Coming Fall 2026
What Happens When The Second Coming Is Brought To You By Lockheed Martin?
Frank is a miracle of bioengineering: a bleach-blond, blue-eyed savior designed in a lab to fit the American imagination. To the televangelists, he is a gold mine; to the defense contractors, he is an asset; to the public, he is the ultimate pop-star messiah. But to those tasked with managing his image, Frank is something far more dangerous—human.
Narrated by the disillusioned son of Frank’s primary handler, The Gospel According to Frank follows the manufactured rise and inevitable fracturing of a modern god. As the spectacle lights grow blinding, the two young men must navigate a world where belief is a commodity and identity is just another brand.
Biting, surreal, and deeply intimate, The Gospel According to Frank is a haunting exploration of what happens when we finally build the god we’ve always wanted—and realize he’s just as trapped as the rest of us.
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Excerpt
FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES
U.S. SCIENTISTS SALVAGE GENETIC MATERIAL FROM SHROUD OF TURIN
WASHINGTON—A team of American scientists said Wednesday that they had successfully obtained viable genetic material from the famed Shroud of Turin. The team has dated the material to the first century C.E., increasing the possibility that humankind may have finally uncovered tangible evidence of the historical figure of Jesus of Nazareth. Additional tests are pending, but the U.S. government said it remains optimistic that there may be sufficient verification available by the end of the year to move forward with the president’s controversial calls for live testing and possible implantation.
***
Los Angeles is an aqua-blue in-ground pool clouded with urine and old skin. The pump is choked with algae and clogged with little bones from rats that fell in while trying to take a sip. There is something Dadaist about your reflection on its stagnant surface—a shitling collage of your mother and father looking back at you from a city of remakes—although most people never look at it that way.
Vanity Fair had just put out an issue featuring an in-depth profile on the “Frankenchrist.” In-depth, meaning whatever depth five feet of backyard urine water is capable of accomplishing (hint: it isn’t journalistic integrity). There was a photo shoot by Annie Leibovitz showing him sitting at a table, da Vinci-style, arms half spread over a table of raw meat, while five-star generals and state senators leaned in like fawning disciples.
His blond hair was sprayed and lightly tousled to fall just above his eyes like a Giorgio Armani model; his complexion was like a bowl of milk, his baby lips puckered and reddened by some underpaid makeup artist who made him look like a vaudevillian. They obviously wanted him to emote regality, to convey serenity, to ooze the sex appeal of omnipotence. But I wasn’t getting bedroom eyes from this airbrushed messiah. No, his eyes were the eyes of a caged animal: cornered, terrified, wounded.
But this is visible to me alone, for I love him.
