Nobody sneezed, but it sounded bad enough to listen to. “I’m Daniel Blowden on your pirate radio station,” Ottis said. He was stuck in a prison cell of a room. “Suck my cockiness, lick my persuasion.”
But there was a big change in his attitude. He could take on new things and work independently. Jim Morrison art distracted Ottis from paintings of The Last Supper to posters of Jim hanging on the wall almost like he was Jesus Christ on the cross. Jim’s crucifixion pose was enough to make anyone break into prayer. The Second Coming was heavy. Ray Manzarek had foreseen it, disciples from The Doors, Billy Graham, Oral Roberts, and Joel Osteen. Joel secretly preached the word of Jim from a locked underground room in Lakewood Church in Houston. When Jim Morrison was born in a manger in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, his virgin mother had helped his old man break on through as a carpenter and move around to travel the New World. He learned the truth from Bible study. The Doors were part of God’s plan to help Jim break on through to the other side. Band members from the Doors were Jim’s disciples, and they were the founding priests orchestrating a new Church of Jim Morrison. A hunched Ottis over his aluminum desk like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. There was crust and long hairs extending out of his Spock ears. “Alright, alright, alright,” he said in a come-to-Jim moment. LA Woman stuck in his head. He stopped and wondered if Good News from the bible spread fake news about Jesus Christ or whether Jim Morrison was a representation of cool, the real Second Coming where he’d survived the end of the world, believed in The Doors. Jim had the power to heal. Good news filled his soul, but he was sweating badly. A pause from rambling.
A prison silence.
His hands folded in prayer. “Praise Jim, my brothers,” he said, staring blankly at Jim like he was the lamb of God from Heaven, Shangri La, or The Morrison Hotel.