56 Smack into paradise

Swami Skinrash, the Tocaloma Ninja, flicked his beard off his tummy. He wanted to loosen the drawstrings in his trousers’ waistband. A croissant, a brownie, a protein shake, and an apple were the morning offerings. Eating gave him something to do in the Plip Plop Coffe Shop when he wasn’t revealing truth.
A potential acolyte raved about the BHAGAVAD GITA. It moved him to actively seek enlightenment.
While he nibbled, Swami Skinrash clanged spoon against tall glass and made the mistake of asking what a GITA was, exactly.
“Ooooooh,” he swooned, as if smacking into satori, a concept he understood in light of Vicodin offerings from a follower with a broken foot.
Befuddlement took hold. “You don’t know the BHAGAVAD GITA, the ‘purest distillation’ of the sacred writings?”
“Ooooooh, first I do not hear you pronounce it just as one must; now I will ask questions to test your knowledge of the sacred . . . uh . . . book . . .”
But it was too late to make a save. The seeker swept back the sprouts and eggplant sandwich he was going to proffer and bolted from the yogi’s table. The Tocaloma Ninja pressed his hands together and bowed slightly, pretending, if other marks noticed, to offer a fond farewell for the final blind rush from nirvana to enlightenment.
Did Ross Valley forget about him? The cell phone was busy at least an hour. And when he attempted to send vibrations to the Frisco Ninja, who he could see was making out like a bandit a few tables away, the vibrations were blocked. Was he on the way out? Valley was tough recently about the retainer, vowing a very stern re-checking of his references, a forte of the Sourpuss Ninja. Still, he was on assignment now, to watch child and aunt.
So he sat; and released from the exigency of explaining The One, he was able to scheme about Spirit Block, a chapstick-like skin-response alarm to ward off false prophets. “Know thine beast,” he mused.
And he could see all the chumps at Spirit Rock lining up, right away, turning their pockets inside out for the latest thing. With clear sight pecked out by groovy vultures, they’d gobble up anything with more smooth talk in the ingredients. From Spirit Rock to Spirit Block (“. . . heh, heh . . .” Skinrash chuckled, his only palpable likeness to the begowned guru he strove to imitate) was quite smooth. (“. . . If I do say so myself.”)
He tried to ring Ross Valley again, then tried to vibe Frisco.
Goose egg. Time had come to get a move on with Spirit Block, because his karma amounted to no one of consequence taking his calls. How long could he keep bumming boysenberry muffins, anyway, just based on a chubby male version of Gangaji?


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