By David Raffin
In the beginning, God spoke. (No, not that beginning, just the beginning of this story.) It was a crisp October day in the year 2015. The exact date is unimportant, the only thing that is important is that it was on this day that God Himself appeared again upon the Earth in order to form a new covenant. "It was just that time," the Lord was heard to say in retrospect.
Out of all the multitudes of the Earth, He chose to direct His omnipotent presence to one completely insignificant soul by the name of John Worth. (Well, make that insignificant except for the fact that in the midst of his twenty-eighth year on Earth he suddenly found himself confronted with his own insignificance in the presence of Almighty God, Lord of All Creation.)
Things had not been going that well for John, and as soon as he realized just to Whom it was he was speaking, his only thought was that things had taken a completely unexpected turn toward the worse.
John remembered the words of his paternal grandfather, an old man who, in his advanced years, had taken to spending long afternoons telling incredible stories to his only grandchild; stories about life, and death, and existential angst. The day after John turned nine years old, his parents had the old man committed, and John never saw his grandfather again. Regardless, every once in a while, little things would happen that would jog his memory, and the image of the charismatic old man would come flooding back as if he were actually there; things such as, for instance, his first orgasm, or the sudden presence of God. Times like NOW.
"Johnny," his grandfather had rasped one day, "in your life, you're bound to hear a lot of foolish banter being sold about the nature of God, and man's place and purpose in the universe; and I just want you to remember that you can't believe what other people have to say about this subject. They just don't have a clear head about the whole thing. Never trust anyone who tries to tell you that they know the truth about the ineffable."
"Now, I'm not telling you that there is no God, mind you," his grandfather confided, moving closer, "so don't go confusing your dear mother as to the nature of our little talks. All I'm saying is that you've go to be careful about who and what you accept in this world."
"You see John, a long time ago, God spoke to people a lot more frequently than He does today; but all of this openness had to come to an end eventually. See, it's human nature, once your neighbor sees God, you tend to feel unimportant, left out, and after a while you start to get jealous. Pretty soon, you see God too, whether you actually do or not. So, do you see what I'm driving at here?"
"Let me tell you about a book that they left out of the Bible. They did leave things out, you know. They had a lot of stuff to work from; and so, after a bit, they ended up having to go through and pick and chose. If they hadn't, the Bible would look like the combined works of Stephen King by now. Still, a lot of important stuff got left out of the thing. For instance, there was one chapter where you find out that Noah and his family ran out of food long before the forty days and nights were up. Noah asked God what to do, and God replied, ÔWhat do you think I told you to bring along all those animals for, Man?' ÔI though that I was saving them so that they wouldn't perish from the Earth,' replied Noah. ÔDon't be silly,' said the Lord God. ÔEat all you like, I'll make more.'
"But the big one John, is this: One day a man came down off the mountain, and said, ÔHey Bob, I just talked to God, and you'll never believe what He said. . .' and Bob shouted, ÔDamn straight I won't believe it you liar. You see, God was with me and Joe all day. We're wise to you, Mr. Prophet! '
"So God keeps a low profile these days, just to try and keep the peace. God isn't likely to speak to you or I in this lifetime. He only speaks to people that He hates; like TV preachers. He talks to them all the time, usually with death threats."
"So if you ever think that you hear God speaking to you John, you can be rest assured that it's not a good thing. Either He hates you, or He wants something; like the sacrifice of your first born or some such thing." And then the old man dosed off.
So it was of no real consolation that the first words God spoke to John were, "John, God here, I was wondering if you could do Me a little favor."
"Oh no," John thought nauseatingly, "What can it be that He wants?"
"Don't be so glum John," said God. "Come over here to the window so that we can have a proper conversation."
John slowly walked over to the large living room window and went about cautiously experimenting with opening the drapes. Peering out, he got his first good look at his new tormentor. There was God, exactly as he had envisioned Him, though he never thought that he would actually be speaking to Him.
God's luminescent image floated in the late afternoon sky, it flickered gently in the slight breeze. He hung in the sky, His countenance spread out over four city blocks. He was an old man with a white beard, a flowing white robe, a big book under his arm, and to cap it off, He was wearing His new Birkenstocks, size twelve and a half (in proportion to His enormity, of course).
Down below, cars zipped to and fro without giving the whole scene much more than a second glance. God's actual mighty visage was nothing compared to the new special effects that were pouring out of New Hollywood by the thousands.
"Boy, those old Japanese holograms have really lost their charm," the hot dog vendor whispered under his breath, as he folded his umbrella up for the day. "We truly do live in an age of miracles."
"Listen John, don't worry so much," God was saying, "you'll give yourself an ulcer."
"But what can You want with me?" John asked, perplexed.
"Don't try and fathom the ways of the Lord, John," the Almighty replied. "Just listen, and I'll give you the thumbnail sketch."
God stroked his massive white beard for effect and then launched into his presentation. "John, you're neither good nor bad, you're one of the billions of in-betweeners, as I like to call them. Frankly, you're a bit of an enigma to Me. Heaven? Hell? Who knows? Not even I. But I'm willing to make you a deal."
"Here it comes," John thought, as he winced and tried to prepare himself for the coming inevitability. "What's your deal?" he asked.
"It's simple really," God replied. "There's a lot of trouble brewing in Hell. The Devil has broken off all communications with Me, he won't even deal with My intermediaries anymore. I need a man on the inside, a spy, if you will. I need information. Of course, to get it, you'll have to die."
"But why me," whined John.
"Why not?" answered God. "Let's just say that I think you're the right man for the job, so who are you to argue?" (God hated the Ôwhy me' question, it's the one that everyone asked, given enough time.) Weird, unexplained things had been happening lately, and all God wanted was to get a few answers. "Really," thought God, "is that so much to ask, when you're the Prime Mover Himself?"
God explained that, for one thing, there was almost no demonic activity going on anymore. "You're not trying to tell me that there's no evil left in the world, are You?" John asked.
"Of course there's still evil in the world," God replied, "it's just that it's not demonically inspired."
Another strange thing was that many of the evil souls that had originally been scheduled to take up residence in the uncomfortable bowels of Hell were not, in fact, being accepted by the denizens of that realm. They were sending them back. To make matters worse, many of the souls that had been accepted in the past millennia were now being turned out as well. None of the Heavenly Hosts were sure about exactly what to do with this new burgeoning population, so they just put them all in the genetic storage pods of Limbo for the time being; at least until a committee could be formed to deal with the situation.
Now, God knew that Hell wasn't yet full- but something was definitely going on, and He would Damn well find out what it was. He suspected a dreadful state of mismanagement down there, what with that irresponsible nincompoop Satan in charge of the whole place. And Satan himself had broken off all talks with the Almighty. It was getting to be a desperate situation.
"This will definitely be one for the new edition of the Book," thought God. "Maybe I can even get Harold Robbins to write it. It's got to at least match the sales figures of the last one, or else it won't be considered a proper sequel." (God was a big trilogy man and wanted to be sure he could get out a three-volume set.) For one fleeting moment, God wondered if, in the inevitable movie-epic version, He could get that punk Nicholson to play Him for a change. It was worth a shot. And then He turned His mighty attention back to the matter at hand.
"And so John, in return- you go to Hell for Me, and I'll guarantee that you get into Heaven later."
And so began John's dark journey into the abyss. He had to commit a mortal sin in order to give him that edge up, to insure that he would be able to make his descent into the depths of Hell without anyone raising so much as an eyebrow. God suggested that he get his affairs in order, and then commit suicide. "And please, for My sake, hurry up about it," added God.
John bought a copy of ÔFinal Exit', the infamous, but classic, suicide how-to manual, and began his studies. He would have preferred to simply check a copy out from the public library, what with his impending demise and all; but he found that his branch didn't carry it. It was the one book that they could never be quite sure about getting back.
His first attempt at offing himself, car exhaust in the garage, turned out to be an abysmal failure. Just as he drifted off, the car ran out of gas; and in his building's drafty garage, oxygen levels soon rose out of the danger area. He simply woke up with a splitting headache and a broken spirit. There's nothing more depressing than screwing up your own suicide; it's like failing at failure itself.
He tried again, this time with a little more resolve. He got ahold of a book titled- ÔSuicide as a recreational sport,' and began to read. He settled on skydiving without a chute. "A great way to go- and impress the opposite sex at the same time!" boasted the manual. "To insure the best possible desired result, try and land on your head; you know, just make a sort of a game out of it." John tried it. It worked. (And the girls talked about him for days.)
There was light, and a tunnel. The next thing John knew, he was standing at the Pearly Gates.
St. Peter gave him a knowing wink before pulling the lever that sent him plummeting on his way.
Now he was in Hell's waiting room- a large, dank reception area filled with numerous candidates.
"*Azoroyh, black courtesy phone*"
"*Azoroyh, black courtesy phone, please*,"
blared the ancient intercom system.
There was a huge neon sign overhead which stated, in all known languages, "All Ye Who Enter Here, Abandon All Metal Objects In The Basket To Your Left, And Then Proceed Orderly Through The Metal Detectors." The atmosphere hung heavy with the sounds of Muzak.
"Not you Anton," said the head demon attendant to the old bald man with the goatee. "You know the new rules, they came up strait from below: No Satanists, No mass murderers, No bank presidents, No TV preachers, etc. and so on. We don't let just anyone in here anymore. We do have standards, you know."
John took his place in line with the rest of the multitudes. There were suicides, Jews who didn't keep kosher, Moslems who never made a pilgrimage to Mecca, old porn stars who were busy looking around and asking, "Where's the orgy?" or, "Hey, didn't I do you?" and also a rather large group of Calvinists, but they weren't resentful.
There was a slight scene when a man named Calvin Johnson insisted that there had been a mistake. "It's Calvin- not, I repeat, not Calvinist !" he shouted.
The guards told him that there was nothing they could do about it, he would have to take it up with his caseworker. "It's a bureaucratic thing," said one of the guards. "If we were to intervene in your behalf, it would break our very bizarre and stupid moral code. As a result, we would be immediately dipped in Jell-O pudding; which we detest."
There were entrance exams galore.
Literacy, personality, and I.Q. were all on the agenda, as were many that John had never even heard of.
It turned out that Hell was not such an easy place to gain entrance to.
Finally, at the end of all this red tape, each candidate was assigned a personal caseworker at Hell Central Bureau of Admissions; a bored civil servant who went over the individual cases.
John listened at the door as his caseworker finished up with the girl who was ahead of him. "Hmm. . ." muttered the caseworker, "your dad was a greedy businessman who could never be counted on for unconditional love, and your mother used to force you on your knees to pray with her for his death, in order to cash in on the insurance money. I think it's fairly clear that it's your family that belongs in Hell, not you. Sorry for the mistake." She had received a last minute reprieve.
There was no such reprieve for John. He was admitted immediately.
He was assigned to a plush bachelor apartment right in the middle of downtown Hell; and he settled in there, nervously waiting for eternal damnation to kick in.
He wondered as he waited, "Is there entertainment in Hell? And if so, what form does it take? He turned on the TV to find out, and began to flip through the many channels.
-CLICK-
"Here at Hell's Supermarket, we've changed; because even you deserve better," the commercial screamed. "And now back to the Frugal Satanist, on PBS. . ."
-CLICK-
There was a talk show on this channel where a girl named Virginia was saying, "Basically, if there were a Santa, it would be necessary and proper to abolish him."
-CLICK-
"Remember Charlie the Tuna from all those old tuna commercials? He always wanted to be chosen for the cannery, but he could never quite make the cut. There was something wrong with him. Y'know what it was? He wanted to be eaten. He was craazzy..."
-CLICK-
"So, these three Zoroastrian priests walk into a bar, and the bartender reaches over and flips off the switch that controls the big white star that hangs over the inn. . ."
-CLICK-
"Ask and ye shall receive; well, either that or you'll get a punch in the face; either way you go away with more than you came with, man. By the way, that's quite a lovely bust you have there, madam. I've never seen one quite so . . . misshapen. Is that Poe, or Kierkegaard?"
-CLICK-
"And now back to our special holiday encore presentation of ÔA New Christmas Carol,' staring Kermit the Frog and reggae sensation Bob Marley. "Marley. . . Marley. . . But you're. . . you're. . ."
"Dead Mon?"
-CLICK-
John turned the TV off. It wasn't really that much different than it was back home.
He found that the Playboy channel was Hell's major network, operating out of the Hades general fund. Playboy was Hell's daily paper as well, it's pulsating organ, if you will. Playboy epitomized America. And Hell. John Denver once said that it was he who epitomized America; so it was really quite a relief that it was, in fact, Playboy.
All of the things that there are to hate about Playboy are the same things that there are to hate about America: the full page, glossy, useless ads that all corporate magazines carry, fragrance samples that no one wants (people don't usually smell bad, regardless of what deodorant and perfume companies want you to believe); The silly men's fashion pages (they all look the same, ÔHow to Dress When Conducting Business 101.'); and let us not forget the airbrushed girls, usually blond , IQ 27 (Barbie dolls). It's all a special part of America- Sacred Plasticland (leave your brain at the door).
But then, there are all of the good things about Playboy too. Lenny Bruce wrote for Playboy. And so did Woody Allen. And Sheckley. And Sturgeon. And they published Gahan Wilson cartoons; and Jules Fiefer. And on occasion even the interviews are interesting, even when you wouldn't think they would be; like when you found out that John Mellancamp was actually a proud illiterate.
OK, so there are more things to hate about America than there are to hate about Playboy. It's America in a miniaturized form, that's all. Let's put it this way: Ed Meese, once a high government official (yes, who can fathom it), once headed a commission that tried to get Playboy pulled from the shelves of convenience stores around the country, utilizing illegal tactics (threatening notes on official paper). This campaign was even partially successful. On the other hand, Playboy never once tried to have Ed Meese barred from convenience stores across the nation (of course, this may be simply due to the fact that they didn't think of it).
Satan himself was rumored to lounge around in a red bathrobe all day, and to smoke a pipe; all this in emulation of his idol, Hugh M. Hefner. (Hefner, incidentally, went straight to Heaven, a bureaucratic mess-up that had Satan seething; and Hef was also rumored not to be that happy about the situation.)
John waited. And waited. And waited. "I guess damnation doesn't just come looking for a guy," he thought, "so I'll have to go out looking for it myself."
He wondered how one went about getting an audience with Satan. He also wondered how one found Satan in the first place; Hell was an incredibly large realm, and he had no idea where to start his search.
In desperation, he looked in the Hell white pages. Paydirt. The name ÔSatan' stood out in bold red, three times the size of any other listing. Next to his name it said, "Just dial Thirteen." John was caught off guard by this seeming openness; it was nothing like what he had anticipated, given the circumstances. He wasn't sure what to do, he had yet to formulate any kind of plan. He just dialed.
"You've reached Hell Central," said the switchboard operator. "Is this business or personal?," she asked in a low, sexy voice.
"I guess you could say that it's business," John said, not knowing what to expect next in this mixed up version of Hell. This was nothing like what God had described when he had tried to prepare him for this mission. He had been pretty much winging it from day one, and now he was here, almost right where he was supposed to be; and yet he was utterly lost. "Well," he thought, "I guess Hell tends to do that to a guy."
The operator gave him an immediate priority appointment, and he really had to rush in order to make it on time. Satan conducted business out of his home, a large mansion that was located in a nice upper-class suburb of Hell, nearly fifty minutes from downtown. Here Satan led the good life, or at least one hell of a nice version of it.
When John found him, he was out by the pool. He was sitting in his lawn chair relaxing, surrounded by a multitude of Playboy bunnies- including Sandra Bernhard.
"Ah," said the devil, "you must be my two o'clock appointment." John nodded affirmative, and the devil continued. "It's good to see some of your people taking an interest in our little project here. We can always use a few more investors for operation ÔHave a Nice Day', as we've come to call it. By the way, how are things going at corporate headquarters?"
This whole barrage had bewildered John, who just mumbled, "Fine, and how are things going here?"
"Surely you've read the prospectus?" asked Satan. "No? Well, let give me you the thumbnail sketch."
"You see," said the devil, launching into his sales pitch, "The New Hell, it's a psychological thing really; it's a hierarchy of needs. I've found that the thing that really works is love. Love gets the job done. I mean, it really works, really turns Ôem around. Just look at what I have to work with here- not the best raw material for a great society you might say. But we learned to turn them around. Of course, there was a small population that was hopeless, and we just ended up having to turn them out. That's the new party line- ÔClean up the corruption and kick out the undesirables.' We try and make the best of it here- the best of a bad lot. And it works."
"Now, the environment, that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. We turned a hot, nasty, unpleasant environment into what you see here today. We turned it all to our distinct advantage. That's our mission- always get the upper hand."
"We have natural hot mineral springs, and we developed a method to turn all that unbearable heat into pure power. Now we have a nice pleasant environment and an unlimited surplus of power to run our growing city, as well as help us build up our crumbling infrastructure."
"Who said that this isn't Heaven," Satan chuckled. "It all depends on how you define your terms, and in my realm I define the terms, see?"
"Heaven is stuffy and God is a prude. You can't do anything up there. Everything's plastic and sanitary. Here we can get down and dirty if we like- and we do like."
"You see, originally, this was a bad place- however, it was loaded with natural resources and endless potential. As time crept by we learned to utilize all this, and it's made us what we are today: Damn Happy!"
"And all I had to do to take advantage of this situation was learn how to love. Give people what they want and be nice to them, and they'll do anything for you in return. It's a whole new kind of power. I find that I like the taste. They're happy, I'm happy, everybody's happy- what the hell!"
"Like I said, it's a psychological thing. I learned to love, I broke the primary mystification, and now- God's upset. Upset because I did what He said. He said be good, and when I turned good, that was wrong too. There's just no pleasing Him. Surely no one else would hold me eternally responsible for an irresponsible youth?"
"But God wants me to be bad. That's the way it's always been- no matter what I do, I'm wrong. So to hell with it, if you'll pardon the expression. Why should we all suffer to benefit Him? We're going to make the best of our lot here, and be comfortable and happy, and that's that. Get it?"
At this point, an aid rushed in and whispered a few terse words to Satan before exiting as quickly as he had come.
"You're not a foreign investor?" asked Satan, confused. "Then why so much interest in why you're not suffering? Most people would just count their blessings, be eternally grateful, and have done with it."
"Well, God sent me," John admitted.
"A spy!" cried the devil. "Of course, I knew that," he said, regaining his composure. He then picked up the red phone that was sitting beside him, and dialed God's private number. He got he machine.
"Hello, you've reached Heaven," crackled the message tape. "This is God. I'm not here right now, but if you leave your name, number, and religious affiliation, I'll get back to you. Praise be to Me. Have a nice day." Immediately afterward, a chorus of heavenly angels went, "Beeep."
"Come on Jehovah," Satan grumbled into the mouthpiece. "Pick it up. I know you're there, You're omnipresent. Pick it up." There was no answer.
Now there were two good places to go, each vying for their share of souls. "It's a trick," warned God on "Inside Edition." "God's a spoiler," Satan shot back on "Hard Copy."
Both agencies started a bidding war for souls. They each sent out their own recruiters. "Listen kid, we'll give you eternal life," they would boast, "and we'll throw in a brand new car too. Just don't tell the others, they'll all expect one."
Finally, God gave in and called the Lord of Darkness. "Listen," said the Almighty, "we need to talk, son."
And so it was that the Devil beat God at His own game. Heaven turned cold, and that's where they decided to send all the misplaced undesirable souls.
God moved to Hell and purchased a piece of absolutely prime real estate there. On His plot He had built the finest residence in all of Hell, which really pissed the devil off.
Satan then talked God into switching homes; and after it was all said and done, God still lived in the finest residence in all of Hell.
"After all," the Almighty was rumored to have said, "I am still God you know."
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