This is not fake news. This is what people used to refer to as fiction. Is that still a thing in a world where people base beliefs on “their own truth?” Woodstein Media will not always post fiction on Fridays but every time a piece of fiction get posted it will be on a Friday. It will be clearly marked as fiction. Fiction Fridays will be few and far between, but this is the first of a trilogy that was written for a college class on fiction I took in fall 2025. The stories cut across genres and slip in comments on current events. The second installent of the series will be published on August 28th, and the conclusion will be released on September 4th.

Although, Collins Dictionary is attempting to introduce the word angrify into common usage, I give Dick Lucas credit for the first, and dare I say best, usage of the word angrifying during his appearance on the Woodstein Media Podcast.

Warning: This story contains explicit language and a fictionalized version of a person that some people across the political divide get touchy about mentioning. They are the type of person that gets held in high regard when they may not deserse the exaltation. Please be advised and do not read if you are easily offended.

***

I’m in the now but slipping into the nevermore. I guess it was worth the trip to find out that dismemberment by angry Christians could increase the high I felt from consuming 14 grams of magic mushrooms.

I find this funny, so I’ll begin with the shrooms. Apparently Flying Saucer mushrooms were discovered by boy scouts camping near the Colombia River in Oregon in 1979. These are the kind of shrooms that bring you closer to God and then drop you on your ass. I can safely, well, safely is probably not the best word, but I can say this trip put me on my ass.

Can you imagine what it must have been like for the poor scout leaders on that trip if these kids decided to test their discovery. Does it work that way? Can you pick ‘em and pop ‘em? That’s the way I imagine the story – panicky men in scout uniforms pulling wildly at poofy mullets, thick creepy caterpillar moustaches riding on top of lips spouting authority at eerily docile youth who were adrift in the macrocosm.

Those kids were probably too aware of the gurgling brooks dumping into the rushing roar of the Colombia River, and the soft crackling sound of the invasive foliage of Trees-of-Heaven. The thin limbs of the tree contain many leaves poking out on adjacent sides of the branches uniformly. Each leaf comes to a sharp point causing a shade that seems like many daggers stabbing the world.

The Trees-of-Heaven also infest this Southwestern Ontario town where I lay bleeding under their sharp shade, surrounded by the god-fearing family first movement. I hear the weak gurgling sounds of the river that splits this park in half or is that my blood-soaked death rattle I’m hearing. The community neutered the stream with industry over a century ago and the surrounding farms have been leaking manure infused runoff into the slow-moving current ever since.

The crooked oval perimeter of the park is picturesque, lined with those small beautiful invasive trees-of-heaven. The foliage does little to reduce the smell of livestock shit the town lingers under in the late summer and fall as the farmers harvest their crops and prepare the land for next year. The smell has a taste you must reluctantly digest.

I’m fading out at the end, but this story did not begin in agony.

I was laying face up staring at passing clouds while forcing Flying Saucers down my esophagus. Flying Saucers are mushrooms with large caps often more than an inch in diameter – hence the name. The stems are dry, and it feels like you are swallowing soft twigs. They catch in your throat, and you really must work your muscles to compel them to slide down. I imagine it’s like forcing your mind to accept conservative rhetoric. In the case of the mushrooms, it’s worth the struggle. As far as those far-right ideas go, I don’t think that shit is worth eating.

I ingested 14 grams without feeling lit, though I questioned how straight I was. I heard heavenly off-key voices singing hymns. There was just enough human error in the choir for me to stay grounded. I was not being visited by the ethereal vitality of universe yet.

I rolled onto my tummy and scanned the park for the source of the sounds. Gathered at the stone amphitheatre about 30 yards up the bank from the river was a small group of people, perhaps 20 at most, looking forlorn as they sang to their saviour. Some appeared broken up and crying, not in the usual revival thrall where they let loose emotional convulsions of tremors. I think they call it speaking in tongues, but this did not seem like that.

As I lay there under the overcast sky with my chin resting in the palms of my hands and my elbows digging in the grass I watched in wonder as the hymn merged into familiar, yet foreign words.

            “Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light…”

They continued through the lyrics of the American national anthem and my mind shifted into a perfectly sober what-the-fuck mode. My stomach felt a bit sore. It was working on metabolizing those psylocibin shrooms and converting them into psilocin, the psychedelic compound that was about to turn me into a hallucinogenic prophet. I was intrigued and more than a little bit disturbed at hearing the Star-Spangled Banner being belted out in this era of rising Western fascism. It was magnetic though. I stood up, brushed the dirt and grass off me and trudged up the riverbank towards the gathering.

I found a seat at the edge of the oval stone theatre. About thirty of us were gathered on various levels as the singing subsided with a glorious “land of the free

And

The

Home

Of

 The

Brave!”

Everyone else was dressed in fine clothes as if attending a funeral for someone regal. I was the imposter dressed in jeans, a Jello Biafra t-shirt with an American flag roll of toilet paper on the chest and a pair of Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops. The leader of this revival started preaching.

“We are here today to celebrate the life of one of the greatest Christians of our generation.”

He paused for emphasis. People sobbed quietly.

The preacher broke the silence, “CHARLIE KIRK WAS A GREAT MAN!”

Hallelujahs echoed down the riverside.

My mind slipped into gorgeous unreality. I could see the sound of their words in angry colours and flaming tracers of light. The beauty of their fine clothing began to unthread before my eyes revealing dirty secrets of hate which dripped like mucous from their lips as their tears echoed in my eyes.

The preacher lied slick words of antivenom made to dissolve the truth of the hate speech Charlie spread on campuses across America. Words disseminated through alt-right minds deteriorating safety for women, the Queer community, with a special focus on hurling hostility and loathing at trans people. The preacher’s words sanctified the privilege of white men.

“Charlie Kirk was a great family man.”

I saw a black spinning hole of antagonism manifest itself in front of the stage. Fire and brimstone seethed out, and the words of Charlie Kirk himself rumbled up from beyond the gates of hell. This was one hell of a trip because I don’t even believe in heaven or hell, but I sure heard the overpowering howl “Aw shit! I got it wrong! I got it wrong! I did it all wrong!”

The preacher was still yammering on about great the wonderful Christian message of Turning Point USA as Charlie debated this logic from the wretched torment of the underworld. I could hear the suffering in his voice puked out of his agony. His devotees were unaware of his presence.

“Tell them I got it all wrong. TELL THEM I WAS AN ASSHOLE!”

That was an invitation I could not pass up. First, I wobbled over to the edge of the abyss to confirm with my own untrustworthy eyes it was really him. I saw his fat little face with toddler teeth howling up at me. I agreed and then offered one parting shot.

“It seems like your life came to a miserable end. Prove me wrong.”

I turned from the chasm and faced the congregation. I noticed they were writhing in supernatural transcendence. I had been afraid that I would look out of place as my mind launched towards the cosmos from a fungal springboard. My fears were abated. I fit in fine as I stood before them, pausing to admire their belief. I started my address with respect.

“Good people gathered here today. I have been given a message from you direct from Charlie Kirk himself.”

The crowd exploded with hopeful jubilance. Strong calloused workhands gripped me and raised me up until I was crowd surfing on the rapturous mourners. The preacher directed the audience to send me up to the stage to deliver the message.

“Send forth the prophet.”

His words were a solid path of shimmering light that pulled me majestically onward. The pit of Charlie Kirk’s hell had closed, and I was safely delivered to the awaiting preacher, standing on what appeared now to be a stone mound, not a stage.

Sound stopped.

No wind rustled the leaves of the trees-of-heaven, and the shadows stopped stabbing.

No birds sang.

The children playing on the explosively bright yellow and red monkey bars a few metres away laughed silently.

The gathered people continued to reverberate with the power of divine belief, but it seemed like someone had pressed the world’s mute button.

The flock frothed with anticipation.

I took a step forward.

Breathed deep.

Licked my lips.

Opened

My

Mouth

And

Stated

In

A

Soft

Voice

“Charlie just told me that his actions were wrong. He said he thinks he was an asshole.”

A single voice hollered through the silent world.

“CAN YOU REPEAT THAT, SON? SPEAK UP.”

“I SAID CHARLIE JUST TOLD ME THAT HE SEES THE ERROR OF HIS WAYS. HE BELIEVES HIS ACTIONS WERE WRONG AND HE WAS AN ASSHOLE!”

Although there was no sound system my voice echoed into the moral void.

Leaves rustled.

The deep rough-throated vibrato caw-caw-caw of a raven crackled.

The monkey bars rejected a child who crashed to the sandy crust of the playground and burst into bubbling snotty sobbing.

The mourners suddenly turned like the engine of a chainsaw ripping into life.

“FALSE PROPHET! DESTROY THE HEATHEN!”

Hands slithered quickly forward snapping me into the painful embrace of abuse. I hit ground under hateful feet. Frenzied limbs flailed for the love of God and country. Fists and feet traced light into my chest. I fought for breath. Failed, I became one with the ground. I faded, degraded under the weight of these Christian soldiers. My bleeding heart bled out. It was okay.

These people are parents and therefore they are good. I feel the electro chemical charge that is me fading and I hope for…

***

…as you stomp down on this false prophet you wonder how he infiltrated your beautiful memorial gathering for that nice American lad your son showed you on the internet. Sure, some of the things he said do not align with your moral compass, but he was a well-dressed man of God. Not like this scruffy man you are currently standing on. What is a Jello Biafra anyways? Boy, that sure is a lot of foamy blood erupting from his mouth. Still, he did say those lies about the nice family man.

What is it that the Lord said in Jeremiah 23:16? You search your mind for the words. Something like don’t listen to what the prophets are saying to you because they will fill you with false hopes for visions their own minds created, not true words from the mouth of the LORD. That’s it, isn’t it? You jump up and down on this man’s chest again. More foaming pink discharge spews from his mouth as you celebrate remembering a bible verse. Your weight pushes the discharge out.

You realize you are in the right because you recall Deuteronomy 18:20 word for word. “If any prophet dares to speak a message in My name that I have not commanded him to speak, or to speak in the name of other gods, that prophet must be put to death.”

The crowd parts and you see that Bill ran home and brought back his HAUSHOF Cordless Electric Knife. You’ve been considering ordering one of those from Amazon, but you’ve been worried they won’t be able to handle those big carving jobs. You step off the body and reach down with Sarah and Jack, popping the unholy flesh out of the divot your religious mania created.

You recall the HAUSHOF only had a 4-star review on Amazon and wonder if it will be able to quarter the unbeliever.

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