A Cult That Worships Pants

By Lydia Bugg

A free-spirited woman gets sucked into the MLM her Grandmother invested heavily in before her death and quickly begins to worry the fanatical saleswomen and their charismatic leader may know more than they are willing to say about her Grandmother’s sudden demise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Jan 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094456126

Book preview

1

Krystal was about to make a mistake. She always knew when she was about to make a mistake; the issue was that mistakes are almost always fun at first, and she was bad at saying no to fun. It wasn't until after the fun part was over and Krystal was still at the bar at seven in the morning cleaning up all of the foam from her improvised foam party as her boss glared at her disapprovingly that she wished she could go back in time and ignore how much fun she was about to have.

Dirk would fire her this time if she didn't come up with something to excuse her behavior quickly. Being cute and good at slinging drinks wasn't enough to make up for the fact that one of his regulars had slipped in the improvised foam and nearly broken his pelvis. This wasn't a foam party kind of bar, apparently. Sure, most of the customers were farmers; the majority were over fifty years old. Krystal didn't realize that meant they didn't want to party! It turned out they were more shocked than thrilled to see their local watering hole filled with suds.

Krystal enjoyed spending the night watching their John Deere trucker hats disappear into the foam like they'd been hit with a whack-a-mole bat as they attempted to wade their way to the jukebox. However, that joy was short lived when Dirk returned from his date with his ex-wife in a grim mood and Krystal knew she wasn't going to cute her way out of this one. You know the bar needed a good clean. I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone, and look — the place is sparkling! she called across the bar to Dirk. He looked up from the cash drawer he was finally counting and scowled in reply.

Dirk was a man of few words. That's why Krystal thought they made a good team. She started to panic a little. This job was important to her. Rent was due next week and her tips tonight had been crap for some reason. She had no one to call. Her mother was living in a commune in Puerto Rico in some sort of polyamorous triad thing with a woman named Cloud and a man named Doug. Krystal had learned it was best not to ask too many questions about her mother's love life, especially if those questions were tough to answer, like, Are you in a cult? or Did the cult steal that city bus? or Do we have to change our names because of the bus thing?

Her only other family was her current roommate, Margo. Margo cut her hair. She wasn't in hair school or anything. It was just something she liked to do, a unique form of creative expression where Krystal's hair was a living sculpture. Krystal didn't mind it because she didn't charge and kept it out of her eyes.

Her mother taught her not to focus on her appearance, so the fact that she was currently sporting a blue/green mullet didn't bother her. She had a large tattoo of the logo for a band she didn't listen to anymore on her left thigh and several dotting her collarbone and upper arms that were kitchen wizard jobs. She only really remembered getting about half of them. The septum piercing, she remembered. That sucker hurt.

Her body was a monument to quick, sloppy decisions. She had no plans, no goals, very few ideas, and was generally floating through life unbothered. Getting fired again would put a real damper on that. Her palms started to sweat and she gripped the handle of the mop a little tighter as she considered the precarious position she was in.

"Look, Dirk, I know I'm a screw up, and I've screwed up again. I'm sorry. I need to turn my life around, and I want to turn my life around. God, I just don't know what that looks like. Is it rehab? Do you think I need to go to rehab? I guess I should probably know if that's what I need, but I think it's something else. Maybe I have ADHD? It's like no one ever taught me how to be an adult, you know, but I need to grow up! And… and buckle down. And hang in there." She was starting to quote random motivational posters she'd seen in the unemployment office.

Her stomach churned. You get what you work for, not what you wish for, am I right? Dirk remained unmoved. Krystal switched tacks. Did I ever tell you I grew up in a repurposed bus, Dirk? Her phone rang and she picked it up even though she wasn't supposed to answer her it at work, it looked pretty certain she was getting fired anyway.

No phones! Dirk called. Of course, now, suddenly, he was Chatty Kathy. Krystal didn't recognize the number but she wanted an excuse to step outside and vape, so she said, It's my mother. I have to take this, because there was a solid chance it was. Her mother didn't believe in phones and communicated mostly through letters and something she called directional dreaming, but on occasion, she would borrow a stranger's phone to check in, which was why Krystal answered the phone, Mom?

Um, no. Is this Krystal Voss? the voice on the other end replied.

Is this a bill collector? If it was, she would mess with him. If it wasn't, there was a chance it was a guy she had hooked up with recently who she couldn't remember much about other than that he was tall and fun and smoked old-timey cigarettes that didn't smell like candy.

What? No. If this is Miss Voss, I'm the executor of your grandmother's estate. I'm sorry if this is the first you're hearing of her passing but I've been trying to get in touch with you for a while.

Krystal paused to inhale and think. Uh, I'm not surprised to hear that she passed. I'm surprised to hear that she… existed? The idea of her mother having a mother seemed impossible. Mona Voss sprung fully formed from the earth. She never mentioned her childhood. Krystal knew grandmothers existed as a concept but had never even considered the fact that she might have one. Probably because most people who have grandmothers have met them.

From what I understand, there was some sort of falling out between your mother and grandmother before your birth. Your mother isn't mentioned in the will.

But I am? Her ears perked up. What might this old woman whom she'd never met have left her? It would probably be something lame, like baby pictures of her mother, or something she didn't give a shit about, like the name of her dad. There was always the possibility it was money, though, and the idea of that made her listen to this stranger very intently.

Yes, your grandmother left you her entire estate.

Estate? Like a… a… house?

Her home and everything within it.

Krystal dropped the phone. It bounced once and slid across the gravel parking lot. She scrambled to pick it up, then didn't know what to say. Her brain was a mass of chaos. She wasn't the type of person who owned things. Some clothes, a decent toothbrush, an old, beat-up laptop with a bunch of stickers on it from that band she didn't listen to anymore, but nothing of real value. She was the type of person who didn't lock her apartment when she wasn't home because any criminal who came inside would find nothing but disappointment to take home with them.

What's in it? was the first question that came out. Leave it to her to inherit some kind of monkey's paw situation where the house is full of raccoons or haunted dolls or something.

Quite a bit, from my understanding, but it's been a while since I've been inside. She owns a vehicle that's about two-thirds of the way paid off. I know there's a grand piano, some antiques, I believe, but the main asset would be the home, which is valued at around $300,000 in the current market.

Okay, this is a scam.

I assure you, this is not a scam, Miss Voss. Please do not hang up. I've been trying to get in touch with you for a month and a half. When I finally found the number for your landline, your roommate told me you had moved to Tijuana to become a professional clown. I really need to get this probate finished. I have other clients. I don't need you to give me your Social Security number or anything. All you have to do is come to Eastville and claim the inheritance.

Eastville. Where is that exactly?

Indiana.

Near Indianapolis?

If you consider a two-and-a-half-hour drive near.

She did not, but she wouldn't let that bother her. A free house was a free house. She would have taken it if it were in the Yukon. The closest Krystal thought she would ever come to actual homeownership was the Barbie Dreamhouse she'd gotten secondhand for her seventh birthday.

So all I have to do is come to Eastville, sign some paperwork, and I get free money and a free house.

You're making it sound like you won a gas station scratch off. It's an inheritance, but yes, that's basically the long and short of it. There is one small stipulation in the will. Of course, there was. Your grandmother wanted to ensure that you took time to appreciate the town. She loved it and its inhabitants dearly. You must live in the home for a year to inherit it.

The idea of moving made Krystal a little bit sad. She'd been in rural Oregon for two and a half years, which was the longest she'd ever lived anywhere. Oregon people were her people. She didn't quite fit in, but she stood out in a way that was familiar to everyone.

If there was one thing Mona had taught her, it was how to pick up and move on. That was what they did when things went badly. When the feds found out what they were growing in the back of the bus, when they stole the mayor's wedding cake, when people realized Rollerblading For Justice wasn't an officially sanctioned charity and Justice was a name her mother had briefly taken for legal purposes. They skipped town.

As a kid, once, Krystal had been excited to attend a field trip to the Atlanta zoo with her classmates but woke up the next morning to find she was on the beach in Florida. She'd still never been to the zoo.

Is there a zoo in Eastville?

No, but there's a very good Subway. The sandwich shop, not the transportation. He sounded like he really meant that as a strong check in the town's favor. After her pause, he added, We've also got a Mexican restaurant, a bowling alley, and two bars!

Alright, I guess I'm in.

Fantastic news! Eastville, Indiana, population: five thousand and one. I'll email you the details. See you soon, and um, congratulations, and I'm sorry for your loss. He hung up quickly. That conversation really got away from him at the end there.

It suddenly sank into Krystal that she was getting a free house and free money. She fist pumped furiously, then did an awkward body roll followed by some noodle arms. What would she even do with money? One thing immediately came to mind. She kicked open the bar door and called inside, Hey, Dirk, forget everything I said before. I'm perfect and I quit.

You are not and I was going to fire you anyway, he replied flatly from inside.

Never change, Dirk! Krystal replied, she was a firm believer in speaking your mind.

2

Krystal blew into Eastville a week later at nine p.m. with all of her worldly belongings crammed into a rented economy car. She had to borrow money from her roommate for the deposit on the car and she was pretty sure Margo wasn't expecting to get it back. Boy, was Krystal going to show her if she remembered.

The plan was to hit up the town's most prominent landmark, the Subway, before heading to her grandmother's house, but when she pulled into the parking lot, the lights were off and the neon open sign had long cooled. Is it a national holiday? she wondered, but no. The doorway informed her this franchise closed at eight.

In fact, the entire town seemed to be shut down. Only a skinny stray dog that might have been a coyote was there to greet her, and even it ran away from the dumpster it had been pawing around as it saw her pull in. Luckily, Krystal knew there was one place in town that would always be open to strangers, travelers, the weary, and the faithful. The lawyer said this place had a bar, right?

Despite its small population, bars outnumbered restaurants in Eastville, as drinking was the most popular local pastime, so much so that Eastville held the record for most DUIs in the county on every possible vehicle, including bicycles, lawn mowers, golf carts, and horses. If you could get somewhere quickly on a thing, someone in Eastville had tried to do so while drunk.

The biggest bar in town was on the city's outskirts just before it gave way to farmland. There was no official name on the building, but everyone knew it was called the Moon Glow. When it first opened, a tin sign with a crescent moon on it hung above the door, but back then, the current owner's grandmother had run the place. The sign had been lost to legend sometime in the early nineties. It was either stolen by a rival bar or taken by a tornado; no one could agree.

The name didn't matter, though. The inside smelled like fried cheese and beer, the two house specialties. The lights were kept low and the drinks were cheap. The jukebox was the old-fashioned kind that didn't connect to the internet and only played the classics and one Doja Cat song that the bartender, Riley, had insisted on and installed herself.

Riley was behind the bar now with her dark brown hair swept into a high ponytail. A male patron was admiring her apple-shaped body as she handed him a beer. He said something Krystal couldn't quite hear and whatever her response was made him blush. Then a large hand clamped onto the man's shoulder and he turned around nervously.

Leave him alone, Reese; he's harmless, Riley chided. Krystal froze in the doorway. It wasn't often that she was attracted to a man so instantly, but this guy had the thick wavy hair of John Mayer, the calves of John Cena, and the quiet confidence of Pope John Paul II. Krystal was very into Johns. His eyes were only half open, like he was a little bit stoned or drunk, but she sensed that he was one of those guys who always looked like that.

He looked like he owned an iguana that he didn't really know how to take care of, but he fed it mostly Doritos and pizza toppings and it seemed to get along fine. He looked like he didn't believe in the concept of taxes but left a twenty-dollar bill at the post office every once in a while and assumed that cut it. In short, he looked like a mistake Krystal wanted to make immediately.

The exchange between him and the man who had hit on Riley was getting heated. Are they dating? Krystal wondered. Her question was answered by the man saying, Hey, man, I can't help it that your sister's so hot.

The man gave Reese a light shove with one hand and Krystal took two steps back without taking her eyes off him. Get the fuck out of here before I throw both of you out! Riley yelled, quickly sick of the drama.

Reese threw his hands in the air, muttered, Fine, fine, I'm going, and took a stumbling step toward the door, bumping into Krystal on the way. He paused and gave her a long look from head to toe. A slight smile played at the corner of his lips, as if he liked what he saw. Hey, there. You're new, he said, with a slight slur to his speech.

I am. Just got into town, Krystal replied through her flirtiest smile. She pushed her hip out to the side and casually placed one hand on it, hoping to draw his eyes back to her body.

Welcome to Eastville, he said with a nod. Then he turned back over his shoulder toward the bar and added, Be careful. Hell is empty and all of the devils are here, before continuing on his way.

Man, he's in rare form tonight. Riley sighed, gesturing Krystal over to the bar. Sorry about that. Come on over and have a seat, new girl. What can I get you?

Krystal slid onto the torn barstool. Are you still serving food? she asked.

We sure are, Riley replied, reaching under the bar to produce a single folded sheet of paper

Reviews for A Cult That Worships Pants

[Ian Davis · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's got a nice fast pace with plenty of laugh-out-loud jokes. I'm seriously highlighting something in each chapter. Almost finished it in a single sitting!

[sissyneck · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Funny as hell! Great job of calling bullshit on the MLM stuff while remaining sympathetic to the humans that get wrapped up in it.