I’ll believe in mediums when one of
them tells a grieving relative that
their loved one is suffering in Hell, the
fire licking his scorched skin, the ash
filling his lungs while bands of demons
take turns shoving red-hot needles
under his fingernails and into his urethra.
That psychic, I’ll say to myself, possesses
a strong sense of integrity. He’s not
just telling the rubes what they want
to hear. Then I’ll eat popcorn as the
clairvoyant man predicts the ugly, painful
death of a teenager in the audience who
will start weeping and moaning, telling
him it’s not true but knowing as well as
I do that she is doomed.
Yes, he will be hated–the real ones
always are. No one will call his hotline
or give him a syndicated talk show, but
he will be able to look himself in the
mirror and feel good about himself, if
not the horrible fate he sees reflected.