How to Build a Doomsday Cult
<p>I started stopping by <em>The Countdown</em> on the way home. It’s a small bar with a great jukebox.</p>
<p>Push in a quarter. Sinatra tunes curl out.</p>
<p>Sam Cooke. Dean Martin. Tony Bennett.</p>
<p>There’s only one table. But a long, cigarette scarred bar runs the entire length of the wall. It’s half-filled with regulars, sitting, or standing, drinking their beer and shots.</p>
<p>Whiskey shots.</p>
<p>They all seem to have just one syllable to their names.</p>
<p>Nick. Ted. Pete. John. Never Johnnie.</p>
<p>Barb.</p>
<p>I plopped down, got my Lone Star draft, Jack Daniel’s neat, and stared into my mug.</p>
<p>Nick and Ted were talking.</p>
<p>Apparently, our leaders suck.</p>
<p>“Remember when a 10¢ candy bar was a meal? Gas was 50¢ a gallon. Hell, when I was a kid I went outside and played ‘til dark. We drank water out of the hose. Kids today are soft.”</p>
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