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you know as soon as you read a couple of sentences what it’s supposed to do. Listen: Any statements in this news release that are not statements of historical fact may be considered to be forward-looking statements. Written words, such as “may,” “will,” “expect,” “believe,” “anticipate,” “estimate,” “intends,” “goal,” “objective,” “seek,” “attempt,” or variations of these or similar words, identify forward-looking statements. By their nature, forward-looking statements and forecasts involve risks and uncertainties because they relate to events and depend on circumstances that will occur in the near future.
    Something about this doublespeak—how it used English in such a bold and flagrantly misleading way you kind of couldn’t help believe it—was strangely inspiring. So much more artful than my most sugarcoated “may cause kidney failure” side-effect blather. What the statement said, essentially, was that everything in the corporate report was bullshit; but if you didn’t believe it, it was probably because you lacked faith. What made Jay and Riegle even stranger and—to me—more impressive is that they both still believed. Then again, I was never sure if the two of them shared a deep personal faith—or if they were laughing in my face.
    â€œYou can’t fight Satan single-handed,” Riegle told me, his gaze meaningful, though his pupils were pinned to the size of periods in a newspaper from the stuff we’d just shot.
    Jay was, as ever, more snarky about it.
    â€œThe devil loves the Church, but we’re gonna show him the door,” Jay said.
    â€œYou really believe that?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s from the brochure I did for newcomers to Pastor Bobb’s first ministry, back in Toledo,” he said. “But don’t ask questions like that. Judge me by my acts. Paul 5:33 or Timothy 3:35. Or Bob 7:11 . . . or something. . . .”
    W e stood facing the giant Driller, whose enormous but curiously flat package loomed overhead. The three of us had shared a bag of Okie Powder, heroin of a consistency, taste, and potency I had never experienced before. It was the kind of high that came accompanied by painful whistling in your ear. You half-knew you were giving yourself brain damage, but it was so good you figured brain damage was a fair price to pay. As long as there was enough brain left to feel the dope that was doing the damage. We’d driven over in Riegle’s Saturn, whose interior smelled like candy bananas, thanks to the air freshener Pastor Bobb kept stocked in all the Swingles cars. We didn’t talk much on the way over, until the khakied Riegle suddenly smacked the wheel as we came in sight of the sun-blocking oil-worker statue.
    â€œYou know what? It is damn exciting to be in on the ground floor of something. I mean, Christian Swingles,” he said, before repeating the words slowly, like they were savory on the tongue. “Christian Swingles. Tell me this is not exciting.”
    â€œBe more exciting, Pastor gave us stock,” Jay snarped.
    Living in Tulsa was a little like still being in prison, except you could send out for ribs. And they had the giant Driller.
    â€œBut hey,” Jay continued. “Let us all behold one of the wonders of the world.” He gazed up in mock (or so I thought) awe at the massive miner. “The wonder being how did the Driller drill without a penis?”
    â€œHe’s a good Christian boy,” Riegle said. “He doesn’t need a penis.”
    Looking at that massive Ken-dolled crotch, we all knew what he was talking about.
    That morning I’d cracked the Swingles mission statement Pastor Bobb had asked for. Which turned out to be a little harder than just “Come on in!” I’d been looking for something that showed solo seekers this was the