Drumpf in the Garden

04 Saturday Dec 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

Tags

ethics, fiction, heaven, hell, myth, parable, purgatory, St. Peter, story, tale

Donny squinted. It wasn’t good enough. He shut his eyes. Still not enough. He shut his eyes as tightly as he could, but the light still penetrated. He clapped his hands over his tightly shut eyes. The light still penetrated. He clenched his teeth.

That’s when the music began. Beautiful. But much, much too loud. The booming bass voice vibrated his sternum like staccato fireworks.

“Mr. Drumpf. Apologies. Our A/V department sometimes gets a bit carried away.”

The overwhelming light and deafening sound dissolved into a melodic soaring theme. Gradually, he released his hands and then unscrunched his face. His breathing slowed and he cautiously opened his eyes a slit. All around him, the golden light of a setting sun — or was it a rising sun, he wondered. Anyway, the sun gilded a garden in gold.

Danny Drumpf stared at the huge figure towering over him. Uncharacrteristically, his voice quavered as he asked, “Who are you?”

The figure chuckled good-naturedly. “The real question, Mr. Drumpf, is who are you? After all, that’s what we’re here to find out.”

———————————-

Donny tried to remember how the hell he had gotten here. “Oh, crap!” He yelled aloud with the sudden revelation. He had just died. How though? He couldn’t remember. A sudden sharp pain ripped through his chest. Donny remembered. They had cracked his sternum, retracted his ribs and taken out his heart. Surely not, he thought. Some kind of bad dream. That’s what this is. And, he willed it to be a bad dream with all his missing heart. But try as he might, he couldn’t convince himself. No, he remembered. It was real. They had literally ripped out his heart. But why he asked himself. Why would anyone do something so cruel?

Another image flew into his mind, unbidden. They had shown him a preview. While he was bound, they had dragged him along a long series of stone carvings which depicted the tortures he was about to endure, ending in the extraction of his heart. He recalled that his knees and ankles had scraped along the stone pathway that led to the altar. He marveled at how painful that had felt before they began teaching him the true dimensions of pain — its colors and tastes. But why? Why had they done this to him.

He had screamed something aloud as they had done it. Yes. He screamed the same thing again now in remembrance. “I don’t belong here!”

—————-

Donny found himself shaking his head. He reminded himself that he wasn’t really Mayan at all. That had to have been a bad dream. Bad dreams. Bad luck. Bad times. It was all bad.

Suddenly, he remembered. His real life, he recalled, had been as a con man. He was born rich and he made himself even richer. That was his real life. He recalled some of the moments so vividly that he completely forgot about the shimmering figure towering over him. He chuckled. In his real life, he was smart! Too smart to care about anyone but himself. After all, caring about others, just as Daddy had taught him, was the biggest con of all. He was a con man, all right and damned good at it. He repeated the mantra he had used almost constantly in his real life: “I am all that matters and I am always right. Give me everything you have because I’m bright!” He chuckled again.

A shadow passed across those happy sunny memories. He had had an incredible string of bad luck. That’s what had led him to prison. That’s what put him out on death row. People were out to get him. They were probably jealous. That’s why so many wanted to destroy him. Donny didn’t have a religious bone in his body. Religion! Hah! What a con job that was! But for some inexplicable reason, just as his enemies came on him he had screamed to God: “Please! Dear God! Save me! Let me be anywhere else! Anywhere!”

And, miraculously. It had worked! He had apparently been able to con God himself! He had been instantly whisked away from his 21st century enemies and had found himself in a pre-Columbian Mayan village. Using just his wits and the few 21st century possessions he still had with him, he had been able to con the Mayans as well.

For a time.

Eventually, they discovered his true nature and they killed him.

So, he wondered where the hell he was now. He muttered, “How did I survive and end up in this sunlit garden?” Donny frowned. Then, a smile spread across his face. He remembered! He had again called upon God to spare him. He had probably made some ridiculous promises or something but it didn’t matter, because he had conned God again and now, here he was in heaven! That’s where I must be. He became aware once more of the bright shimmering presence before him. Donny smiled as he realized he had outsmarted God himself!

“Hey! Tell me if I’m wrong, but I’m in heaven right? And, you must be God, right? Thanks for saving me!”

The towering presence shimmered a bit more brightly and smiled. “Oh, Mr. Drumpf. Goodness no. That’s quite amusing. My heavens, no. I am not God. That’s quaint. I am but a tiny shadow of God. I summoned you to paradise because I thought it might motivate you to do better next time. If there is a next time. I’ll check back on you in a few centuries. The carrot approach didn’t seem to work for you, Mr. Drumpf. Now, we’ll try something else.”

“Try what? What are you talking about? I don’t like your tone of voice, mister not-God.” Donny put on his imperious face: disdain, disgust, and cruelty swirled together. He had first learned to make that face while he was stealing lunch money from much younger kids back when he was a childhood bully. “Well?”

“Oh, surely, you can work it out. Mr. Drumpf. You’ll be going straight to hell. You’ll be there for quite a spell.”

———————————-

It Couldn’t Happen to a Nicer Guy

14 Sunday Mar 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

afterlife, fiction, heaven, hell, karma, purgatory, story, tale

“Where the hell is Vladdy? He was…where’s my f###ing watch? Isn’t anybody around here competent? Where’s my watch? Hello? What the … ? Where’s my Adderall? Vladdy? Vladdy? Where’s my Vladdy?!”

He stuck out his hand and stoved two of his teeny fingers against the cold stone wall. He screamed in protest at the pain, though most folx would have laughed it off. He blinked and tried to look around; re-orient himself. He was coming down from the Adderall. Nothing made sense. He was Undisputed King of the Universe. Yet, he seemed to be trapped in … well … it looked to him more like a prison cell than anything else.

“F###! It is a prison cell! “ he yelled aloud to no-one in particular. “That’s right! God damn! I wish I believed in God because then … but without any of that Golden Rule crap or all the other Bull$hit. I just want a God I can call on to bail me out of trouble. Where the hell is my Vladdy?”

He alternated among muttering, screaming, talking aloud, and pounding his teeny fists against each other. His long litany of people to blame was quite long by now. You couldn’t really say that he had the list memorized. It varied a lot from day to day, but it generally included at least the following minimal set:

{CIA, FBI, NSC, NSA, ABC, CNN, MSNBC, ABC, NBC, Time, FORTUNE, FORBES, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Vanity Fair, the US Military generally, and the USAF, USN, Army, Coast Guard, Marines, and Space Force in particular; The Wall Street Journal, the Obamas, the Clintons, FDR, JFK, Jimmy Carter, RINOS, rhinos, the UN, the EU, Brexit, Bad Luck, George Soros, Bill Gates, Bad Germs, Doctors, WHO, Doctor WHO, the FDA, OSHA, EPA, NASA, People of Color, Mexico, People of Color from Mexico, Asians, Asia, Africa, South America, Canada, immigrants, emigrants, migrants, grants, rants, ants, NTSB, China, UK, Arabs, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, homosexuals, hemophiliacs, hemispheres, trans people, cis people, people with big hands, people with other big stuff, any other people}.

“Look at this place! I need a palace! Not this place! Wait. All I need is the letter ‘A’ and I can change the “place” into “palace” — hah! I may be down, but I’m definitely not out. Now, where the hell to get an “A”? Hey, God!! YO!! Give me an ‘A’ — no? Nothing. That’s how it’s gonna be huh? Wait till I get out of here! Hey! You want to prove you exist? Give me an ‘A’ right now! No? Then, do me a favor and just kill me right this second.”

Did you ever have one of those dreams where you fall off your bike and you jerk awake suddenly? Or, perhaps you’ve dreamt of flying but then it turns into a dream of falling and depending on your personality, it’s either kind of fun or absolutely terrifying. For him, it was terrifying. And, even though it only lasted for ten minutes, it seemed to him as thought it lasted forever. He never admitted fear during his entirely cowardly life before prison and he wasn’t about to start now. He kept a stack of chips close at hand so he could always put one or two on his shoulder. After a ten minute free fall of sheer dark pinwheeling terror, he judged that putting a whole damned stack of chips on his shoulder was not out of line. So, it’s perhaps understandable that his first words to Saint Peter were:

“Who the F### are you? And where the F### am I?”

I don’t know how you imagine St. Peter’s voice, but I think of it as full and deep like an opera singer’s voice. No. Not like an opera singer but more like a duet with a chorus in the background, yet with every word completely intelligible no matter how many hair cells you’ve lost along the way because you were a drummer in a Rock Band, say, or served in live combat unlike the protagonist of our current story, who would do anything and tell any lie to stay as far away as possible from live combat.

Photo by Dominika Greguu0161ovu00e1 on Pexels.com

So, the operatic fullness of St. Peter’s voice echoed as though in a nested set of cathedrals, each connected to others across the globe and back through millennia. This is what he said:

“We are here for the sorting. It won’t take long.”

Perhaps it should appear more like this:

“We are here for the sorting. It won’t take long.”

But that just makes it sound big, not resonant or magical. Best to stick with ancillary descriptions, wouldn’t you say? Let’s get back to the response of our protagonist.

“Sorting? What sorting? Wait! Is this that heaven or hell thingy? That’s all BS to grab money — or, so I thought. What?”

Again the voice — a voice that had overtones of oceans roaring, rain falling, thunder booming, bells chiming, children laughing, wolves howling, and the nightingale singing. This time it said:

“Oh, no. Not at all. It’s much more specific and subtle.”

Now you or I might wait till we heard more about the situation we were in before saying anything else. Here’s the odd thing. Some people would view as brave just thoughtlessly blurting out something that could alter the course of your whole life — or afterlife. But I view rashness as a sign of weakness and cowardliness. In essence, the blurter cannot stand not knowing the outcome. They turn to jelly in the face of the unknown. It takes more courage to gather data, gather data, always upgrading and updating your plan and doing the best that you know how. That’s wisdom and courage. Blurting out the first thing that flashes in your brain is neither. But that is what our protagonist is all about.

“Well, I am rich and famous! So give me a great place — the greatest place — in all of heaven. Obviously!”

I don’t know about you, but I generally don’t think of Christian Saints as smiling exactly. Perhaps they have that beatific “All is Life and Life is All and God is All and All is Good” loving everything smile. Come to think of it, it’s very much like Buddha’s smile.

But no. Saint Peter’s smile this time wasn’t that smile. It was a genuine smile about 50% camaraderie. It also held 40% of the usual saintly “God is in me and you and it’s all good” smile. But, I swear, there — right there — at the corner of his lips — was 10% the smile of irony, of karmic justice, of snark, of satire, — all my favorite genres rolled into one. It cannot be said that it was a purely saintly smile. But, after all, anyone would have to be heartless not to see the beauty and the wisdom in our protagonist’s new “assignment” among the world of the living, or, more likely a world that seems like the world of the living.

Our protagonist found himself propelled backward in time to the womb of a very dark woman in Brazil. Her tribe had lived in this part of the rain forest for millennia. Now, they were being forced out for — well, I could give you a long causal chain — or really network — but let’s just cut to the chase — she was being forced out, along with her whole tribe for greed. That’s the bottom line. Some extremely wealthy people wanted to become more extremely wealthy and they didn’t really care if it meant uprooting a 5000 year old civilization and making life miserable for every one of the inhabitants. Oh, and I should mention, hastening global climate change catastrophes as well.

Anyway, she had to sell her own body and later her young daughter’s body as well (our protagonist in a former life) for food and transportation. It was a perilous journey; a difficult journey; a hellish journey. More than once, the child had been ready to end it all, but the mother comforted the child, now lame from too many beatings at the hands of her many molesters and urged her on. The mother told the child of a land where there would be no more beatings. In this land, they didn’t care about where you came from. They didn’t care about the color of your skin. They would give you a chance. No-one was above the law. When we get to this promised land, all will be well. All will be well is what she told her child.

When they finally got to that fabled land of milk and honey, that shining city upon the hill, something slightly different from the mother’s dream for her daughter came to pass.

They were separated and never saw each other again. They yelled and screamed for each other but there were just the two of them and those who pulled them steadily farther apart were many and armed and strong. Each heard the voice of the other becoming fainter and fainter. At last though, nothing but memory.

But that didn’t stop the molestations; not for mother; nor for her daughter.

——————————————————————————

Can it be that earth is actually an elaborate method to extract punishment? If so, how many lifetimes will it take for our protagonist to atone?

Does each person really write, direct, and star in their own play? Or, are some of us, merely bit players in dramas constructed for another purpose entirely?

If we view Karma this way, isn’t there also a danger of blaming people born into bad circumstances because they must have done something bad in their “previous life”?

I believe we can co-construct the future on this earth. We can collectively write the play, direct it, and play parts. Of course, we’ll have to improvise as well. We can make this world less filled with pain, less filled with racism, less filled with misogyny, and more filled with truth and beauty and grace.

Will we be rewarded in an afterlife?

I don’t know.

But I do know we will be rewarded through the lives that come after. Let’s make the world better for those lives. Countless millions made the world we live in better for us.

Photo by Frans Van Heerden on Pexels.com

————————————————————————

Other stories in the “Heaven’s Gate” series.

https://petersironwood.com/2020/12/28/as-gold-as-it-gets/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/12/29/do-unto-others/

https://petersironwood.com/2021/02/27/tit-for-tat/

https://petersironwood.com/2021/02/26/i-cant-be-bothered/

https://petersironwood.com/2020/12/14/how-the-nightingale-learned-to-sing/

Author Page on Amazon

I Can’t Be Bothered

26 Friday Feb 2021

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

afterlife, demon, devil, fiction, heaven, hell, purgatory, religion, Saint, story

“ I CAN’T BE BOTHERED!,” the great voice boomed.

Then…POOF! … just like that, the golden light blew out and was replaced with a large dark cloud.

Ted found himself all alone on an island. All about him, the roar and crackle of the storm made it hard to orient himself. The rain, if it could even be called ‘rain’ tore at his skin so hard, it was as though his fancy dress shirt and tailored pants didn’t even exist. “This must be hail,” he muttered to himself. The sound of his words were blown away by the gale before they even reached his ears.

“Where in God’s green earth am I? How did I get to this forsaken island? I must have fallen and smacked my head. I don’t know where I am or how I got here.”

Some of the neurons in Ted’s brain whispered that they knew. Some even half-raised their hands, much as a shy third grader in a new class might when he or she was the only one who thought they knew the answer. But Ted had spent a life-time lying to himself. He was pretty damned good at it by now. So, the neurons, just shook their virtual heads, put down their timid hands, avoided looking at any of the other neurons.

Ted began to shiver violently. He realized he was cold…damned cold! Starting a fire was completely out of the question, but maybe there was shelter somewhere on this Godforesaken isle. At last, he found two rather large rocks and wedged himself between then to wait out the storm.

The rain, or hail, or sleet or whatever it was splattered everywhere. His clothes, despite the absurdly high price he had paid, seemed completely useless at holding any warmth. He closed his eyes and tried to understand how the hell he had gotten here. He thought back. It seemed a million years ago.

“Okay. Okay. I was on my yacht. It was actually a sunny day. No sign of a storm. Fairly calm seas. Isn’t there a saying about calm before the storm? But…? I was lying on the deck. And … and what’s her name was beside me. Susie or Sue or Susan or something like that. We had just done it and I was enjoying a martini. Yes. A martini. Nice and cold. And then…? And then I finished my first martini and was going to get a second. Sue or whatever — she asked — no I asked. I’m a nice guy. I asked her if she’d like one. She said, no, but she’d like a glass of red wine. Merlot if I had it.

I sighed. “We’re drinking martinis.” That should have been obvious to her, but she was too stupid to notice what I wanted I guess. I told her it was cold vodka or nada. I thought that was pretty clever because it kind of rhymed. But she again asked for wine. Now, if the whole crew had been on board, sure. I’d have one of them open a bottle. But it was just the two of us. I said, “I can’t be bothered.” Thing is, I didn’t even know where the damned corkscrew was. My chicks liked hard liquor like I did.

Ted frowned. He realized, he didn’t really know what they liked. He just assumed they liked martinis. Who wouldn’t? But then, he tried to recall what had happened? He had gone below to get another martini. He thought back. It was a smooth walk to the freezer. No storm. She yelled something down to him, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Anyhow, it didn’t matter. But there was no storm. Not then. And why didn’t Suzie join him on the island? Where the hell was she? She must have been blown overboard. For that matter, where is my damned yacht? Merde! Talk about a bad day. I lost my lay and my boat. He gritted his teeth in anger.

Just as well. If Sally were here she would undoubtedly be blaming me for this hellish weather. It just blew up out of nowhere. “It’s not my fault!” he told the universe firmly. Ted snorted. It felt good to say that so he said again, but louder.

“It’s not my fault! You hear that, universe? Screw you! And put me back on my yacht!”

Ted pictured the yacht in his head. An image came to mind of a safety beacon. He wondered how it worked. He had always let André take care of it. What had André once said? “You really should learn ow zees work.” Ted recalled snorting as he shot back, “I can’t be bothered.”

“Concentrate you A-hole,” he said to himself and tried to recall what happened next. But it made no sense. I had just opened the fridge to get the vodka. Vavoom! And just like that, the whole frigging boat had … disappeared. Or, at least disappeared for Ted. He opened the door and the refrigerator light must have gone incandescent. Like a giant flashbulb. Maybe a freak storm came up and lightning struck and that explains the bright light. I was shocked. That’s all. Electricity knocked me out. So, I fell down, hit my head and I must have been shipwrecked. And while I was unconscious, I dreamed about some weird dude being there talking to me about my life. He had promised to look into my “case” as he called it in my dream.

“Concussion” Ted said to himself. “I must have suffered a concussion. It’s that damned Susan’s fault. If she just would have been okay with a martini like me, none of this would have happened.”

Several of Ted’s neurons cast sidewards glances at each other. None dared speak aloud though. Ted had long ago beaten the crap out of all his truth-teller neurons. He tried to think back to what this imaginary dude had said. The chattering of his teeth made it hard to concentrate. But the dude’s name was some weird made-up rock-and-roll name like ‘Saint Peter.’

“Yeah,” muttered Ted. “He said he would look into my case. And then he said: ‘I can’t be bothered.’ What the hell kind of a thing is that to say?”

The words for some insane reason echoed in his brain. Whenever the crazies at his club had asked why he never wore as mask, he’d always looked at them like they were garden slugs and said, “I can’t be bothered.”

Ted turned and craned his neck to look out through a small gap in the rocks toward the sky. No sign of clearing.

It looked to Ted very much as though this storm would last forever.

For once, Ted was right.

Saint Peter had thought about reviewing his case. But he just couldn’t be bothered.

——————————————-

As Gold As It Gets

Do Unto Others

What Could be Better? A Horror Story

If Only…

How the Nightingale Learned to Sing

That Cold Walk Home

Masklessness is not Manliness

Author page on Amazon

Do Unto Others

29 Tuesday Dec 2020

Posted by petersironwood in Uncategorized

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

afterlife, fantasy, fiction, heaven, hell, shortstory, St. Peter, story

“I’m not doing that while we’re driving, Adam! It’s too damned dangerous!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, Nikki, you do what the hell I say or … “

“LOOK OUT!”

Nikki lay on the cold marble floor. She thought she must have suffered the worst hangover in the history of humanity because she had no recollection of how she got here — or what ‘here’ even was. Somewhere nearby, lights — very bright lights — shone against the marble floor. She opened her eyes to behold a scene of opulence and hard-edged beauty.

But, if this really is a hangover, she asked herself, where’s the headache? Where’s the infernal dryness? On the other hand, she reasoned that she still had no recollection of how she got here. Was she “on assignment” as Adam called it. Or…she had been with Adam. He had asked her…they were in a car. She scowled and mumbled, “That bastard must have drugged me.”

She got to all fours. Then, she stood, carefully splaying her arms out in case she lost her balance. To her amazement, she was not dizzy or off-balance in the slightest. Ahead of her, an empty hallway seemed to beckon her. She felt the answers to her many questions were at the end of it.

She walked gingerly at first, but soon gained confidence that somehow, there were no ill effects from whatever drug her pimp had slipped her. She looked ahead and whispered in a shaky voice, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

“It is I,” boomed a voice.

“Holy Mother of God, man! Don’t scare people like that! You’ll give someone a heart attack!”

“Keep looking and you will see me. I am not, regrettably, the Mother of God. Just St. Peter. I’m pleased to meet you, Becky.”

“Becky? No-one’s called me that … for years. Not since….” Her voice trailed off. Who are you really?”

“Oh, I assure you Becky. I really am St. Peter, Becky. Do you mind if I call you that.”

Silently, Becky shook her head. “I don’t mind. It’s just…I think there’s been a mistake.”

St. Peter’s face had become clearer to her now and she could see the corner of his mouth curl up in a smile. “Mistake? Well, no, I don’t think so. We don’t really do the whole ‘mistake’ thing. You know?”

“Well, if you’re the St. Peter who greets people coming to Heaven, then, I’m sure there’s been a mistake. I am a … or … I was a … you know … ‘working woman.’ I’ve known for a long time I was headed to Hell and … check your data base or your Excel Spreadsheet or whatever it is you people do and send me on my way. Let’s get it over with.”

Becky, aka Nikki, watched St. Peter as he tilted his head this way and that as though to get a clearer, or deeper, look at her. She sighed. She didn’t mind when her ‘clients’ stared at her. She kind of enjoyed it in a way. She could relate to the pleasure that they were feeling because of her. But this felt different. Uncomfortable. Weird. As though he wasn’t staring at her body at all, but into her soul. No-one looked at her that way. Certainly not Adam.

“Hey, St. Peter. What happened to Adam? Is he okay? Or is he dead too?”

“Ah, well, yes Adam. Adam Smith. He is indeed dead. All taken care of. Was he your friend?”

“Friend?! Hardly! I mean, I thought he was for a time. He pretended to be….” Becky’s voice trailed off. “Look, is this like — are you free therapy or something? Can we just get going on the whole ‘Hell’ thing?” She paused. “Please.”

“All right. Off you go then. Nice meeting you, Becky.”

Suddenly, Becky found herself surrounded by deafening noise. Flashing lights. The smell of gunpowder. And burning flesh. She heard someone call her name.

“Becky! Give me a hand with this one! Hold this compress hard so he doesn’t bleed out. Simon! Timothy! Help me get him onto this stretcher!”

Somehow, Becky knew what to do. Despite her best efforts, some of the man’s blood seeped onto her hand. It didn’t matter. She was damned well going to make sure he lived. “Come on, mister! Don’t go blank on me! What’s your name? What’s your name, soldier? Hey, Hey! Do not glaze your eyes over. Look at me! What’s your name?”

The man locked his eyes on hers. “Tom.”

“OK, Tom. Listen to me. We’ll have you back in the OR in no time. I know it looks bad and feels bad, but I’ve seen worse. Much worse. You’re going to make it. I have no doubt whatsoever. Here. Put your hand on mine. We’ll work together to keep you together.”

Simon and Timothy held the wooden handles and picked their way over the broken ground. At last they came to the Red Cross Tent. On this day, like the others, she did her best to save lives, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing. It seemed as though she had been a triage nurse forever.

Endless cold, endless danger, the stale food and the staler jokes.

Becky could not imagine anything that would give her more pleasure or allow her to feel more fully alive.

—————————-

The Truth Train

The Pandemic Anti-Academic

Listen! You can Hear the Echoes of your Actions.

A Cat’s a Cat and That’s That!

Is a Dream?

The Sunless Sunday of Faith

Camelot is in your Heart

The Impossible

The Bubble People

Race, Place, Space, Face

A Suddenly Springing Something

Author Page on Amazon

By Any Other Name (selection)

13 Friday Mar 2020

Posted by petersironwood in America, apocalypse, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

creation, drama, fantasy, God, heaven, Peter, play, Sci-Fi, St.Peter, story

This selection, hopefully a momentary diversion of frivolity, is from a full-length play entitled: By Any Other Name. It describes an alternative version of creation on earth in which God delegates the last little bit — designing the brain of humankind — to an angel named Peter. Here, we see Peter finally admitting to God (in heaven) that he messed up the design because he didn’t fully understand the requirements.

God: [On a heavenly golf course, speaking to Lucifer]. So, there I was on the fifth hole, you know, that dog-leg to the right (gestures) that kind of slopes down? So, anyway, I’m right on the fairway, but on the damnedest clump of grass you ever want to see. What do I do? Well, to be fair, I lift it [gestures bending over and picking up a golf ball] and put it on the normal part of the fairway a few yards away. And, who do you suppose comes by just then but Thor of all people. You know him and his holier than thou attitude! And, of course, he misinterprets the whole thing and thinks I’m just trying to get a better lie or something. [God, as though suddenly aware of Peter’s presence, turns to him]. And, by the way, that reminds me, Peter. Zeus said that he stopped by earth and that those creatures are dressing in clothes. Do you know anything about that? You didn’t screw up the implementation did you?

64AC5B76-C6C3-40D5-A26D-9CB06754678A_4_5005_c

Peter: [looking around as though for support; bows his head]. Um, er, no God, I mean Lord no. I mean no, Lord. [ticks off on his fingers]. We were on schedule and under budget. Significantly under budget. And, as for the creatures…well…they are just fine. It’s just, [looks up briefly, then back down] you know, with that big a brain, some weird things happened, that’s all. [looks up] If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion, I don’t think we ought to endow worldly creatures with such large brains any more. I believe that the Bachman equations clearly show…

God: Peter, you are tiresome. Don’t tell me about Bachman equations, NOW! I’m in the middle of a golf story here. Just bottom-line it. Did you and your buddies screw up or not?

Peter: [bows head again and folds hands together as though in prayer]. Thy will be done, Lord.

God: Uh-huh. Damned right! Well, I’m going to check back in a few thousand years, Petie, and you’d better not be lying to me. Or, you’ll have a tough time getting a martini to stay cold, if you catch my drift.

Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on Pexels.com

Peter: Sure, God. No, we did fine. Really. I mean, the creatures themselves are a bit messed up, but…you know…nothing major.

God: Uh-huh. [turns back to Lucifer] So, anyway, Thor says, to me, he says: “put the ball back, God.” I’m like: “I’m supposed to play the ball where it lies. Right? But what is the underlying essence of ‘where it lies’? Isn’t it that I should play the ball from the essential underlying reality which in this case is that I have hit a great shot that is on the fairway that is supposed to be essentially of the very essence of fairness?” [looks questioningly at Lucifer; then slowly turns back to Peter]. What do you mean by ‘a bit messed up’?

Peter: Well, nothing really. It’s just that….I mean they did take that command, you know, [shakes body from side to side] to go forth and multiply rather seriously.

God: Uh-huh. Well, nothing wrong with that. That’s part of the plan. All animals enjoy sex. So?

Peter: Well Sir, it’s just that….I mean they have just about covered the planet, you see. Many of your other creations, um, no longer exist, to put it bluntly. (shrugs shoulders and puts hands out, palm up).

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God: [Makes fists]. What!? These creatures that you made are destroying my creations? What?! [Walks closer to Peter]. What do you mean? ]Talking directly into Peter’s face now]. You mean to eat, a few, or as in whole species are gone?

Peter: [head deeply bowed] Well, I’m afraid, I rather mean, as in whole species are gone.

God: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?! HOW MANY? TWO? THREE? HOW MANY?

Lucifer: [Remains silent during this interchange but his face and body language show that he is enjoying it immensely until finally his smile is a caricature of frozen delight].

Peter: [drops to knees and holds hands up to God imploringly]. Well, Lord, really somewhat…er…more than that.

God: How many Peter? How many?

Peter: Actually, um, at last count, that is, er, thousands, at least.

God: HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE. THAT WAS NOT IN THE DESIGN SPEC!

Peter: I’m sure. Lord knows, you’re right. But, the truth is, they have pretty much gone off on the idea that the earth was, um, given to them by you for their own purpose and they um, pretty much cover it with themselves and their own food supply and…

God: WHAT ARE THESE THINGS YOU’VE MADE?! THIS WAS NOT ACCORDING TO SPEC! [begins pacing]. You botched it. I swear, you are going to pay for this, Peter, and pay dearly. [Goes back over to Peter and pulls him up straight; then looks deeply in his eyes with his face very close, still holding Peter by the lapels]. What kind of creature would go around killing other whole species? Where is their reverence for other life forms?

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Peter: [Peter shrugs]. Well, to be fair. They also kill each other at quite a rate.

God: You mean for food? Kind of gross.

Peter: Oh, no. Not for food. Because. Well, I’m not really sure why. You know, we just have the report summaries and I…

God: [Lets go of Peter and paces]. Don’t these creatures appreciate the beauty of the natural world that I made for them? Or what?

Peter: Oh, they do. [shakes head vigorously up and down]. Yes, indeed, God. Well…except, there isn’t that much left, actually.

God: [turns on heel back toward Peter again and approaches him, grabs him]. What do you mean, not much left? There’s a whole beautiful planet!

Peter: [bows head]. Yes, God, I know. At least, there is where they haven’t sort of… replaced it.

God: Replaced natural beauty? My creation!? With what, pray tell?

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Peter: Various things. Parking lots, highways, shopping malls, factories, land fills….

God: Enough! [Drops hold of Peter. Walks away shaking head. Stops. Turns back toward Peter]. You did remember to put in sufficient hypercortex, right?

Peter: Oh. Um. Well, God, I distinctly heard you say, hydrocortext.

God: Hydrocortex? What on earth is that?

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Peter: We…we.. didn’t know, Lord.

God: Hypercortex; [points to his head]. you know, the projective bundle of fibers from the cortex back to the hypothalamus so humans can apply their intelligence to their appetites! You did put that in, right?

Peter: Well. Um. God, I distinctly heard you said ‘hydrocortex.’

God: [sighs and puts head down in hands rocking back and forth slowly]. This is just totally unacceptable work, Peter. And what about the serotonin levels? You did get that right, yes?

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The Myths of the Veritas

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