Chapter 4 4.Chapter 4: The Gospel According to Snacks

Chapter 4: The Gospel According to Snacks

Nate woke up to the sound of chanting again.

This time, it was a low, melodic hum that drifted through the air like an ominous jazz fog. It sounded like Gregorian monks had teamed up with a drum circle and forgotten to invite rhythm.

He rolled over and checked the time: 7:42 a.m.

Too early for cult things. Too early for anything.

He shuffled to the window and peered out.

At least fifty people had gathered in his front yard, seated in concentric circles around a folding table piled high with trail mix, hummus, and unwrapped granola bars. In the center of it all stood a woman in a glittering bathrobe and crocs, holding up a laminated poster of Nate's face like it was the lost scroll of some forgotten civilization.

Trevor stood beside her holding a ukulele, strumming solemnly.

Nate opened the window. "Trevor, what the hell is this?"

Trevor waved. "Morning ritual! It's called Breakfast Affirmations and Blessings of the Snackiverse."

"WHY?"

"Because you told people, 'Eat well and you shall feel well, unless you're lactose intolerant, in which case, do your best.' They took it as gospel."

Nate groaned. "I was talking about nachos!"

"Doesn't matter. It spoke to them."

Inside, Nate paced the kitchen like a man preparing for trial. He clutched a sticky note labeled "Plan to De-Cult Myself" with exactly two steps written on it:Stop saying things that sound even accidentally wise.

Tell people to go home and get a real job.

Except when he tried #2 the day before, someone screamed, "He wants us to find our own hustle! To self-discover! To forge our inner career paths!"

And someone else just yelled, "I sold my furniture for this!!"

So yeah. That didn't go well.

Nate flopped onto the couch and opened his phone. A new message from Lana popped up:

Lana Valdez:

"Call me. You're trending in a subreddit called 'Unexpected Messiahs.' It's getting weird."

No kidding.

He dialed.

"Please tell me the subreddit is ironic," Nate said the moment she picked up.

"Nope. Someone made an animatic of your speech from last week. It has over 800,000 views. Also, someone created a Flanderist recipe blog."

"I don't even cook."

"Apparently your 'hot pocket is a metaphor' quote inspired three quinoa-based casseroles."

Nate sighed. "I need this to stop."

"You need to control the narrative."

"I need a burrito and a nap."

"Same difference."

That Afternoon – The Temple of Temporary Enlightenment (a.k.a. Trevor's Garage)

Trevor had converted the garage into what he now called "The Inner Room of Deep Vibes." It contained:Lava lamps

String lights

A meditation mat made of yoga mats duct-taped together

A whiteboard with the phrase:

"FLANDERISM 101: Snacks. Vibes. No Taxes."

Nate sat cross-legged on a beanbag chair as his newly formed "advisory circle" convened. It included:Marsha the Glitter Prophetess (sparkly, intense, vaguely smells like patchouli)

Dennis the Accountant-Turned-Aura Reader (wears two monocles for no reason)

Zuzu, the 7-year-old neighbor kid with zero patience and a juice box

And of course, Trevor, who was currently burning a stick of "spiritually activated cinnamon incense"

"We need structure," Marsha declared. "The people are hungry for knowledge."

"They're literally hungry," Zuzu added. "You promised snacks and gave them dehydrated celery."

"It's symbolic," Dennis muttered.

"It's cruel," Zuzu replied. "No one wants to be enlightened while chewing sticks."

Trevor clapped his hands. "Let's focus, team. Nate needs to deliver his first official sermon. A big one. Like a keynote, but... with vibes."

Nate stared at them, slack-jawed. "You want me to give a cult TED Talk?"

"No!" Marsha said. "We want you to give a CUL-Talk."

Everyone groaned. Except Trevor. He high-fived her.

Later That Week – The First CUL-Talk

It took place at the abandoned roller rink behind the gas station. Someone had bedazzled a podium. There was a fog machine. A banner read:

"THE FLANDER RISING – AWAKENING 1.0"

Nate stood backstage, sweating bullets, sipping from a mug that said "Spill the Spirituali-Tea."

Lana appeared beside him, wearing her signature look of journalistic disappointment.

"This is the weirdest job I've ever covered," she muttered. "And I once interviewed a man who married a garden hose."

"Please tell me this will implode soon."

"I wouldn't count on it. They have lanyards now. Custom ones."

"I'm not qualified for this."

"You're not even qualified to be qualified."

He groaned. "What if I just tell them the truth?"

"You could. But they'll probably reinterpret it as a metaphor for vulnerability."

Nate sighed, stepped onto the stage, and walked into a thunderstorm of applause, camera flashes, and a wave of people holding foam fingers that said "#1 Prophet."

He gripped the podium. "Hey there."

Silence. Every eyeball fixed on him.

He cleared his throat. "Uh... life is confusing. Sometimes it's like... you open the fridge and forget why you came. And you're holding pickles and self-doubt. And the milk's expired but you drink it anyway because you believe in it."

Gasps.

Marsha was already crying.

"You don't need to be perfect. You don't need a plan. Sometimes, you just need to microwave your destiny and hope it doesn't explode."

Wild applause. Someone fainted. A small goat in the back kicked its hooves approvingly.

And just like that...

Nate Flanders became something terrifying:

Inspirational.

END OF CHAPTER 4