„The truth is that Matt Donowitz was an idiot, Mortimer.

“
„An idiot?“
Scallion took another drag of his cigarette. „Yes, Mortimer, my dear friend, Matt Donowitz, despite
all of his brilliance, was well and truly, above all else: an idiot.“ Scallion inhaled another batch of
nicotine, took a sip of his glass and coughed. The whiskey had been a bit too strong for his liking.
„An idiot. A bumbling, idiotic idiot. An idiot that loved his precious books so much, be they
scientific, be they religious, it mattered not. You‘d be hard pressed to find a book he hadn‘t read, a
theory he hadn‘t fully deconstructed and poked flaws in, a term he‘d been unfamiliar with, a
formula he couldn‘t write. A question he couldn‘t answer. Sure, sometimes he might had needed a
bit more time to do the deed, as some questions he‘d been asked to answer had never been answered
before, so he had to do all the research himself. And despite all of this: he was an idiot.“
Scallion took another sip, coughed, then scoffed, and then slammed his glass on the office table.
„Jesus, what even is this? I assume they were giving bottles of this crap away for free, and Jeremy,
being the cheap fucker that he is, took about a dozen of these, didn‘t he? What does he always say
again? Swear it‘s like a catchphrase at this point.“
Mortimer thought for about a second before answering. „If it‘s free, it‘s worth the asking price.“ he
muttered. „Or something like that.“

The truth is that Matt Donowitz was an idiot, Mortimer.“

„An idiot?“
Scallion took another drag of his cigarette. „Yes, Mortimer, my dear friend, Matt Donowitz, despite
all of his brilliance, was well and truly, above all else: an idiot.“ Scallion inhaled another batch of
nicotine, took a sip of his glass and coughed. The whiskey had been a bit too strong for his liking.
„An idiot. A bumbling, idiotic idiot. An idiot that loved his precious books so much, be they
scientific, be they religious, it mattered not. You‘d be hard-pressed to find a book he hadn‘t read, a
theory he hadn‘t fully deconstructed and poked flaws in, a term he‘d been unfamiliar with, a
formula he couldn‘t write. A question he couldn‘t answer. Sure, sometimes he might have needed a
bit more time to do the deed, as some questions he‘d been asked to answer had never been answered
before, so he had to do all the research himself. And despite all of this: he was an idiot.“
Scallion took another sip, coughed, then scoffed, and then slammed his glass on the office table.
„Jesus, what even is this? I assume they were giving bottles of this crap away for free, and Jeremy,
being the cheap fucker that he is, took about a dozen of these, didn‘t he? What does he always say
again? Swear it‘s like a catchphrase at this point.“
Mortimer thought for about a second before answering. „If it‘s free, it‘s worth the asking price.“ he
muttered. „Or something like that," he said with a small, wistful smile spread across his chapped
lips.
"Mhm, that's the one," Scallion said as he took another sip and guggled the liquid. The look on his
face said it all; his eyes slammed shut as he turned his gaze away from the glass, his lips twisted
into a scowl as drops of cold sweat trickled down his forehead, dampening a few strands of his hair
in the process.
"Let's just say, for argument's sake," he said before hiccuping "that Donowitz wasn't just an insane
cultist. Sure, he was arguably one of the smartest people in the world; prior to his death obviously,
and possibly the greatest cytologist of his time, but still, he was an insane cultist. Let's say that there
wasn't just a tinge of truth in the insanity and word salads the Damocleans preached, but that they
were spot on and actually knew what they were talking about. For argument's sake, obviously, since
the Damocleans are probably the most insane major branch of the Isaeteareans, which is an
achievement in of itself. You get what I'm trying to say, right?" Scallion said as he waved his arms
about, the cigarette in his right getting dangerously close to grazing Mortimer's hat. It would've
probably burned right through the brim had Mortimer not swiftly tilted his head backwards. "You
reckon you could calm down a bit?" Mortimer said as he readjusted his hat. It was a bit scruffy, and
had been patched up on more than one occasion, but it was still a prized possession. "But yeah, I get
what you're saying."
"What would that mean then, Mortimer?" Scallion asked, speaking loudly, intentionally dragging
out his words.
"It'd mean that they've found a way to talk to God himself."
"Exactly."
Mortimer took off his hat, put it in his right arm and anchored it back and forth, the same way a disk
thrower prepares to throw a diskette. "And a lot of people wouldn't be too happy about that, would
they?"
"Precisely."
"Including members of other Isaetearean sects, no?"
Mortimer stopped mid-swing and threw a stare and a raised eyebrow at Scallion. "You think
Donowitz was a victim of cult infighting?"
"Indubitably."
Mortimer put his hat back on his head and screwed it on tightly. "That's too vague."
Scallion blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"You're claiming a member of a rival Isaetearean sect killed Donowitz. While that's likely what
happened, that doesn't give us much of a lead."
"Oh." Scallion blinked again. And again. "Yes, it appears you have a point. There are a lot of
Isaetearean sects out there."
Mortimer smirked. "And if Donowitz really did manage to find a way to talk to God, wouldn't most
Isaeteareans be happy about that?"
Scallion nodded and dug his chin into his clenched fist. "I suppose that's their main goal, isn't it? To
find a way to communicate with the Almighty himself." "And what if it wasn't?"
Scallion lifted his head. "Hm?"
"Think about it. The Isaetearans are a rather diverse bunch, aren't they? The Agrarianists and
Damocleans are both technically Isaetearean, and while they do share a fair few core ideals, but the
same could be said for Muslims and Christians, and their respective beliefs are much more similar
than those of random Isaetearean branches." Mortimer clapped his hands and raised them to his
nose, his moustache brushing against his joints. "So what if there was a branch that didn't want God
to come back," Mortimer said as he played with the edge of his moustache. "They believe he exists,
but they don't like him. Or maybe they just don't like the idea of talking to him directly. Begging
God to come back would be rather weird, wouldn't it?"
Scallion just stared at him like a deer in headlights. "What are you on about?"
"How many Isaetearean branches do we know of, exactly?"
Scallion tilted his head backwards by about half an inch and began counting on his fingers. "Let's
see here, you've got the Damocleans, the Kaczinkists, the Agrarianists, the Rudolphians, the
Icarians, the Khazars, the Blifstonians, the Neverlanders, the Diogenists, and I think that covers all
of the major ones, doesn‘t it?“
„Not quite.“
Mortimer pulled out a piece of paper from his jean pocket. It was small and rather crumpled, and
looked like it‘d been submerged in a bucket of glitter and cheap purple paint by a 3 year old that‘d
been left unsupervised. „Take a look at this, will you?“ Mortimer said as he slid the paper towards
Scallion.

Scallion raised his right eyebrow at the sillhoutes of scantily clad women that preoccupied the side
sections of the flyer and surpressed a chuckle. „Didn‘t know you were into strip clubs Morty,“ he
remarked and then noticed that the advertisement also featured a header and a short paragraph.
„Have you ever felt truly alive?“ it read.

„I don‘t know, have you?“ he smirked at Mortimer.

„Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you‘re going to get.

I must‘ve heard that expression at least a thousand dozen times when I was younger, and til I turned
about 17, I‘d never once thought much about it. I get the message, yes, but the expression itself
makes no sense. Products people bought at stores are, for the most part, consistent. Cheap, factory-
produced cheese always tastes like cheap, factory-produced cheese. Cheap plastic toys always break
within a few weeks after purchase. Cheap toilet paper always tears if you do so much as wink at it,
leaving your bum unwiped. Fortunately, I‘ve never once winked at a piece of toilet paper, meaning
my bum‘s always been squeaky clean. Even when I was a baby. It‘s because I‘ve never winked at a
piece of toilet paper. Maybe I‘m the insane one.

Regardless of whether your bum‘s clean or not, the expression‘s true. You never actually know what
life‘s going to throw at you. It‘s impossible. People‘ve been trying to figure it out for generations
upon generations, but ultimately every single form of fortune-telling turns out to be a fool‘s errand
or a cleverly conceived scam. It‘s just not feasible, trying to predict something so absurd, so
complex, so innefable. I wouldn‘t be surprised if even God himself doesn‘t dare touch the delicate
strings of destiny. Perhaps destiny‘s the one in control of all things; including the almighty lord
himself. I‘m not nearly smart enough to talk about such complex matters. I don‘t think anyone is.

I do know one thing about destiny though. A single, undeniable, clear fact; she‘s bipolar. Sometimes
she‘ll give you a hug, others she‘ll give you a kick in the shins. Several kicks, even. She might even
break them. No idea why she‘s like this