his giant hose and sprayed us with his special sauce! It was a money shot no one walked away from! It was clear that this brave and manly knight was about to cry like a big armored baby.

You are right, it does seem that all is lost. Perhaps we should consult the Oracle, the King concluded. Aide, hand me my phone. I think her number is 1-976....

$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Father Everhard looked at his watch. It was almost time to finish up. Stuffing the last bites of an Aunty Nuke's Gourmet Microwave Burrito into his mouth, the lanky, grey-haired priest rose from the table. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Everhard smoothed down his tunic and pulled up his garters, as he wondered how long his freakish metabolism could handle the amount of crap food he consumed.

Damn things always droop, he mumbled.

It had been a bloody morning. The incessant pounding of the enemy forces on the ridge had given him one helluva migraine. He saw light spots surround the periphery of his vision. It was a struggle to think.

Father Everhard left the kitchen and walked through the dark hall that joined the rectory with the church. Stopping midway, he scrounged for his Archangel Michael Jordan Official Reem Team Basketball. Gripping its synthesized rubber skin, he trotted out into the back half-courtyard. He performed a poor crossover dribble and took a quick shot.

He missed.

Well, GODDAMN! he shouted.

This vicious cycle of weak technical skills, poorly aimed shots, and Tourette's style cursing continued for about 15 minutes until Everhard felt fairly warmed up.

Everhard made his way into the church. Its high ceiling begged for a regulation hoop. He reminded himself to go shop for one tomorrow, if there was one. The war had ravaged the Village, and Everhard was not much of an optimist. Still, he did have the church. It was his parish, and he ran a tight ship. If parishioners came late to Mass, they would most definitely not receive their complimentary French chocolates (with the hand-applied gold filigree crosses) after the service.

Got to stay hard! he reminded himself.

The priest walked up to the altar, pausing to do a quick grin and shuffle for the Man. The Man loved the soft shoe, and Everhard had spent months when he first arrived to the church searching for priest shoes that didn't clomp on the hard wood. What was that move he had just looked up on the Internet? The Two-Step Buck Time Two Step? He struggled to remember the moves as he quietly scatted.

Da hip da do ha hip hip hop hop.

He looked up to the cross.

Oh Lord, help me to divine one's wishes, he proclaimed. What is your plan for us now?

The Big Red J looked down at him. There he hung, same old dumb look on his face, his painted blue tights and red cape frozen in wood. He offered no helpful suggestions. In fact, the effigy sometimes seemed aggravated that people kept asking him for things.

Lord, give me a new and improved recipe for survival, Everhard decreed.

Big J just looked down at him, with his painted white teeth grinding as always, his hands clenched fists over neon green radioactive nails embedded deep in his palms.

Awww, phooey, the priest whined. Standing once more, Everhard made the sign of the cross, busted out a quick tap step, and belched three times for good luck.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$

The corporate boardroom of Sell Inc. was packed to its off-the-rack, ill-fitted, navy-blue-suit gills. Whether it was daytime or nighttime, peacetime or time of war, Sell Inc. was always in business. Time is always time, and Sell Inc. always sells. These complete bastards, these horrifically sociopathic creatures, sought only to pounce on the weak and suck them dry. This multi-national, multi-dimensional, cross-media conglomerate owned damn near everything and everyone in the Village. They were often thanked by those they victimized.

The CEO sat at the end of the table, his fat belly pushing his shirt’s buttons to the limit. The gaps between them revealed soft, fatty tissues and stretch marks. He rolled his thick thumbs. Various small computer implants were mounted in strategic places on his head, neck, and shoulders. Their twinkling lights and chirping beeps turned his head into a miniature Las Vegas Strip.

Good, good, he asserted, can we hear from our Advance Reconstruction Team Representative?

A young, slender man in a tight-cut Burberry suit rose to speak. His tense, taut million dollar smile displayed an eagerness and self-motivation greater than the sum of all previously known self-help books combined.

Sir, our conclusion is that once the takeover is completed, the first thing we do is kill all the lawyers, the thin man reported with a toothy, gleaming grin.

The boardroom exploded. Papers were thrown about the room and threats were made. The CEO chuckled and waved his arm to calm the rabid throng of MBAs and CPAs. The lawyers were damn near inconsolable.

A fine suggestion, but far too literary for my taste. We need something much more post-postmodern, more proactive, more deconstructionist, more turnkey, the CEO announced. I have thought about this situation for some time now. It has never been enough for me or any of the other board members to merely own everything. I have spent countless nights watching graphs and charts broadcast across my eyelids. I have run laps in my lavish penthouse. I have snorted copious amounts of speed and written out proposals and plans, even while fucking every hot broad I could get my claws on, he grunted, as he tightly clenched his fists, all I could do was think about our next move. I feel that although we have acquired so much, there is this intrinsic emptiness that must somehow be filled with an external source…what we do next is everything!

But sir, most of us are pretty happy, chimed another bright and shiny slender penny. He was as thin as a dime, his internal hunger having corporeal form.

Without even making eye contact with the young turk, the CEO suddenly batted the young executive down with an open bear paw slap. A sickening crack revealed a new job opening in his department.

No one moved. Not a blink. Not a breath.

A brave soul slowly stood.

Okay… pronounced a third gaunt young exec. We do have Plan Extreme.

Ah yes, Plan Extreme. I had forgotten about that. Please refresh my memory, the CEO said nodding his head.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Brad Perfect, Network One News Anchor, sat pensively at his faux-mahogany prop desk watching for the stage manager's cues. Today's news was probably the most important news he had delivered in his manufactured life. Brad's forehead would be sweating profusely at this moment if it weren't for the fact that he had no sweat glands above the waist. Brad was the result of many designs and mishaps and the Network One talent geneticists had figured out a way to keep the perspiration out of the camera’s view. When you think about it, it makes a lot of sense, the enhancements made to his neoprene

Reviews for Leather to the Corinthians

[between_the_lines · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is an intelligent and original work that is in your face and highly entertaining. It offers satirical yet sobering insights into the “idocracy” of modern society. A perceptual Pandora’s Box cracks open as one gets a sense of being transported into a surreal, video game-like, sci-fi world, where consumption and confusion rule. You’ve got to be in the mood for it, kind of like spicy Mexican food, otherwise it might overwhelm you with its cilantro-y goodness. Speaking of which, let’s talk about food—fast food, which is the underlying plot line for this sci-fi parody of our super-size culture. The story opens with a sleazy snake oil salesman who immediately grabs you by the throat and shoves his remedies right down it. This leaves you dizzy and suddenly in the middle of a bizarre burger war between a parallel universe Mickey D’s and BK. Lucas paints a wildly vivid portrait of a General Mac Donald, who has gone rogue. The heretic clown builds an insurgency against the self-centered, yet lovable despot, The King, who’s the ruler of the Village. Determined to depose his nemesis and take over the throne, the General enlists the help of a once innocent and idealistic young Soldier. Together with the Soldier and a cast of off-beat characters such as Fr. Everhard the meek yet lurid priest, and Peter, that creepy, awkward guy at the office, Leather will captivate enthusiasts of pop culture and science fiction aficionados who have a penchant for dystopia and wry humor. Filled with great passages and catchy quotes, the writing conveys deep thought all the while remaining tongue-in–cheek. Multiple narratives buckle you into a cerebral roller coaster ride through this Bardo that keeps readers on their temporal toes!

[libvix · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Leather to the Corinthians is an all-purpose tome for the jaded, overworked, underpaid, and exhausted. It speaks to the reader who is looking for a release from every day, irritating, life by reading about just how absurd it can become. Lucas’ witty and sardonic words expose modern day dysfunction based in religion, sex, media, fast food, big business, technology and military /political machinations. The references to pop culture and its nuances are spot on and thought provoking passages make an impact. Jesus as a superhero with a fan club and the burger battle between a psychotic clown general and a metrosexual king creates the perfect backdrop for the dark and sardonic humor that is perfectly balanced with light and funny prose. Anyone who feels disenfranchised, stifled by those short attention-spanned, tech-loving, all-consuming, members of society, or relates their collective experiences as “cogs in the wheel” spun by the calculating, and the greedy, will enjoy this quirky, apocalyptic, sci-fi satire which is certain to become the next cult classic.