To the Tamers of the Fiery Rooster God,
We three travelers attend no church, recite no prayers, read no scripture. Instead, we thrice daily build altars to the Great Feathered Deity and adorn it with the red-hued holy water that pours forth from seventeen-ounce vessels adorned with His image. We consume the altar and, in this way, hope to gain some of the divine magic that the flightless fowl possesses. It is no small miracle that the liquid that flavors our corporeal fuel corresponds visually to the sanguinity with which we live in and explore our surroundings. Flavor, in fact, is not the accurate verbiage. The effect that the addition of the Blood of the Rooster (for that is the closest English approximation of sriracha, according to our research) has upon our palettes is more transcendent than the use of mere spices. We don’t say grace. We ordain our food.
As devotees of the Way of the Cock, the time has come for us to seek greater wisdom. Assiduous though our studies have been thus far, we have reached the limit of divinity that we can absorb from market shelves and refrigerator doors. We humbly request your tutelage in our pursuit of the truth. Oh wise guardians of the secrets of avian spirituality, will you accept us, in our ignorance, as apprentices in the great worshipping grounds of Irwindale, California? We know that we are not worthy of your instruction. However, we do promise to spread the good word far and wide as we go across these United States.
Follow Spenser’s (and Vikki’s) adventures at www.rvproj.com.
This piece is an excerpt from Volume 9, The New School issue.
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