CultWatch Response Beltein 1988 Volume I, No. 4 [Preface: The confusion between Satanism a

CultWatch Response
Beltein 1988
Volume I, No. 4


[Preface: The confusion between Satanism and Witchcraft in the
public mind came to a head a few months back when an animal rights
group returned a donation from a Craft group and forbade them from
any further fund-raising activities on their behalf. Rather than get
angry, I thought a little humor on the subject would do the job best.]

A "Your Type"
by Lint Dagger

I peered through the dirty window, trying to gauge what awaited
me inside. The summons mentioned something about a "refund" and gave
an address on the lower end of 17th street, Falwellville. I'd been
eating canned soup for dinner the past few months, and could not
afford to pass up any offer which would help me make it from one pay
check to the next. My intent gaze could not penetrate the foggy haze
which covered the plane glass; my trepidation grew. I glanced again
at my watch, and discovered I was over a minute late. Clutching my
courage with one hand, and tightening my resolve with the
other, I opened the door and went in.

The waiting room was small. Perhaps fifteen feet square, with
four dirty chairs placed contumeliously around an equally
filthy card table. The closed door against the far wall had no knob
that I could discover with my cursory glance. The thick window,
imbedded in the plaster next to the door like a cyst on an old man's
butt, appeared bullet proof; a young, harried, tight-lipped woman
stared fearfully through it's wavy entrails, no doubt making me look
as innocuous, as shapeless as she.

"Name!" the shape demanded through the three-inch diameter
wire mesh placed squarely in the center of the vacuous surface. The
sound might have reminded one of a stifled fart. I leaned forward to
the wire port hole to speak my name; Ms. Shapeless jerked back
sharply, as if I had attempted to bite her. "Dagger, Lint M.," I
screamed into the orifice, articulating precisely. She took
another step back, paused to digest this new information, stepped
forward. With a long stretching reach, loathing to get any closer
to me despite the barrier between us, she pressed a button under the
window. A loud buzzing issued from the door. "Go in!" the shapeless
shape demanded.

I pressed against the door, opening it slowly, wondering if
whatever Ms. Shapeless was afraid of might get me, too. The door
opened into a short, empty, expressionless, blank hall, with
yet another door at the very end. How Ms. Shapeless got into her cage
was a mystery, as there seemed to be no door leading her way.
Cautiously I walked down the hall and opened the door. This room
was slightly larger than the waiting room. Furniture included
one desk, two chairs, a computer. At the computer sat a man wearing
nylon pants (the legs came up almost to his knees), nylon socks
(which were limp around his ankles), and a nylon shirt (open at
the neck, buttoned tightly around his paunch waist). His shoes were
missing.

He jumped to his feet, as if caught at some misdemeanor.
Striding up to him with my hand out, I smiled warmly at him. He
stared at my hand as if it were a snake, snatching his behind his back
out of reach. Putting the desk between us, he motioned to the far
chair. Shrugging to myself, I sat down. Mr. Nylon sat as well. I
waited. I couldn't catch his eyes.

Mr. Nylon pushed a few papers around his desk, twitched his right
cheek spasmodically a few time, and shoved a paper over the desk's
surface at me like a threat. "Sign at the bottom," he intoned, in a
stressed voice. I tried to catch his eyes again, and failed.

Having nothing to lose, I assumed, I picked up the paper and
examined it.

 United Farmers Of Ohio - $35.00
 Childless Parents Of Utah - $25.00
 Animal Liberation Organization - $175.00
 Save The Parrots League - $16.00

... the list began.

"What?" I muttered more to myself than to the "gentleman" across the
desk.

"Just sign it," he groaned, his tone sounding like, "Are you gonna
give us trouble too?!" His tonicity, intending to demean,
humiliate, and shame, ground into my nerves, causing rebellion to swell
up in my veins. I started to scan the list from the top again, reading
as slowly as possible, determined to look for any reason at all not to
sign.

 Black Hockey Players Dental Alliance - $83.00
 Republican Party - $0.23
 Richard Nixon Acquittal Confederacy - $10.00
 Horseless Carriage Restoration Coalition - $15.00

...the list continued.

"What?" I muttered again.

"It's your refund!" Mr. Nylon snarled. "Every damn penny! And 8
percent interest. Just sign there at the bottom."

Making as if to lean across the desk to point to where I should
sign, he jerked to a stop half out of his chair. The action was
curiously like a person who dropped a quarter in the outhouse and
decided he didn't want to retrieve it that badly. The thought that he
could have gotten close enough to touch me seemed to make him shiver
ever so slightly.

 Clown Union March For Independence - $65.80
 Tammy Bakker Plastic Surgery Fund - $0.02
 Second House Neptune Endowment - $32.00
 Dolly Parton Back Brace Support Group - $45.00

...the list yet continued.

At the bottom of the paper was a sub-total, what I had to assume was
8 percent of it (being somewhat poor in the art of mathematics),
and a grand total.

"My refund?" I asked. "Refund? This is a list of every charity
I've ever given time or money to in the past 25 years. Why a refund?"

The paunchy pile of nylon snorted angrily. "You know why!"
His piggie, watery eyes flitted across my forehead, and scurried
away again, not quite making eye contact. His hands made wringing
motions. I took a deep breath.

"No. Why?" I demanded. I considered the possibility of
leaving, but curiosity sometimes pays for the cat food. Mr. Nylon
grimaced, winced his eyes insolently.

"Because your a Your Type!" he snapped. This time he did manage
to look at my eyes, defiantly, hostilely, just a second, before
snatching his gaze away again. "It's obvious!" Another deep
breath. "A what type? I'm a what?" I wanted to get to the
bottom of the issue quickly. I'm not one to call a harlot a "social
worker" if "whore" would suffice.

"A Your Type! You and Your Kind! The gall you've got, giving money to
these fine, lawful, NORMAL people! How dare you?!" This time he stared
directly into my eyes, hotly, with a gaze full of blistering hate and
detestation, demanding with speechless violence an answer to why
I choose to be a "Your Type," whatever that was. I was still
ignorant to what we were talking about.

"What do you mean about being `My Type'?" I wanted to leave now, but
anger started to replace the rebellion in my blood.

"You're a ..." he paused. "You're a =Witch=!" he ejaculated
finally, defiantly, accusingly. "You ride a motorcycle! You live in
a house full of subversive books! You've been seen talking to ..." he
shuddered "... lesbians!" His pallid, flaccid, doughy face was
turning red. "You sleep in your back yard instead of inside! Like
an animal! You drive an MG, for God's sake! What the hell do you
mean, 'What do you mean "My Type"'?!"

"Auhh ..." I began, mind reeling. But he wasn't through.

"You voted against Brother Robertson! You don't eat meat! You
and Your Type don't conform! You're an Anarchist, a throwback to
evolution! You don't belong here, we don't want you here, and we sure
as hell don't want your money!" I was beginning to get the picture,
slowly. "You're an Astrologer! A godless heathen! You protested the
draft! You listen to Country and Western music! You talk to your
vegetables before you eat them! God only knows what else you do to your
vegetables!

"You don't want my money? These charities don't want my money?
Because I'm a Pagan? Because I'm a vegetarian? Because I like the
stars? Because Falwellian Politics makes me throw up?"

"Yess!" he hissed through clenched cuspids. "These fine,
respectable, normal, =conforming= charities don't want to be connected
to a Your Type in any way, shape, or form. They don't want any kind
of support from a Your Type at all! How dare you offer them your money
and time?! YOUR money! YOURS!?"

"So they're sending me back my contributions..." This I couldn't
conceive. "With interest..." "Yesssss!" he hissed again.

"Because my girl friends are gay? Because I like British cars?"

"Yesss, yesss!"

"Because I apologize to apples for biting them, telling them to
take a deep breath and close their eyes first..." He flinched and
seethed at this, blowing hot air through his flaccid lips. "... and
yell at people who deliberately stomp on snails?"

"Yesss, yesss, all that! A freak! An insult against God and
nature! You haven't been to church, a =real=, =normal= church
=ever=! Not only that, you've started your OWN church!" He threw
his weight into his chair, leaned back, and glared at me. I stared
at him speechlessly. "Sign the paper, take the money, and get out!"
he demanded.

I didn't even hesitate. "No."

"What!"

"I said, `No'." I got up to leave.

"You have to! You will! It's yours! We won't take it! Give it
to some damn perverted Your Type group!"

I walked to the door. A poster was taped to the back, which I had
missed when entering the room. "America: Love It Or F*ck You!" it
said, with the Statue Of Liberty standing proudly in it. Her middle
finger was raised in traditional "Giving Them The Bird" posture.
They had gotten to her, too.

"Use the money to buy yourself some shoes," I said, closing the
door after stepping through. As I passed Ms. Shapeless she glared at
me hatefully, but I hardly noticed. "Sad fools," I added, stepping out
into the street. I felt dirtied, in need of a shower.