The Way of the Poncho Cult
They want to know if Doug has a message for its devoted followers, if it’s a force of good or evil, if it has chosen Gerard as its prophet.
by Elia Karra
When Gerard Way steps on the tiny Gröna Lund stage in Stockholm on June 14, 2022, he is wearing what appears to be a holy poncho from another dimension. No one knows where this poncho came from, who brought it to our world, and what its motives are. Perhaps Gerard himself doesn’t know. All we know is that its name is Doug. It tells us so with giant, black letters it has vomited all over itself.
Doug is a thing of beauty, a green of ancient forests shimmering with the light of a thousand distant stars, all woven in the sensible, water-repellent nylon fabric. Every time Gerard jumps and twists, Doug unfolds, reveals the galaxies and nebulae hidden in its pleats. They light up the night and blind us. They burn their image into our retinas, a blessing, a keepsake better than any tour shirt.
After the gig, the most sought-after item is the green nylon poncho. Factories can’t keep up with demand, and they begin to sell for hundreds of dollars on Depop and the black market. Some spray paint their savior's name on the front of their ponchos, reinventing themselves in its image. Others consider it a blasphemy, and the believers separate into two different factions within the first week.
Reporters and believers alike gather outside the tour van daily. They want to know where Doug is. They want to know if Doug has a message for its devoted followers, if it’s a force of good or evil, if it has chosen Gerard as its prophet. Mikey greets them with a smile, gently tells them they must go. They don’t listen. They chant we’ll carry on, we’ll carry on and pull the hoods over their heads in prayer, in what has been established as the Ponchian way.
It’s only weeks later that Gerard emerges once more, yet again clad in Doug. Doug likes the attention, we think. In the reverent silence, we hear it buzz and hum the primordial tune of the universe. It’s a hypnotic sound that reverberates through our bones and our flesh and our souls, and leaves us more than we were before.
Mikey stands next to Gerard, one arm wrapped around his shoulders in solidarity. Doug’s hood drapes over it like a lazy puppy, and we know he, too, like Gerard, like us, has been chosen.
Gerard doesn’t say anything, but Doug does, in a low drone we only understand because it speaks to us in the oldest tongue in any world. Its stars and galaxies flash and burn, like fireworks and neon lights and all things bright and beautiful, and we say yes, yes, you are the one we’ve been waiting for.
Elia Karra (she/they) is an author and filmmaker from Athens, Greece. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cease, Cows, the first Bullshit Lit anthology, Crow & Cross Keys, and others. You can find her lurking on Twitter @eliakarra or at eliakarra.com.
