There he goes again, Aieeee-ong! Reverend Sun Myung Moon up for another hook shot. Hot damn, it’s a one-man Bruce Lee festival, Fang of the. Taiwan Dragon or something. He trampolines, both feet off the ground, slaughtering his own palm—lop! lop! lop!-wide armed, ecstatic in a blue business suit. Moon is moon faced, he looks like the bottom of a wok. It’s hideous, more or less.
Outside the Garden they’re yelling for Jesus. It could be Dee-fence! Dee-fence! Dee-fence! The anti-Christ Moon has brought them all out, sects of five, sects of one, vegetarians, plus one uncommitted soul selling balloons. Two priests have at each other point-blank with bullhorns. The leaflets lie curb to curb, I haven’t stepped on cement in half an hour. It’s bedlam, and dangerous. Police horses bring up slaver, afraid. A lamppost starts to go, whipping back and forth, suddenly lithe as a fiberglass fishing pole.
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