“The rising of the Death Lord will see the end of all! I require pizza!”
Floyd Wayne Rudolph prophesied to his brethren. They were in absolute awe, and terrified of his power. Floyd was the prophet of his dark master, Satan. At least that’s what he told his followers.
Born Wallace Steinenstein (very Jewish), he had always had an attraction to two things: carnal man attention and Beelzebub. As he aged, he realized that his weirdness made him a target for the “cool kids” in school. By “cool kids”, I mean everyone else in school, students, teachers, janitors, etc. The only way he avoided being picked on was to freak out his peers enough that they weren’t sure if he could or could not kill them by praying to his master.
After high school, Wallace changed his name and moved to California, where most of the weirdoes seem to migrate, anyway. He bought television ads advertising his connection to Satan, with the money he made as a fortune teller and spiritualist, whatever the Hell that is. His commercials consisted of him, sitting on a ram’s severed head (actually a wax sculpture he had made in his basement), looking directly into the camera, and saying “I’m down with the Devil. Are you?” They made no sense, but managed to attract four young men, who held their leader up as Hell’s representative on earth.
His coterie catered to his every whim. They fed, clothed, shaved, bathed, and massaged his muscles after a long, hard day of apocalyptic teaching. Their nightly activities consisted of yucky, sweaty man love and minor acts of vandalism. They were single-handedly responsible for the disappearance of 666 garden gnomes over the course of three months. Hell’s paradise on earth, though, must eventually come to an end.
Floyd was stricken with Bell ’s palsy, a debilitating and hilarious disease that caused half of his face to sag, and removed all control of his bodily functions, or so he said. He would lay on his couch, trying to smile eerily, but just looking humorous as the right side of his face would not respond to his commands. His followers eventually drifted away, as they realized his new disease caused him to constantly soil and wet himself, then prophesying that his evil lord demanded they clean him.
He was finally left by all the members of his small cult, except his favorite, Dwight. As the years passed, and none of Floyd’s predictions came true, Dwight and Floyd found that their love outweighed all the craziness of their devil-worshipping ways. They moved to San Francisco and became life mates, later becoming the inspiration for Brokeback Mountain. The writers may have taken a small bit of artistic freedom in the retelling of the story, but Floyd and Dwight died happy and together, clothed only in their love and disgustingness.