The Minotauress

'The name's Lud, by the way,' the old man said, offering his hand.

The Writer shook it, stating his own mysterious name, then offered, 'Sir. I'd consider it an honor to buy you a drink.'

'Well now, son. That's a mite generous'a ya but I'se surprised ya offered.'

'To buy you a drink?'

'Based on the fact that we'se both probably smarter than anyone else in this whole blammed state, and considerin' what we just got done jackin' our jaws about, I knows what you are.'

The Writer was baffled. 'Sir?'

'You's a Christian existentialist.'

Amazing...  'Well, yes, that's actually what I've always thought of myself as.'

This old man—Lud—nodded. 'That's what you are. But what am I? '

The Writer focused. 'A Christian empiricist?'

The old man frowned and flapped a hand. 'Naw. Come on, son. You's kin do better'n that.'

'A Christian solipsicist?'

The old man tossed a shoulder. 'Closer.'

The Writer pointed his finger like a gun. 'A Christian phenomenalist!'

'There ya go!' the old man cracked. 'So if I'se a Christian phenomenalist, then that means I'se already done took Kierkegaard's existential leap of faith, right?'

'Of course.'

'I'se already pree-ser-posed my empirister-kul free will to acknowledge the sacrifice I'se gotta make— includin' a rejection'a traditional morality—in orders ta attain my grace before God'n Christ on High. That's why Sartre was chock full'a dog-doo, son. Existence don't precede essence unless you accept the essence offered by the God Kant and Descartes already done proved exists.'

'I understand,' the Writer said. 'But what's this got to do with me buying you a drink?'

''Cos I don't imbibe! Ta reach God, ya gotta be like God. My body's a temple'a the Lord, therefore, son, I don't drink.'

The Writer laughed. 'You really are an amazing man, Lud.'

'It's just more'a the Eight-Ball Theory if'n ya think about it hard enough. If there ain't no cause'n effect, it's like, say, you leave yer house'n go somewhere else, then you go to a pay phone ta, say, call a friend'a yers? But'cha dial yer own number by accident.'

The Writer's skin began to crawl.

'And someone answers,' Lud continued. 'And the fella who answers is... ?'

The Writer gulped. 'Me... '

'Right. Since truth is subjecter-tive, and morality ain't constant 'cos it ain't nothin' but a abstraction... who's ta say that couldn't happen?' and then Lud ordered another soda water from the keep.

That's almost impossible, the Writer thought in a creepy rush. What he just said... is like that haiku I wrote on the shade last night when I was drunk...

Now Lud scoffed, pointing up to the TV where more news blathered on about the serial killer. 'This up here ain't nothin' but naturalistic evil. It's okay ta reject socially grounded morality when it conflicts with God's laws. But ya have to turn it into somethin' else which follows Kierkegaard's rule. This fella up here— He dang shore didn't do that. If what'cha do don't change yer purpose ta somethin' that serves God, then ya ain't nothin' but a pissant acker-lye'a the devil.'

It's unbelievable how deeply this man can COGITATE, the Writer thought. He was even... mildly jealous.

'It's a dang good thing fer men like us ta run inta each other'n talk above the masses, ain't it?'

'Yes, sir, it is.'

'Ain't nothin' more important than findin' yer purpose as defined by God,' and the old man pronounced the word defined as 'duh-fanned.' 'Nots many folks do that no more—don't care, none of 'em. Alls they'se care about're these dickerliss rock stars and the next John Truh-volter movie.'

'You're absolutely right,' the Writer agreed. 'Especially when the proof is right there. Truth is subjective, therefore God transcends truth empirically by offering salvation through sequent purpose.'

'Um-hmm. And I knows I found my purpose, son. It's by helpin' others—sinners mind ya—find theirs, and—' The old man made a mocking smile. 'I say, how long does it take fer these fellas here ta cook a burger ta go? I'll'se be back in a minute, son, and we'se can talk a few minutes more ‘fore I gotta be on my way. See, ya gots ta excuse me, unless I wanna die like Tycho Brahe.' The old man smiled through a pause. 'Ya know who Tycho Brahe was, son?'

But the Writer was already chuckling. 'The famous Danish astronomer and philosopher who refined all of Copernicus' discoveries. Brahe died because he couldn't get to the bathroom fast enough, and his bladder ruptured.'

'Good, good. Now where's the pee-pot in this heck-hole?'

'Back there, sir,' the Writer pointed.

'But let's me tell ya a joke first,' Lud said. 'Ready?'

'Ready.'