Guest Post by: Gideon Tanqueray, PhD in Applied Abnormal Psychology, Jack Mormon

Have you ever had a vision so intense, so powerful, so vivid that it could change the world?

I have. And I’m fixin’ to do it again!

Of course, when I first had my vision, I thought it might just be a run-of-the-mill stroke, at best, or a well-deserved smiting from God, at worst. Then, bit by bit, the brain shakes, strange electrical smells, and visual fog cleared and a stark vision arrived in their place: The Pitchfork Prophent and his divinely inspired vision of FRONTIER SOCIAL JUSTICE!

“For what choice does man have when it comes to fate? Is it our lot only to follow? Or can one lead oneself by simply saying, ‘no?’ Can one say, ‘enough of this,’ and carve out a path that runs counter to an ugly fate?“

Before I met the Pitchfork Prophet, I was mired in a low point in life. I was raised on a Mormon compound in rural Utah, and after completing my mission, upon returning home, my father said unto me: “I don’t care where you go, son, but you can’t stay here. You’re a man now, and we can only have one of those on this compound.”

Apparently, when young men like myself return to the hive, the elders (and their many sister wives) find us too hot to handle. Thus, I began my long, arduous journey to spiritual reawakening.

Like many Mormon lost boys, I was cast out, miserable, and alone. Soon, I decided to experience this fallen world the elders had always warned me to stay away from. I was determined to taste its many forbidden fruits, while also seeking out a less creepy, predatory spirituality.

After roaming the mean streets of the rural and semi-rural Utah countryside, I eventually made my way down mountain, across the state line, and into the first den of iniquity I spotted over the border in the Great Sinful State of Nevada.

At the first den of iniquity I stumbled upon, I sidled up to the bar to enjoy my first forbidden pleasure: an ice-cold Mr. Pibb. Delicious!

Next, I did my best to suss out the unholy nuances of Jokers Wild video poker, yet another forbidden fruit, when the Pitchfork Prophet sat down at the machine next to me.

We got to chatting, he got to gambling, and when the bartender brought him a whiskey neat, the Prophet said in a booming voice, full of goodwill and prophecy, “Bring one for my new Jack Mormon friend here too.”

I wasn’t even half-Jack back then, so how did he know? Spooky.

Well, he knew. And over the course of a few forbidden beverages, which glistened as golden as if distilled by the angel Moroni himself, we discussed the nature of fate and the purpose of the series of seemingly disconnected events that had led us each to such a strange, middle-of-nowhere place in a forgotten middle-of-the-Mojave town in a long-parched world with no patience or pity.

For what choice does man have when it comes to fate? Is it our lot only to follow? Or can one lead oneself by simply saying, “no?” Can one say, “enough of this,” and carve out a path that runs counter to an ugly fate?

We discussed these and other weighty matters.

For me, the fate that led me to a glamorous Mesquite, NV border casino seemed to have been dictated by a mix of run-of-the-mill bad choices, a couple good ones, and just plain dumb luck.

For the Prophet, he ventured that his was a path that followed the shifting sands of ancient smuggling routes, a few well-chosen wild hairs, and the whims of the sundowning alternator in his big-block Pontiac.

“It’s the Lord’s will,” he claimed. “And today the good Lord made it too damned hot to work on my cursed Pontiac without a proper lift, a thick shade tree, and a deep cooler full of ice-cold beer.

“So, I prayed on it under that raging sun, and the Lord advised me to swallow my shame, limp on over to a mechanic, and then reward myself with a visit to the nearest oasis, where I would find succor.

“So, here am I. Divinely inspired, free of engine grease, and fully air-conditioned.

“Every day is a new miracle in its own stupid way.”

Then, on his very next draw, the Prophet hit his inside straight for a royal flush. Now, I don’t know poker like a prophet, I’m no gambling addict, no matter what DraftKings may tell you, but this was a very rare and holy event.

As the Prophet’s video poker machine beeped and hollered like an Amazon truck stuck in a cattle guard, the Prophet declared, “Looks like my bad luck has turned decidedly golden!”

And “POW!” It was like the Angel Moroni himself had spoken directly to me, saying, “Follow this man. For he is holy.”

So I did.

Then, the Pitchfork Prophet said unto me: “These winnings are blessed, for they will cover car repairs, food and drink expenses, and. . .

“Well, I suppose there will even be some left over for a bit of adventure. Wouldst thoust like to live deliciously, my Jack Mormon friend?”

Thoust did. Thoust did, indeed!

Then the prophet said: “Another round for me and Jackie T. Mormon here, and, of course, set yourself up, my good man.”

Just like that, our glasses were once again filled. Yet we did not pay for drinks. The only thing to touch our money was that devilish poker machine, and sometimes it gave money to us. Astonishing!

Yes, the Prophet tipped, mightily, but that was the only time I saw folding money touch the sticky bar surface. We were never charged for a single drink. Not a one! Yet our glasses stayed full of golden nectar all night long. Over and over and over again. Why would the elders forbid such excitements?

At one point, as the bartender slid another round of golden deliciousness across the bar, a stranger walking by paused, removed his face mask, and while adjusting the valves on his rolling oxygen tank, said, “Can’t do that in Vegas, anymore. It’s a disgrace.”

We knocked those holy spirits down, and then our glasses were full yet again. We didn’t even have to ask! Miracles, all night long until the bottomless well of blessed beverages had nearly blinded me, and the many wild jokers in the video gaming machine had pulled my entire wallet out of my pocket and into its belly. And I wasn’t even angry about it.

In the process, I was transformed. A spell came over me, making me cross-eyed as a walleye. And I saw the world that way, as if I were a fish. Everything was fuzzy, rounded, and coming at me from weird directions.

Another miracle! I had never experienced anything like it. I had become a genuine shapeshifter!

So what if my only shape was that of a lake fish?

It was still a miracle!

Shapeshifting and gambling, a match made in heaven

The next night, when I returned to what elder Josiah would later call “the scene of the crime,” I found a new bartender manning my special spot. I bagan to reminisce about the deep mystery of the miracle of the cross-eyed walleye and the never-empty glass, the new and inscrutable bartender said only, “Keep playing the machine, and the glass will stay full. No need to have a Prophet, or a vision, or whatever. Hell, I’ve seen guys lean so hard on these comp well drinks that they claimed to have found God by the end of the night, win or lose. Many such cases. Hate to break it to you, Jack, but cross-eyed as a walleye is standard issue here.”

How did he too know I was on my way to Jack Mormonhood? Shocking!

And do they always speak in riddles in casinos?

Whatever the case, miraculous!