How to Write a Frum Novel

This was a post I wrote in my teens, while I was still very much religious. As you can see, I was still very bothered by the absolutely abysmal quality of literate in the Jewish community.

BS”D

By C. Yackobovitch

Writing Frum novels can be an exciting, creative and rewarding experience. Not to mention the loads of money you can make; it is rumored that A.M. Amitz makes over one thousand dollars a month. This guide is here to help you on the road to success while keeping in accordance with Jewish ruach and values which are so dear to us, and with the hamlatza and hadracha of top rabbonim.

The purpose of this guide is merely to serve as a guide to point you in the right direction; it is not meant to come in place of good old fashioned imagination and creativity. Feel free to adapt your story which ever way you like within the general guidelines of this guidebook. I wish you much hatzlacha in your derech.

The first thing you must do is find a good pseudonym. It must have two initials for the first names, and a noun for the last. For example: N.B. Shemesh or S.T. HaYechidi.

Now it is time to select a topic: you can choose between threat of annihilation from Russia or threat of annihilation from terrorists.

It could be either through the use of a dirty bomb, a nuclear bomb, or through a computer hacker bringing the entire world to its knees through shrewd (if obscurely explained) computer manipulation. You may also use a recently publicized threat that has been either used or thwarted in the recent past.

Original examples of this include flying planes into buildings, sending anthrax in the mail, or bringing explosives onto a plane disguised as a bottle of vodka or arak, depending on whether its terrorists or Russians.

Also, there should be another personal plot of equal importance woven amongst the story. It could be a threat to the name of a prominent Bnei Brak family, the threat of financial ruin to a prominent Jerusalem family; or the threat of not finding a Shidduch for the hero of the story.

The plot must include either direct or indirect involvement of CIA or FBI (sometimes also spelled IBF for international bitachon federation.) agents. The specific agents’ names can be either Jack, Robert, or David. (See appendix A: writing the name David.)

If you choose the make the Russians the bad guys, then obviously it will involve the KGB. The agents’ names can be either Alex, Sasha, or Boris. If you choose the terrorist option, it gets a little more complicated: the terrorist leader will be identified by his last name only, i.e. Abu so-and-so. For example: “…the most dreaded terrorist leader of all time, whose name struck fear in the heart of all who heard it, Abu Musrarah…”, while the terrorists in the field may be called either Muhamad, Yusuf or Ibrahim.

Some plot twists you may add to the story:

The second to highest bad guy is actually a CIA agent!
The silent Russian janitor with the dark sunglasses who cleans the toilets in the Mossed headquarters is really a KGB agent!
The CIA agent (who should be named David, thus adding flexibility. On writing David, see appendix A) is so impressed by the actions of the Frum hero, that he reveals that he is actually Jewish and wants to become religious!

How to make your novel a kosher novel

According to halachic decree, the hero must pray no less then every 4.6 pages and before embarking on a major mission. He must also appreciate the A-mighty’s continual supervision and assistance on a constant basis. There is a disagreement amongst the rabbonim as to whether he may eat at a kosher restaurant or not, so it is better to keep the hero away from such places, especially if he is not married.

Also, if he is not married, the entire plot must take place during bein hazman. This can actually add an interesting element to the plot line, as you can include a ‘ticking clock’ feeling to the story. (Will Elazar manage to reveal the true identity of the Russian collaborators, find and diffuse the nuclear bomb, locate his missing Teffilin and save the name of his fathers’ seminary, in only three weeks?…)

Halacha prohibits any other type of book other then mystery stories. There cannot be any comedy, horror, Sci-fi, action, history (with the exception of biographies of rabbonim. IY”H I will be writing a guide on the subject soon), or drama.

It is important to have the hero speak only proper language, no slang, jargon, or other street talk may be used. Nor can there be any reference from the street which would R”L corrupt the minds of our young, L”A.

For example, all the characters must speak like this (modify as necessary for Hebrew.): “Boris! It is thou, ye! Thou hast deceived us! Shame be upon thou! Know yea, if thou shall not release us from our bondage, the United States of the Americas shall impose swift retribution upon thou and thy nation! Swift will be your downfall as you are consumed in the fires of the bombs of the Atom! Hark ye, you have been warned.”

That is all the information you need to write a first-rate absorbing novel; just use this information as a base, and let you imagination run wild.

Appendix A: writing David. It is essential to convey to your readers that this David is an American David, probably a goy. (Unless you choose the ‘CIA agent is really Jewish’ plot twist, see above.) To do this it is essential that the name be spelled right. It should be spelled Dayveed, to convey the optimum American Goyish impression that is so essential for your America Goyish CIA agent.

Appendix B:

The back cover: the key to success.

The back cover can be the decisive factor in a person’s decision to buy a book, so proper wording is key.

Studies have shown that most Yidden are intrigued by questions, so the more questions that are asked on the back cover, the more the odds are that a person will buy the book to read the answers. To write compelling and captivating questions, it is recommended to stick to the five W’s: who what where will and why. I shall bring an example for each.

Who is the mysterious man in the fedora who is hanging around the Bermans’ home in the middle of the night?
What is the cause of the mysterious disappearances of the Israeli nuclear scientists while on tour in Iran?
Where could the mysterious messages that Elimelech is receiving over his long range radio be coming from?
Will Yerucham ever see his family again?
Why won’t the Arab worker who works on Elyakim Shababs’ plantation tell him where he lives?

Ad Campaign for Freedom Cracker

I was honored, nay honored, to be part of the rebranding of one of the most established names in Jewish cuisine. Freedom Cracker has been serving up stale cold matza since 1776, and when they approached us to “bring matza to the 21st century”, we jumped at the opportunity.

The result was an ad series aimed at “reimagining tradition”, the new tagline we came up for Freedom Cracker. This was expressed in the form of a series of artisanal displayed photographs that elevate the subject to an art form, alongside with a themed series that touches upon Jewish historical traditions.

We are reminded of the biblical verse “yona matza bo manoach”, which roughly translates to ‘in Matza, Jonah found rest’.

May we all find rest and freedom this holiday. Keep an eye out for Freedom Cracker ads in Mishpacha, Ami, and all other quality magazines for the discerning public.

Love Thy Neighbor, Hate Thyself

Around two years ago, one of my siblings was struck in a hit and run accident.

They spent a day in the hospital before any of us family members even found out about it.

When we did, there were a few panicked hours as we tried to figure out what had happened to them, how they were doing, and how to get them the help and support they needed – this was all compounded by strict Covid regulations at the hospitals and the fact that they were living abroad.

All this took place a few hours before Shabbat. My parents were very involved in those few hours, calling people, making connections. And then, as sundown approached and my sibling’s injuries were deemed non-life threatening, they went off the grid for 25 hours.

I was left to continue carrying the logistical burden – many things still needed to be taken care of, my sibling was far from doing well.

They were just not dying.

This behavior accentuated an uncomfortable truth about religious parents:

If they’re doing it right, they love God more than they love you.

In my case, my parents also loved the Jewish people more than they loved us. That amorphous idea of a peoplehood that transcends culture or genetics as long as you mother is arbitrarily Jewish; the humanistic world view that de-humanizes most people and assesses everyone ranking in the spiritual spheres – and in their ability to be the next great Jewish leader, all of that was more important than the nine of us.

Many of us have experienced absent parents. Parents who seemingly prioritize other things on their day to day – work, their own distractions from life’s discomforts, their own unmet needs.

But when push comes to shove, the hospitalization of a child helps most people snap out of it, remember what’s really important. They drop their petty distractions and reconnect to their priorities.

It’s an insidious accomplishment of religion to make a parent act against their natural instincts. More impressive even than getting someone to sacrifice their own life, ala “kiddush hashem”; biologically we are hardwired to care for the survival of our offspring more than ourselves.

And you shall love your lord with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.

From a compassionate standpoint, your own emotional health and wellbeing cannot be in a very good place if you love God, or the Jewish people, or even your children, more than yourself. You’re already off to a bad start.

There, I said it. Bite me. I’m kosher.

How much of a toll does it take on you to subdue your own inner morals and instincts for the sake of a “higher truth”? I’ve been there myself and it’s devastating, some of the deepest traumas I grapple with.

How do I experience my parents prioritizations?

I hate God, because they love Him more than they love me.

I hat the Jewish People, because they prioritize them over me.

People call that a self-hating Jew. But my self is not Jewish, it’s human. And I’m working on loving that human self.

I think people throwing around labels like that are overly identified with their Jewishness while simultaneously hating the world around them – and themselves.

Wielding Religion, or: a God-Shaped Dildo

For a long time, I was angry at religion for its own sake.

And don’t get me wrong, the thing is full of irrational beliefs and oppressive ideas.

But I’m coming to appreciate over time how, like almost all things, Fundamentalist Religion is really just a tool – a stiff and largely inflexible construct, sort of like a dildo shaped like God – and it all comes down to how you use it:

You can fuck yourself with it, and maybe that gets you off. Personally I’d prefer something a little softer, one that conforms to the shape of my own psyche. But hey, as a consenting adult, you do you.

Or, you can use it as a blunt object and beat others with it like Hatchet Harry in Guy Ritchie’s classic Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Now you’re fucking other people over, and that is not ok.

Here are a few examples to illustrate the difference:

Rabbi Chaim Kanyevsky spending his entire life in front of a book is fucking himself with religion. Yanky Kanyevsky muttering into his ear and manipulating the masses, is fucking others.

People giving to charity for salvation and a better place in the world to cum, are fucking themselves. People promising this salvation to benefit specific charities and their own pockets, are fucking others.

Telling yourself you are going to heaven by reading the same page from the bible 40 times, is you masturbating vigorously to an idea. Telling little kids they are going to hell if they don’t study that page, is fucking people over.

You deciding to become Ba’al Teshuva woman at the age of 20, to bend over and take it from a patriarchal society, is fucking yourself. Teaching your five year old daughters to cover their elbows, stay in the kitchen, and have nine kids, is fucking other people over.

I have had religion wielded against me. I’ve been told by people close to me, who were supposed to protect me, that the Torah allowed them to “flay me within an inch of death”.

But I realize with time that this was an expression of their own anger, a justifying of their own violence with an archaic belief. Grabbing the nearest blunt object, they seized religion. It was a good choice – coarse, primitive, unyielding, yet malleable to the world view of its perpetrator.

Grabbing the nearest blunt object, they seized religion.

Some of humanity’s worst acts were done in the name of religion – by people who were already unwell. It’s like lighter fluid to the flames of insanity.

This is a useful paradigm to entertain, one that explains why you can have religious people who are still nice people. This typically requires practicing salad bar religion: choosing the good bits and ignoring the rest.

I personally don’t think it’s worth it. Like a gas leak in your house, religion might give you a high, but it could also explode at any moment.

You wouldn’t let your kids play with matches, and you wouldn’t want them finding that God-shaped dildo you keep in your nightstand.

Stay safe out there.

Having a Large Family is The Opposite of Valuing Life

We’re currently in family therapy, all nine of us and two parents. Even with sessions being 90 minutes long, that gives each of us 8 minutes a week to talk about what is most important to us, assuming the therapist doesn’t talk at all. (spoiler: she does)

The best possible scenario for people to be seen and heard, and you end up with 8 minutes. If you tried to call one kid to check in on them weekday, it would take you over two weeks.

All this to say, we did not get enough attention growing up. Part of this is who my parents were specifically, part of it is the basic facts of nine people competing for the attention of two.

The narrative that religious extremists like to use for having many children is that they value life. If you really valued lives, you’d ensure that each life got what it needed. Got the attention and nurturing it deserved.

Making babies is the easy part. Raising them is a lot harder.

This is similar to the point people have made about how conservative often fight against abortion on behalf of the unborn – while neglecting the living.

One of the responses one hears is that in larger families, the older children parent the younger ones. Not only is this a completely unsatisfactory alternative to actual mature parents, but forcing an older child to care for a younger one, to be a parent to someone they did not choose to have anything to do with, is, in my opinion, a form of child abuse.

I believe parents should only have their children do chores as a learning lesson for the child about responsibility. Parents should never need their children’s help; if you need your teens to help you clean the house or watch the kids, get a cleaning lady and don’t have more kids.

It’s worth mentioning there are multiple studies that show an correlation between family size and educational achievement, some research specifically having been conducted on Israelis. Without diving too much into the studies, it seems that having a smaller family means there is more attention and resources available to children to allow them to reach excellence.

How I ended up so goddamn smart, well-adjusted, and good looking is anyone’s guess.

So, if you really value human life, produce less humans.

A Neurotic Journey Through the Jewish Calendar

Join me on an exciting adventure through the Jewish year, as we explore how each holiday contributes to its own mental health disorder. The power of Jewish Wisdom compells you!

The theme through all of this is disproportion – doing one thing to the extreme one period a year and “taking the lesson with you”. In reality you don’t do anything of the sort and instead feel relieved that that shit is over… at least for another year.

Purim: Substance Abuse

It’s time to use a toxic substance to get so intoxicated that you become incoherent. You should also start at the age of 13, and, since this is the one time of year you get drunk, you should arm yourself with the ignorance of how to actually keep your liquor inside your body.

This, of course to discover the “real you” and “remove your mask”. [it would make a lot more sense if “libesumi” was referring to other substances, like Cannabis. But we know that all other substances are evil and only alcohol is worth consuming in copious amounts.]

Pesach: OCD

This holiday needs no introduction. Obsess about microscopic molecules of “leavened bread”, which of course are a metaphor for the “evil inclination” that lies within you. Pour acid over every available surface and use toothpicks to clean between your tiles, all the while telling yourself that this is what “real freedom” feels like.

George Orwell would be proud.

Shavuot: Misogyny

Not much happens on Shavuot, according to the Torah. Traditionally this is the time to pour some water on an alter. Not convinced by that lackluster display of non-inconvenient tradition, somebody somewhere decided that the only thing to do was to stay up all night studying, while sleeping all day, because the best way to show devotion to the word of God is to treat it like a college student right before an exam.

All this applies to men, because only they need to study the word of God. Women can go to a class in the evening, take care of the kids the next day, and cook both meals, so the men can wake up from their nap and immediately start eating.

Tisha B’av: Grief

A designated day for feeling sad, because that’s how emotions work. Get all the grief out of your system for exactly one year by reminding yourself of all the bad things that ever happened to the Jews.

Wallow in misery of how oppressed you have been, and will continue to be, until God saves you, (now is not the day to wax on about how African Americans should just get their shit together and stop being victims, that’s tomorrow). Throw in some personal blame for problems that happened 2,000 years ago; if you had your shit together none of this would have happened.

Rosh Hashana: Anxiety

Review all the ways God might kill you this year if you don’t beg for life and forgiveness, and rejoice in awe as you appoint him your king (Stockholm Syndrome much?). Remember to listen to the shofar’s 100 blasts so that the Satan gets properly confused – when not confused, Satan enjoys whispering sweet nothings into God’s ear which then leads to sufferings and smitings. See the book of Job for reference.

Also, avoid eating nuts because they taste like the Gimatriya of sin.

Yom Kippur: Guilt

The more you repeat all of your sins aloud, including the ones you didn’t commit (speaking dofi, anyone?), and the more force you use in beating your chest, the more God will forgive you. But only if you feel really really bad, because God can see both your kidneys and your heart and knows when you’re just faking it.

Succot: Fixing impermanence with some permanence

This could have been a good one. “What’s the point of it all? nothing lasts!” laments Solomon quite astutely. “Fixed that for you,” say the rabbis, tacking on a single verse at the end of Ecclesiastes that declares that, actually, fearing God and keeping His commandments is the Solution To All Problems.

So we go out into temporary huts to remind ourselves of that nothing lasts forever, and then we stuff our faces with food and make sure that no dirty pots and pans enter and disrupt the holiness of this impermanence.

And then we shake a lemon, because nothing says “what the hell are we doing here?” like shaking a lemon to summon the rain.

Chanukkah: Fighting enlightenment with fire

The Greeks were making important contributions to language, mathematics, astronomy, and medicine, which we still appreciate and benefit from to this day. They were the developed civilization of the time.

Along came the local Taliban tribe called the Maccabees and decided to wage a guerilla war to eradicate their terrible philosophy and reinstate male genital mutilation. They won, briefly, and immediately descended into their own internal anarchy. A shocking development.

We commemorate this victory by lighting candles to remind ourselves of the temple where we worshiped one imaginary deity, not like those idiots who worshiped multiple. Originally there was only enough stupidity to last for one night, but there was a miracle and it’s still going on to this day.

Mitzvah Boy Magazine

Learning to Live

I have been practicing caring for my inner child for many months now, focusing on providing it with the basic emotional needs I knew it needed but had never gotten. A sense of being held, of being ok, of feeling contained in compassion, of validation and safety.

As I grapple with a newfound exploration of my latest self-diagnoses of ADHD, I am beginning to understand that an entire new layer of intervention is needed – and may be very helpful.

My inner child must learn to live in the world. All action can only come through our inner child. Our inner parent may have all the clarity, and all the vision, but the inner child is the executor. And it was never taught to act. In my case, it was sent to prison from a young age, and taught neither how to regulate its emotions, or its schedule.

Most of what I have achieved so far has been through sheer willpower and brute force. like the adult self reaching in to the child like one might into a puppet, and grotesquely executing actions through him. The child is left violated and the results are grotesque at best.

I am inspired by the Montessori system, and the way my own children are learning. Processes are explained to them. Trial and error are encouraged. Slowly slowly, grade by grade, they learn to manage themselves in the world. It starts with scooping rice and dusting shelves and continues to deadlines and communal responsibilities.

I hope to teach my inner child to live in the world. Things that are obvious to my inner parent, but which it usually completely overestimates the inner child’s ability to execute. We’re starting from scratch here.

The inner child must learn to do unappealing things on his own instead of through force – whether externally applied, as it was in the beginning, or internally perpetuated, as my conscious brain continues to try to apply.

Chances are it can do a lot less, for a lot less time, in the beginning. The expectations the inner parent has on him are overwhelming and paralyzing. He needs to learn to cook and clean and do laundry all on its own, because until now it has never lived on its own. He’s lived in the inner parent’s basement and suffered continued abuse and resentment.

There are eight distinct areas it needs to learn to exercise, some of which it may have more experience with already, some with less.

My inner child needs to learn how time works, because no one entrusted it with time; how prioritizing works, because everything was always defined for him; and how to adapt and leave things unfinished, because until now all change felt threatening and unfished business felt like a gaping void.

(We can start by gently re-reading this draft I just wrote, which is no fun at all. What’s creative about editing?

And we can continue with “It’s ok not to finish, you can trust yourself to continue later.”)

I hope to bring the same core compassion I brought to the inner child’s core existence, to this new stage of learning to interact with the world. It will take time, and goodness knows it feels like I don’t have any and I want it all to be done right now.

That itself is a lesson. Actually, contrary to what I have told you in the past child, there is no rush.

There is no rush.

A thank you to Jessica for brining my attention to this hot mess, and to Gabor Mate’s book Scattered Minds for helping me understand the environmental influences behind ADHD and what can be done about it.

How Fucking Convenient

Aish_Gala_2019-7+-+Copy — A table setting from an Aish gala. You know, because holocaust.

It’s a holocaust out there. Thus was the Aish narrative.

A spiritual holocaust, much worse than any physical one. Because Hitler is taking bodies and Assimilation is taking souls.

And if you take it face value, that’s a fucking convenient narrative to have.

Need me to parent my kids? Sorry, spiritual holocaust.

Need me to be around on weekends? Nope, I’m saving lives.

Need me to treat my employees with respect and not work them into the ground? No can do, it’s a war out there.

That’s right, war is such a good analogy. Because soldiers still need breaks, which is why you still get to spend some time with your family.

It’s also why we sometimes have gala dinners. For the war effort.

But then it’s back to the frontlines; and it’s definitely not in any way an excuse to be a workaholic or to deal with less exciting things in life like changing diapers.

It’s time to invoke the imagery of that diplomat who spent months just signing papers so that the Jews could escape. He locked himself in his hotel room and just ate chocolate and signed. We too lock ourselves in our office and eat chocolate and create seminars.

Except.

What do you do when the holocaust lasts 70 years? How much chocolate do you eat? What if it actually has been lasting for 150 years, since the reform and enlightenment movement? How do you handle a “holocaust” with no perceivable end?

And if it really was a holocaust out there, is that really the time to have a bazillion kids? Maybe you shouldn’t be fucking around and instead should be signing more papers? (and if you say that having more children is a key part of your anti-assimilation war efforts, shouldn’t, like, parenting them be part of that plan?)

And surely there are distinctions?

Is there no difference between actively killing people and the absence of Jewish babies being born because their father married his college sweetheart name Christina?

Could we possibly make a distinction between people being lead at gunpoint to a gas chamber versus someone choosing to not follow a lifestyle that they see as outdated and irrelevant, even if that’s supposedly out of “ignorance”?

I doubt you’re reading this, because you’re still at war. Flailing violently into thin air like a person who’s walked through a cobweb.

But maybe, just maybe, comparing anything in our cushy freedom-filled world to the holocaust is a gross insult to the people who actually died in it, and possibly a fucking convenient excuse for you to do whatever it is you pleased, real-life responsibilities be damned.

Pew Pew

Gedlya Goldfinger holstered his PsalmRay.

Whereas the rest of the Goyishe Velt used neutron chips and nanotechnology to power their zappers, the psalm ray, engineered by The Conglomeration of Rabbis Against Advanced Technology, had been constructed mechanically.

It was very steampunk, if Gedlaya had only known what that was, or how cool.

For a mechanical zapper, the PsalmRay did a very decent job. Those folks at The Conglomeration sure knew what they weren’t doing.

Bodies were strewn all over the saloon, an underground speakeasy where gays and other unsavory sinners congregated in secret.

It hadn’t always been this way. Gedalya’s grandfather had regaled him with tales of “despicability parades” that “those people” used to throw. Back then, you were limited to just an angry protest on the sidelines while the Zionist police protected “the others”.

Or maybe the occasional zealous stabbing.

You didn’t have the rights that Gedalya had today, as a member of The Purity Protection Police, to step into a crowded bar, abuzz with silent murmurs, and open fire on everyone in sight.

“The zelots may strike him,” permitted the Mishna, regarding people who married non-Jews, or served a blemished animal offering to God. But for so many years, over 2,500 in fact, all you could do was dream of the day when you could walk in the footsteps of Phineas, the original fanatic who shoved a spear right into that Midianite woman’s cunt.

It had all changed one bright morning when the Messiah actually showed up on an actual fucking donkey. The people, actively praying for just that exact scenario, looked up in surprise. Their prayers had come true, but, as is so often the case, it was difficult to believe considering how rare such a scenario was. “We’re supposed to just want you to come, you’re not supposed to actually be here.”

Yet here he was.

Security at the Western Wall gave him a real hard time. Between the donkey, the long white beard, and the dark compassionless look in his eyes, it was only fair that they thought him a terrorist.

But he was no terrorist, similar though he might have looked to those Taliban you used to see on TV, if you owned a TV, which you didn’t. He wasn’t a terrorist because he was a freedom fighter on the right side of the only correct religion.

Muslims are terrorists.

One of the first things he did, obviously, was blow up the Dome of the Rock, erecting the Jewish temple there instead. It was pretty magnificent, as Jewish buildings go, funded by Jews all over the world. Chrystal chandeliers, extravagant marble. It was built to be fancier than any Chassidish Rebbe’s tish, even Viznitz’s. It was so flashy, so full of bling, you just knew it was God’s House you were strolling through.

At first, there was a great unification, as promised by the Late Prophets. He fought wars with merciless vengeance. Even the US backed down when he reminded them he slept with one finger on the big black nuclear launch button (Inscripted with the word “Givald!” in block white letters). Jews made Aliyah in droves, inspired by the temple and the unification and the putting America in its place and all.

But then Messiah grew old. He started needing people to lean in close and shout the latest tactical briefings in his ear. His responses became more garbled, more frequently punctuated by recurring calls to “kill them all in the name of The Almighty Merciful One”.

Along with this deterioration, and eventual death, of the Messiah, came the usual fragmentation, the default chemical reaction of any two Jews left to their own devices on the same continent. Opposing powers began vying to shout in his ear and misquote his responses. Factions broke out based on their ethnic origins – first just Middle Eastern vs. European, then segmented by country, region, and village.

This of course then manifested in the running of the entire country.

It fragmented governmental offices: the Chalabies overtook the Ministry of Marriages and Abominations, while the Grodetzkers assumed control of the Ministry of Fences and Limitations.

It fragmented the government itself: There were now 72 parties in a 120 member parliament, resulting in the Zayin “no fucks given” party and the Triple Daled “Boobs Begone” consortium.

The Purity Protection Police, to which Gedalya belonged, was itself widely supported by some (“give them what they deserve!”) and deeply condemned by others (“You’re killing people to painlessly!”).

The temple itself fractured, with each faction taking over their own little corner, customizing it, embellishing it with crude architectural add-ons. Gur took over the public bathrooms, charging 10 shekels a shit and 5 shekel a piss. Satmar created an intricate drink dispensing system, distributing 7 different flavors of Super Drink via a vast network of crisscrossing metal pipes screwed to the outside of the formerly glorious marble walls.

The temple lost its luster beneath an ever-growing hodgepodge of modifications, customizations, and egos. Even the animals slaughtered there were second-rate, much like Kain’s original biblical offering – thin, gaunt, malnourished. It used to be you would wade in blood up to your knees during the time of the Passover offering. Now it was up to your ankles at best.

“Still,” Gedalya mused, rebuttoning his Fast-draw Kapote while stepping over a still-smoking body. He could see the sunlight streaming through the half open saloon door. “What a time to be alive.”

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