The Messenger

Yeshu’a bar yosef was having an early supper.

He was sitting outside, in the courtyard of his favorite restaurant, Piperno, on Monte dé Cenci, on the edge of the Ghetto of Rome.

He was reading the Il Messaggero. Yeshu’a was old fashioned. He liked the feel of paper in his hands. He snapped and folded the newspaper, first in half, then in quarters, then in eights, keeping it small and unobtrusive.

Normally, the Ristorante Piperno would object if a guest were so bold as to read a newspaper, or a book, or anything for that matter, while dining, even outside. One did nothing to detract oneself from one’s enjoyment of one’s food. But the hour was early, most of their guests wouldn’t appear before nine at the earliest, and Yeshu’a was a regular, and, well, special.

A waiter, his waiter, appeared, suggesting a bottle of Incisa della Rocchetta Sassicaia, which, of course, met his approval, for Yeshu’a was an agreeable man, famously easy to please, especially when it came to wine. And, at only €150 a bottle, if was fairly priced. (How he despised “Euros,” and yearned for the old days, when life’s pleasures were measured in Lira. Oh well, the past is the past.) And, since all that was required of him was to sign the chit, it was of no concern, the accounting fell to someone else.

The waiter poured the wine, nodded a bright buon appetito, and silently went his way without further conversation.

Yeshu’a was dining light, his stomach somewhat upset. The news. How he despised the news. Everything changing, rarely for the better.

The Vatican was bankrupt. Yet another pathetic American had visited heaven, this time having taken his French poodle. And the poodle had written a book, insisting that indeed, all dogs do go to heaven. They were even considering a movie.

Now there was a cookbook, a cookbook for heaven. Food, clothing, automobiles, nothing could be sold unless it was endorsed by God himself.

Another preacher, barely literate, had acquired another sinfully expensive aircraft, no doubt to fly to heaven himself, spend the weekend and report back to his flock, the episode good for another million or so in donations.

Another had buried his poor mother in an amusement park, beside a talking cow. How did cow’s talk? he wondered. Did shame know no limits?

And now, The New and Improved Testament! Who were these charlatans?, these cheats?, these liars?

“Thou shalt not bear false witness,” he said aloud, talking back to the newspaper.

“Mi scusi signore?” Excuse me sir?, the waiter asked.

“Oh, nothing Tommaso, just talking to the paper.”

The waiter placed a plate of olives and a small pagnotta of bread before him and before topped off his wine. Yeshu’a’s glass never ran empty. Soon, the waiter would return with a plate of Carciofi alla Guidia, artichokes in the Jewish style, a serving for two, for Yeshu’a was a glutton for artichokes in season. They were presented alongside an assortment of cheeses, favoring pecorino and parmigiano, rather common he knew but his favorites nonetheless. Why try to improve upon perfection? was the rule he lived by.

It was an altogether delightful evening, like every evening in Rome, but his poor stomach would not leave him alone.

The religious wars in American were heating up, sure to spill over into the rest of the world if something wasn’t done to stop them.

He loved Rome. It was a cozy town. It was home.

But perhaps, he thought, as he peeled away a bract, dipped it in oil and sucked the pulp between his teeth, perhaps it was time, time to move on.

• Introducing Aradhana and Cromarty.
  Are they behind the exploding heads?

First Draft

[ Pisces Rising ]

“Hey, she’s got a hole in it.”

“A hole in what?” Aradhana Tatas was looking over Cromarty’s shoulder.

“Her clit. Big one too. Major gauge. Must have been hanging some heavy hardware to leave a tunnel that size. Wonder what happened to it?” Jon Cromarty took a personal interest in his work.

“What’d you shoot her with?”

“Fish. KoiBoi.” Cromarty was referring to the flying fish he had designed himself.

As Aradhana watched, Cromarty reversed ten-seconds and switched to slow motion. The screen was filled with golden fleece, which rose on the screen as the fish lost altitude. Frame, by frame, by frame, a crevice appeared, the top cleft where the labia majora part.

“What does this, this pubic hair, what does this have to do, Cromarty, with anything?”

“Hold on,” he said, back ten-seconds, back ten-seconds, back ten-seconds more until the KoiBoi broke the surface, then frame by frame again, zooming in to an extreme close-up, this time of her labia minora, click, click, click up until her clitoris came into frame, first out of focus, then in sharp focus, then, frame by frame again until Suzze’s clitoral hood was center frame and the hole from which  her crucifix had hung obvious.

“There,” he said, freezing the frame and expressing his unabashed satisfaction.

“So, I must ask you, why did you focus on that, Cromarty, her clit, her, her clitoris? Of what possible use could that information be? General surveillance, Cromarty, general surveillance does not require the examination of incongruous holes in one’s clitoris, no matter the size.”

“You’d be amazed what you can find when you look close enough.” Cromarty was characteristically challenging his boss over insignificant details. “Hey, what can I say?, I love a close-up.”

Aradhana thought it absolutely pornographic and beneath her dignity. “Pull back,” she said, “loop it again.”

 

-end-

...

(The plot thickens)

 

[ Blessed Be ]

On the 15th of August 1947, fatefully but coincidentally the day India gained its independence from the British empire, Arun Tatas, the youngest son of a middle class bureaucrat, having just attained an advanced engineering degree that at that time was all but worthless in the rest of the world, (no wogs need apply) set about to manufacture a toilet, a shithouse actually, a prefab privy which could be manufactured by peasants for rupees. He succeeded, it made him rich, rupee-rich anyway, and by thirty he was a renowned industrialist in his home country, manufacturing all manner of heavy industrial goods, having become a scion of Indian industrial might.

On his deathbed, surrounded by thousands of family members, most of whom were also employees, when asked his final words, words to be recorded, words to be his legacy, words that define his secret to success, words that were to drive his vision for generations to come, he said, “Har koee shauch,” and then continued his journey into the next realm with the dignity becoming a man such as himself.

Tons of incense were burned.

A nation mourned as his ashes floated down the Ganges.

 - - -

Under the direction of his progeny, Tatas diversified first into call centers for western corporations, which they used to collect terabytes of information on their citizens, especially the Americans, which quickly grew to be the world’s largest marketing database, and spring boarding off that into sophisticated, high-tech consumer goods

But the American market still eluded them.

With China’s failing economy and weakened position globally, Tatas was more than ready to step into the hearts and minds of the American consumer, whether that be Walmart junk or Defense Department hardware.

They needed a spokesperson. A local. A man in his ascendancy. A man who had the love and trust and admiration of his people. A PR shill. A man who could be bought. They plugged in the data and out popped Steven Hadad.

The job of spearheading this major push into what was now the world’s third-largest economy was assigned to Arun’s favorite granddaughter and heir apparent, Aradhana, whom he had named himself. It was Aradhana’s job, her name means blessed (or as those hideous Christians say bless-ed) in Hindi, to conquer the American market.

Her first step was to woo Pastor Steve.

She asked him to lunch.

He accepted.

As a small sign of her gratitude for accepting her invitation, she gifted him a car, a custom-built Maybach coming in at something on the high side of thirty million rupees, or about five-hundred thousand dollars, arguably the most luxurious car in the world, a model they had acquired to complement their lesser brands, Jaguar, Range Rover and Rolls Royce.

But Pastor Steve was coy, not sure if he was crazy about the color and needed to think about it, didn’t want to make any commitments, why not drive it for a while, he’d get back with her.

Taking the cue that his wheels might require a little more grease as it were, she then suggested that he might like to get away from the spotlight from time to time and offered a havelee, a mansion, a small mansion but a mansion nonetheless on the most fashionable road in Mumbai where he might be visited by all the Bollywood starlets his heart could ever desire.

He continued to play hard to get.

She subtly reminded him that there were male Bollywood starlets as well as female Bollywood starlets.

Nothing.

She would have offered her body, including three of her favorite Kama Sutra positions, but she got the distinct impression that he was not interested, his excuse having something to do with his pudge, whatever that was.

Let him get back with her, he said.

He did, and after a brief negotiation and Aradhana’s consultation with Tatas MicroMilitary, she delivered unto him twelve impossibly small, self-propelled atomic bombs, too small to be a threat to national security, not much more than toys actually, all top-secret, along with the requisite command and control systems, essentially a juiced up iPad.

Pastor Steve saw the light.

-end-

 

Awaiting final edit

 

| Tittie Cakes

If you aspire to be a crook, a lobbyist, a pundit, a PR bimbo or an all round political scumbag, the Starbucks at 22^nd and K Street in Washington, DC is where you office, confer, hang out, or go to meet and greet.

Larry Gelb looked both ways.

He ducked in.

An ordinary man wearing a gray suit standing in line in front of him was ordering a double latte [ Get name of Drink ].

While waiting for him to pay, Gelb fingered a display of VIA Mocha instant brew bags at $6.95 a pop and thought, why not?

Another ordinary man in a gray suit standing in line behind him spoke into the cuff of his shirt, “Bibendum has landed.”

“Roger that.”

Gelb could have sworn the comment came from a bag of Peruvian Blend.

While he was at it, Gelb decided to pick up one of those stainless steel coffee mugs with the adjustable sippy holes.

Man One paid for his coffee, adjusted the cardboard band so as not to burn his fingers, turned and walked out the door where he stood in front in a futile attempt to appear nonchalant.

Gelb counted the seconds until Man Two looked at his watch in feigned frustration, turned and walked out the door without making a purchase, taking his position beside Man One.

The President and Herschfeld were sitting at a corner table. The President’s prize golden retriever, a bitch named Hillary, sat at his feet.

It was a photo op, the President walking his dog, dropping in for an espresso, all calculated to show the world he wasn’t a cruel, heartless bastard.

The President reached down to nuzzle the dog behind her ears. She growled, baring her teeth.

 

Gelb held up his bag of coffee and mug, chuckled to himself that he had been left holding the bag, no pun intended, wasn’t sure if that was funny or not, then ordered a [ Mocha Grande ] and a [ Big Starbucks Pastry ], swiped his Starbucks card and walked over to join them.

He caught the President and Herschfeld in the middle of a conversation.

“I still don’t get it,” the President was saying to Herschfeld, “why did she slice her tits off?”

“Removed her implants, Mr. President, not exactly the same thing,” said Herschfeld, “but she’s still nutso. Always was if you ask me.”

Knowing the answer, always knowing the anser, Gelb set his coffee on the table and jumped in, “More common than you’d think,” he said, “Spiritual cleansing. Ritual cutting. Blood sacrifice. In the third century, Saint Agatha of Sicily . . . ”

“Hold the lecture, Mr. Gelb,” said the President.

Laurence Gelb couldn’t stand being ignored and so continued, “. . patron saint of wet nurses, bell-founders, bakers, and eruptions of Mount Etna.” he said as he pulled out a chair and took a seat beside Herschfeld, opposite the President.

“Why bakers?”

“Tittie cakes, Mr. President. In veneration of the virgin, the locals bake little tittie shaped cakes with white frosting and maraschino cherries for nipples. Minni di Virgini, they call them.”

“Alright then,” he asked, “What the hell is a jizzled jayjay? TMZ can’t stop talking about it.”

Herschfeld wanted to beat Gelb to the punch for a change. “Jesus hanging from her twat. It’s jewelry. Vajazzled Vajayjay. He repeated it for the President Va-jazzled, like decorative and festive, Va-jay-jay, like Va-gi-na. All the emo girls are doing it.”

“And how did you come across this information, if I may ask, Herschbo?”

Herschfeld began to mumble.

Gelb, never one to miss the opportunity to make a point of fact, elaborated on Herschfeld’s explanation. “It’s the mark of Satan, Mr. President. All witches carry a hidden sign somewhere on their private parts. During the Inquisition, the priests would shave the witches looking for it before they burned them at the stake.”

“You saying Miss Suzze is a witch?” asked the President.

“Straight from the Malleus Maleficarum, the Pope’s handbook on how to deal with witches,” said Gelb.

Herschfeld cut in, “On the other hand, maybe it’s just bling. She’s inconsequential, Mr. President. Fifteen minutes of fame. Let’s move on.”

“I’m down with that,” said the President. “What’s the next order of business? Who’s the latest winner in our holy hit parade?”

“The Reverend Buddy Young,” said Herschfeld.

“How’d it get him?” asked the President.

“In flagrante delicto,” said Gelb.

“Want to tell me what that means, Mr. Gelb?”

“His dick was hanging out, Mr. President,” said Herschfeld.

“He’s a preacher, nothing unusual about that, is there Herschbo?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Herschfeld. “But maybe a pattern is beginning to emerge here. Young was rumored to be a part of the Evangelical Mafia, if such a thing even exists. They buddy up and finance each other for piece of the action. Could be, they’re infighting, Christian on Christian violence reminiscent of Swaggart, Bakker, all of them just getting even for all the shit they’ve slung at each other, a turf war, fighting over who’s got the biggest Jesus.”

“Who do we want to win?” asked the President.

“How about God?” asked Gelb.

(Check this line in E1 for duplicates)

“Didn’t know you were a religious man, Larry boy.”

“I’m not, Mr. President.”

“Fuck,” they all said in unison and jumped up, Gelb having knocked over his 32 ounce coffee cup. Thank God there wasn’t much left.

In unison, three secret service agents grabbed a handful of napkins and scrambled to mop up the mess. Hillary licked the floor.

When they sat back down, Gelb finished his though. “God, Mr. President. Zero accountability.”

“I like the sound of that Mr. Gelb.”

“Look, Mr. President,  72% of the people think that Jesus is going to return during your administration. Why not get in on the action?”

“Got anybody in mind, Mr. Gelb?” asked the President.

“Take your pick,” said Herschfeld, “at least a dozen Messiah wannabes running around out there.”

“What about the other 28%?” asked the President. “You said 72% think he’s gonna be here soon. What about the other 28%?”

“Undecideds. Atheists, Jews, Hindus, Bujus, numb-nuts and ne’er-do-wells,” said Herschfeld.

“What are they so undecided about?”

“I don’t think undecided is the descriptive word here, Mr. President,” said Gelb. “Truth be told, they just don’t give a shit. Or, they hope all of them lose.”

“So what would that be like, Mr. Gelb? Everybody loses? No Christians left?”

“Nirvana,” said Gelb. “Look Mr. President, these people want an end time. Leave it up to them and they’ll deliver, a self-fulfilling prophesy. I realize a lot of people find Christian folklore quaint and amusing but ultimately it’s a danger to society and something that must be eradicated.”

“Tough talk, Mr. Gelb.”

“Christians are desperate, Mr. President. They’ve run out of bullshit. Sure, they may puff up and blow their magic powder, but it doesn’t work anymore. Humans have evolved Mr. President. You either get on the evolution train or you get left behind. It’s a shame they can’t figure that out, but that’s the way the genome crumbles.”

“Why don’t you just talk some science to them and change their minds?, Mr. Gelb.”

“Hard to do, Mr. President. They’re almost impossible to deprogram. They get an image imprinted in their heads at an early age and that’s what they see – real or not. And once it’s in there, it stays. They hear voices. They have visions. They’re schizophrenic, Mr. President. The stress of living in a technological world is killing them. Most are on antidepressants and antipsychotics. They’re incapable of rational thought. They say they think but they only believe they think. They’re going sterile. With luck, the stress of needing to navigate a rational world will be too much for them and they’ll all just die out naturally but I don’t think we’ve got time to wait and see. They want a Jesus, give them a Jesus. Maybe he can help them get it right this time.”

“Then what Mr. Gelb?”

“Then, maybe he just disappears. Happened once. That’s what they think, anyway. No reason it can’t happen again.”

“He’s just gonna go Poof and that’s it, huh Mr. Gelb?”

“Poof, Mr. President.”

“You got somebody in mind, Mr. Gelb?”

“Let me see what I can do,” said Gelb.

The President thought for a minute, “But here’s the thing, Mr. Gelb, the thing that I don’t want you to forget. If this Savior is on his way back, real or imagined, I want a crack at him first. He might be Jesus, but I’m the President, show a little respect.”

“Understood, Mr. President.”

“Now, one last point of business,” said the President as he stood and snapped the choke collar on Hillary causing her to jump to her feet, tail between her legs. “Me and Hillary goin’ for a walk. Which of you boys want to carry the pooper-scooper?”

 - - -

Later that day, the President was on the phone with Herschfeld.

“Telling you Herschbo, something’s up. No matter what’s going on, he’s always got the answer and it ain’t science. I don’t trust him. Keep an eye on him. Need be, he can always disappear. Wouldn’t be hard. Knock him in the head, tell the press that God did it. God versus Science, God always wins or something like that. And this Steve guy. Didn’t talk about him. He’s gettin’ a little big for his britches. Probably got more voters than we do.”

“He could be the next to go, Mr. President.”

“Let’s not count our heads before they’re cracked, Herschbo.”

And Little Miss Suzze, got a whole bunch of half-naked goofballs traipsing around after her, her buddies blowing up and she’s still sashaying around, showing her ass to the world. Round her up Herschbo. Rendition time. No pussy footin’ around. Waterboard the bitch if necessary. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

-end-

 

Williford ‘Pudge’ Ransom was pressed his thumbs into Pastor Steve’s Muladhara Chakra, located at the base of the spine on each side of the coccyx. The Muladhara is the root chakra where the main chakras, the Nadis, the Ida, the Pingala, and the Sushumna separate and course their way to the extremities. It is the most important chakra in the body, governing instinct, security, survival and basic human potentiality.

Pudge’s fingers traced the Chakras from their source, as God might trace the Nile, following them here, where they converged at the center of the universe. All beauty, all meaning, lay before him, clay beneath his hands.

As Pudge rotated his thumbs in circles, which had the effect of opening and closing Steve’s butt cheeks, the holy man’s sphincter would pop in and out of view, waxed, hairless.

To say Pudge’s veneration of Pastor Steve’s anal sphincter bordered on the devout would be an understatement. His recurring dream was to follow his muse, a faint, pink mole, so imperceptible that he doubted even Steve knew it was there, riding atop the sphincter ani externus, undulating up and down within the rolling puckers, so pale and pink and perfect in its symmetry that Pudge envisioned it circling, in an elliptical orbit, gaining speed faster and faster until it slides into heaven, nirvana, paradise.

“Pudge?” Steve sensed that it was time to bring him back to the here and now.

Pudge snapped to, “Overall, giving units are up point seven five. Toronto’s up over two-fifty since incept. Canada was a good idea. Facial recognition just topped ninety-two percent. Payout’s steady at forty-eight.” He rattled off the numbers, mumbling to himself as much as he was to Pastor Steve. Pudge knew. Although nothing in this life was certain, statistical analysis revealed truths otherwise hidden in seemingly random data. Nothing was meaningless if you had the vision to see across time and space. And Pudge could see it all, right down to the tenth of a decimal point, in his head.

And he knew he knew. Collections. Conversions. Attendance. Attritions. Pudge knew. Others knew something. Pudge knew it all. He was the one. And right now he was wishing, hoping maybe for an attaboy, or a meaningful question, perhaps a supportive comment.

“It can all get a little boring if you want to know the truth.” Steve pinched his buttocks momentarily pushing Pudge’s fingers away.

“Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make bored,” said Pudge.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“We should start thinking about adding another bank,” Pudge offered. “Maybe TaTas. Their Global Finance could do good things for us.”

Steve grunted.

To Williford Ransom, he and Steven Hadad were one and the same, spawn of a common homunculus, each with his own corporeal existence, but of a single spirit, not only homoiousios, of a similar substance, but homoousios, of the same substance, the single iota that decreed God the Father and God the Son to be one and the same, as Williford was to Steve, the precursor, the creator, the impetus, Pudge the life-force, Steve the shepherd, guiding their flock to a higher level, building their kingdom here on Earth as it is to be in Heaven.

Pastor Steve on the other hand didn’t sweat the details. In his world it was simple, he was the talent, Pudge was the bookkeeper.

Pudge didn’t quite see it that way. Especially since Steven Hadad wouldn’t know an algorithm if it were sliding up his ass, as Pudge’s thumb was autonomously tempting to do right now. But Pudge, as always, avoided the temptation, all temptation.

He turned his attention to the back of his hand. He gouged at a scab. Just enough to loosen it. Just enough to draw blood. When the drop grew large enough that it risked running off his hand, he let the scab drop back, capturing the blood, holding it to place. Tomorrow it would be bigger still, big enough to consume, to roll across his tongue, to shred between his teeth, the raw-iron taste of his essence re-entering his body, giving him strength.

“How are Becky and the kids?” Pudge asked. He noticed an involuntary pucker.

“Maybe not the best move I ever made,” Steve mumbled toward the floor.

“Did not the apostle Paul teach that it is well for a man not to touch a woman?” Pudge questioned, rhetorically.

“Bambinos, Pudge. Heirs apparent. Family values. A domestic front end representing our metaproduct. Your idea, by the way.”

Pudge didn’t like to take the blame for anything, especially when the blame was his and his alone.

“The coloring books were a good idea,” Steve said, making no point in particular.

“Give me a child,” Pudge replied, again quoting his spiritual mentor, Saint Paul. “Donations to youth ministries up eleven and a half percent.” (Pastor Steve was on every page of the coloring book, leading his little lambs to the path of righteousness, their parents toward direct deposit.)

“Shame about Joel,” Steve said, with no hint of emotion.

“Suzze?” asked Pudge.

“Cutie Pootie? Fucked up, buddy. That’s all I’ve got to say. Maybe I’ll give her a call. Hit it again for old time’s sake. ” Steve’s voice bounced off the floor and back to Pudge.

Pudge contained his anger and turned his focus back to the mole. Small. Pink. To Pudge, it appeared as a small imperfection on an otherwise perfect visage. He fixed his gaze upon it. Could it indeed be imperfect, imperfection on an otherwise flawless being? He wondered if anyone else had ever seen it. Did Steven know it was there, hidden away as it was? He extended his finger and approached it cautiously, uncertain, afraid of what might happen, either the horrible ugliness it might reveal, or the ecstasy he might feel. He resisted, and resistance was good, and he was proud of himself for having done so.

“Suzze Woozy,” Steve mumbled under his breath.

“Jezebel,” snapped Pudge.

“Where there’s chaos, there’s opportunity.”

Pudge’s fingers grew rigid, tense. Not now. Leave it be.

Pudge lowered his head so that he was only inches from Steve’s backside, paused, struggled, then rose up, resisting the urge to absorb Steve’s pheromones into his own homoiousios, fighting his fingers as they involuntarily crept toward his nose.

“Roll over,” he said.

#end

Missy Swiegel and her husband the Reverend Ezekiel Swiegel of Zeke Swiegel Teleministries International were having afternoon drinks and otherwise socializing on the veranda of their Naples, Florida winter home when Ms. Swiegel noticed the Reverend’s stomach growl in an abnormally loud fashion, followed by a burp and a broad smile. Ms. Swiegel believed that the Reverend was merely smiling at the comfort he felt having just attained digestive relief. She continued to lightly converse with him but to no response. Miffed, she went inside to ask her housekeeper, Betsy Lee to prepare another Peach Daiquiri for herself and a Tom Collins, light on the gin, for the Reverend, as his was losing its frost.

She returned to find the Reverend sitting in the same position as she had left him, his big smile still present, the only difference being that something that appeared to be scrambled eggs was oozing out of the corners of his mouth.

Ms. Swiegel assumed it to be the morning’s breakfast but noticed whatever it was, was loose and runny and that the Reverend preferred his eggs well done, and that Betsy Lee knew that as well, and always prepared his eggs well done or hard boiled depending on his preference at the time.

Betsy Lee delivered the drinks and sat the Tom Collins -- light on the gin -- in front of the Reverend, expecting him to down the first half in one gulp, as was his custom. When he did not do so, Mrs. Swiegel, conferred with Betsy Lee who thought it wise to call an ambulance.

Swiegel was pronounced dead on the scene by EMS, apparently from massive head injuries.

Upon hearing from EMS that Mr. Swiegel was deceased, Mrs. Swiegel commented that she knew he must be in Heaven, having passed away peacefully, and with a smile on his face, praise Jesus.

Mrs. Swiegel is being detained for questioning.

Authorities are awaiting the autopsy report before making further comments.

#end

 

| Hello Kitty

“Hello Kitty,” said Suzze.

The pale, skinny girl backing out of the doorway was caught off guard.

“Oh. – Yeah.” she looked over her shoulder to her backpack then to Suzze, “Hello Kitty.” She nodded and feigned a smile, then skipped down the steps and onto the sidewalk keeping her head low as she walked into the night without looking back.

The Old Man walked up the steps behind her and banged the brass knocker. Larry Gelb opened the door before the second knock.

Suzze recognized him. It was that freaky guy on the cover of the magazine.

The Old Man stepped inside, “You’ve got to quit picking up these street kids, Larry. They rob you blind. They’re dangerous. Probably illegal on multiple counts. You’ve got to quit.”

“Lisa, Lisa. Poor child. Lisa was made dark by the evils of Christianity.” Gelb stood aside to let them in.

“And you’re going to show her the light?” said the Old Man.

“Help her fulfill her destiny,” Gelb grinned. He looked Suzze up and down hesitating a second before smiling and stepping aside to let her enter.

Suzze scanned the foyer. They were in a townhouse in Georgetown. Library to the right, mahogany bar against the back wall. Dining room to the left. Hallway straight back to the kitchen. Staircase up the wall. Tattered Persian rugs over hardwood floors. Fresh flowers and a giant yellow bird in the corner that dipped up and down drinking from a bucket of blue water. Suzze had seen them before, but never one five feet tall.

The Old Man nodded to Suzze, “Top of the stairs, first door on the left.”

“Why are you telling me that?”

“Just in case,” he said.

Gelb and the Old Man walked into the library and hopped up on matching wingback chairs leaving Suzze standing in the middle of the room, ignored.

Five steel balls hanging from strings snapped back and forth on the valet table between the chairs, click click, click click, click click, in never ending monotony.

Gelb and the Old Man were immediately lost in what seemed to be a serious conversation. Suzze wasn’t sure what they were talking about or why she should care. She noticed something odd. She wasn’t sure what. It was something about the two of them together. How short they both were. How alike they were, both of them almost sub-human. It had occurred to her before that, on some level Jack really did bear a striking resemblance to Gollum.

“Excuse me,” she interrupted.

Gelb and the Old Man stopped talking and looked over in unison.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” said Gelb.

Suzze shot him an intentional and obviously smug grin. “Are you two gay?”

Gelb and the Old Man looked back and forth at each other as if they either didn’t understand the question or didn’t know the answer.

Gelb took the Old Man by the hand and hopped out of his chair bringing the Old Man with him. “Come to think of it, maybe we are.”

The Old Man cocked his head at Gelb and raised his eyebrows, surprised by the answer.

Gelb put his arm around the Old Man, “The perfect marriage of Science and Religion.”

The Old Man realized that he had not yet introduced the two. “Suzze, I’d like for you to meet Mr. Laurence Gelb, National Science . . .”

“I gotta go,” said Suzze.

She turned and walked up the stairs.

They picked up the conversation where they’d left off, about the girl with the Hello Kitty backpack.

“She has a secret formula,” said Gelb.

“And what might that be, Larry?”

“She can kill bullets.”

“And you believe that?”

“Sure, she showed me the algorithm.”

“And what does it say?”

“It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand.”

“And you think it’ll work?” asked the Old Man.

“Sure. I’m the smartest guy in the world, remember?”

“Maybe not when it comes to girls, Larry.”

Laurence Gelb hopped out of his chair and slid in beside the Old Man, room enough for two. Sharing secret knowledge was his way of sharing intimacy. He spoke in hushed tones, “We can kill bullets, John. No shit. Making the gunpowder explode is the easy part. But you’ve got to be able to do that through the metal casing, that’s the hard part. Nobody’s ever been able to do that before.”

“Where’d she get this magic formula?” asked the Old Man.

“From a guy in the kiddie prison. She was locked up for years.”

The Old Man looked to Gelb, doubtful.

“Hey, we lock up our best people all the time. Can’t stand for them to be out in a crowd. Look at me,” said Gelb.

“And why did he give this earth shattering magic recipe to, what’s her name? Lisa? Why did he give it to her of all people?”

“She blew him.”

“Well I guess that explains everything. What happened to him, the guy with the secret formula?”

“Hung himself.”

Gelb put his head on the Old Man’s shoulder and nuzzled himself tight, like a cat scooching into warm spot, “Why do I feel so safe with you?”

“God only knows.” John gave Larry a reassuring stroke on the head, as a mother might comfort a child, “So, go on, tell me about these bullets. You said the guy hung himself?”

“Well, while they were in lockup, in the kiddie prison, the youth home, she traded him sex for everything he knew. It was an equitable trade, each giving the other the only thing they had. Kind of romantic when you think about it.” Gelb nuzzled a little closer. “His algorithms, her sex. She got out. He didn’t. He hung himself. She’s a smart girl, absorbed everything he knew. Came here. Spouted it all off to me, one long barely coherent babble, reciting most of it from memory.”

“Why’d she come to you?”

“Going through a trash can. Looking for food, I guess. Saw me on the cover of a magazine. How she got here, I don’t know. Didn’t ask.”

Gelb uncuddled and sat up, “But she’s too smart, knows too much not to be dangerous.”

“Sounds like a soap opera, Larry.”

“May be,” said Gelb, “And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“She doesn’t hate anything as much as a Christian.”

The Old Man didn’t react.

“So be careful.”

The Old Man put his arm around Gelb, “You, too,” he said. “You, too.”

 - - -

Upstairs, Suzze opened the door to the guest bathroom. Tiny. A closet. Not for her.

She wandered down the hall scratching her butt. Suzze liked to wander around looking through other people’s things.

The door to the master bedroom was cracked. She looked inside. Big room. Floor to ceiling bookcases stacked with every conceivable form of junk. A four poster bed. Another oriental carpet.

Suzze stepped into the room and prowled through the books and papers and stacks of seemingly unorganized crap overflowing the bookshelves.

A flatscreen was shoehorned into the bookcase at the foot of the bed. It was on. An infomercial was playing.

Onscreen, a teenage girl was asking, Ha sido molestado por una monja o un sacerdote? Si usted ha estado a la iglesia, es probable que tenga. A veces no te acuerdas . . .

A crawler presented the subtitles in English: Have you been molested by a nun or a priest? If you’ve been to church, you probably have. Sometimes you don’t remember . . .

Suzze continued to prowl around as the girl continued to speak in Spanish.

The commercial cut to a silver-haired lawyer in a dark suit sitting on a stool, hands folded in his lap, speaking directly into the camera, Hola, soy Emilio Cruze con el bufete de abogados de Goldwater y Cruze. A crawler translated: Hi, I’m Emilio Cruze with the law firm of Goldwater and Cruze. The pedophile nuns and priests say it’s over. ‘Oops, they say. Sorry. We won’t do it again. Promise. So help us God.’ But it’s not over until we say it’s over. If you’ve been touched by a nun or a priest, Goldwater and Cruze can get you the money you deserve. Money for college. Money for food. Money for home mortgages and car payments. Money for the things you need. So, if you’ve been touched at any time, on any part of your body by a member of the clergy, a nun, a choir director or member of your church staff, no matter what your age, call the law firm of Goldwater and Cruze. For the money you deserve. Debido a que no ha terminado hasta que decimos que se acabó. Cause it’s not over until we say it’s over.”

A graphic with their logo, web address and 800 number followed by a hundred words of miniscule script popped for three seconds, then did a slow fade to black.

“Bastards,” she said to herself.

Days of Our Lives came on. Suzze plopped on the bed, fluffed the pillows, opened her robe and scratched her crotch. Might as well catch up on what she’d missed.

Nothing. Chandler Massey had a sex change and returned as Will Horton. Will was planning to marry his mother. After a few minutes, she was back where she left off.

She was bored.

She turned off the TV and looked around the room. Crap everywhere, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Books, papers, toys, empty toy boxes, files in plastic milk crates.

She leaned over the edge to see what was under the bed.

It was her. She was under the bed. “Hi, she said. I’m Suzze. What’s your name?”

Suzze snapped back, unsure of what she had just seen.

She cautiously peeked back under the bed, barely over the edge, ready to snap back again if she threatened herself.

There she was, lying under the bed, lifelike, life size. She still had her breasts and her blond hair, not yet disheveled, not pink from beet juice. And she was wearing her robe, although her robe under the bed was clean and unsoiled.

Suzze sat up and ran her hand through her matted hair and examined her filthy robe. Which was real? Her butt itched. She scratched. The itch was getting stronger.

She decided to sneak another peek. She dipped down, took a quick glance and sat back up. She leaned over again, looked quickly and jumped back up again like a child playing peekaboo.

She was confused.

She peeked under the bed again, ready to question herself. “You name’s Suzze?”

“Yes, it’s a wonderful name don’t you think?”

“How do you spell that?” Suzze asked.

“I don’t know, I never thought about,” said Suzze under the bed. “I don’t think Larry would like me if I were as smart as a normal woman.”

“Where did you come from?” Suzze asked.

“Larry made me. He’s my friend,” came the reply, all smiles.

“What are you doing under there?”

“Larry says I’m going to save humanity.”

“From what?”

“Gee,” said the Suzze under the bed, “I never thought about it. Itself, I guess.”

Suzze lay back on the bed trying to get her head around what lay beneath her.

She noticed a box of chocolates on the nightstand, took one and sucked out a cherry, goo dripping down her chin as she absentmindedly scratched her crotch, thinking about it, concluding that she had just witnessed was yet another perversion of science. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to get involved.

She sucked on another chocolate.

Did she have to go?

She ran through the possibilities. Another chocolate.

No, not really. Another chocolate.

On the other hand, why not?

There was nothing else to do. The box was almost empty.

Who knows, it might be fun. She always enjoyed talking to a new commode.

She hopped off the bed and stepped toward Gelb’s toilet, which, unlike the rest of the house was slick and white and antiseptic.

Before she got there, she thought of one more question. She got down on all fours, “When does this Larry guy tell you all this stuff?

The Suzze under the bed smiled, “When we’re having sex. He tells me everything.”

Suzze wondered why she even needed to ask.

She hoped up. One step later, the Suzze under the bed called after her.

Suzze dropped down again, her head on the floor.

“Have you met Jesus?” the Suzze under the bed asked.

“Too many times,” said Suzze, “not interested.”

Suzze stood, scratching her butt as she rose.

She took three steps into the toilet and sat on the commode.

It was silent.

She waited.

It didn’t speak.

The seat was cold.

“Music,” she said.

The commode did not respond.

As she waited for the commode to boot up, she picked at her feet and hummed, wider than a mile, Moon River . .

Still nothing. No music. Not a word. She stood to confront the commode, then realized it was old technology and gave up.

Her butt itched. It was getting out of hand, time to do something about it, couldn’t stand it anymore, end it here and now.

She looked around for a mirror to get a better look. She couldn’t find one.

There was an iPhone laying on the tank on top a copy of the Journal of Christian Research.

She held it up and panned around the room.

She switched it to mirror mode and scanned under her arms, then examined the scars under her breasts.

She looked inside her navel for lint, then down her belly to her crotch.

She tugged at the blond curls still streaked with pink, stretching them, watching them snap back when she released them. She clicked 10x and examined the hole in her clitoral hood, now huge on the screen. Big. Probably never go away.

She stood and lifted her foot onto the toilet seat and half squatting inspected her nether regions, nothing missing, nothing discolored, nothing dripping, good vaginal health is important, she agreed with herself.

She poked here and there trying to locate the itch.

She bent over more, spread her legs more and tilted the iPhone back and forth but couldn’t spot it.

But she could feel it. Whatever it was, she knew it was there.

She popped a selfie. Nothing.

It moved. She was sure it moved.

She took another selfie. There it was.

She studied the image, trying to imagine its exact location. In her mind, she triangulated its position using three of her private parts for reference.

Then, poke. Nothing.

She popped another selfie, enlarged it and compared the landscape to what she had seen before.

Maybe. Maybe. Poke. Pinch. Nothing.

It was on the run, making fast tracks across her labia, perhaps heading for clear country where it could make better time. Or worse yet, looking for refuge in an orifice.

Two more shots and she’d figured out its trajectory. She visualize the lead like a skeet shooter might aim in front of a clay pigeon.

Smack!, she had it, pinned against her crotch, wiggling under her fingers.

She tugged at it.

It wouldn’t let go.

Carefully, slowly, she tried to ease it away, feeling it wiggle between her fingers.

It held on tight.

She pinched it hard and tugged back and forth.

It wouldn’t budge.

She rolled it between her thumb and forefinger trying to loosen it from the hair it was holding on to.

Finally, sensing she was about to lose it, she gave it a quick snatch, yanking away both it, whatever it was, along with a lump of hair, painful but worth it.

She held it up to the light.

It was hard. A piece of grit. And it was still squirming.

She dropped the iPhone in her pocket and walked down the stairs, step by step, keeping her eye on it, squeezing it harder, trapping it between her thumb and forefinger, encased in a wad of hair which seemingly moved and squirmed along with it.

Focused as she was, she didn’t hear Gelb and the Old Man mention her, or Herschfeld, or the Pope.

She walked into the library, rolling it between her fingers, trying to expose it without letting it go of it for the two of them to see. She thought Gelb, being a scientist, might know what it was.

Gelb and the Old Man noticed her entering the room and stopped talking.

“Hey, look what I found,” she said as she held out her hand to show them.

Gelb jumped up and reached towards her as he started to say No!

Before he could get the word out of his mouth, the hairball exploded.

 

-end-

 

Awaiting final edit

| Chosen

Suzze was trying to find something to throw at the TV. How many commercials can you watch in seven hours? Eight hours? All night? She’d been here all night. She hurt. They’d given her morphine. Or something. She wanted more.

She lay back on the emergency room bed, resigned to her fate, an eternal wait. Maybe she was dead. Must be. Must be hell.

Another infomercial.

Please God, not another infomercial. The station was fixed, nothing but infomercials. It couldn’t be turned off, part of the hospital’s supplemental income. Plus, the commercials numbed the brain, helped people relax. At least that’s what they said.
But nobody believed them.

On the screen, a twelve year old boy was standing in his bedroom, a head and shoulders shot, facing the camera. Behind him were all the typical boy accoutrements, girly posters, super-heroes, flat-screens and sports equipment. He was dressed in Hassidic garb, a black Prince Albert frock coat, a beard, a black hat and pigtails for sideburns.

The kid looked into the camera and asked, “Did somebody cut off the end of your weenie?”

Suzze, trying her best to ignore the commercial, poked at the wad of bloody makeshift bandages, trying to visualize what remained of her right hand.

The doctor was on his way. Three hours ago. That’s what they said, three hours ago, the doctor was on his way.

She had no choice, she turned her attention back to the TV.

The kid assumed an angry pose, “It’s not funny.”

Then he stood and stared up into the camera, which was now at a high angle looking downward to make him appear both fragile and mature. He changed his demeanor from helpless child to grown up and serious: “Child sexual mutilation is rampant in America, fueled by fear and ignorance, not only among the Jewish community, but also among the Christian cults as well.

“And let’s not forget, unscrupulous doctors on both sides will do anything for a fast buck.

He begins to peel off the Hasidic costume, piece by piece, to reveal his true identity, heart-throb kid star, Loki clan leader of the reality kid’s show, Naked Pagans.

Loki continued, laying on the charm, “So if you’ve been circumcised against your will, no matter what your age, call the law firm of Goldwater and Cruze. They’ll get you the money you deserve, from doctors and hospitals, from priests and clergy, from parents and grandparents.”

At the sound of Goldwater and Cruze, Suzze slid her good hand under a slightly used bedpan and flung it toward the screen.

A logo, a web address and an 800 number scrolled across the screen. The boy turned to leave, then did a Columbo and looked back over his shoulder directly into the camera, “And by the way, leave my dick alone.”

Leave His Dick Alone scrolled across the screen.

The bedpan landed with a bang just as an intern burst through the door and started tapping at a computer. Without addressing her directly, he said in pidgin English, “So you are telling me you don’t care for the entertainment, is that it? My, my, everybody’s a critic.”

Suzze sat up and dropped her legs over the edge of the gurney.

“Osmond, Suzze. Well now, Osmond, Suzze, is that how you spell that, S-u-z-z-e? haven’t seen that before, what do we have here?” His jaunty Indian accent was noticeable.

“Oh no. Playing with fire crackers, were we?” The intern pulled out pair of scissors and cut away the grocery bag, the gauze and the cocktail napkins Gelb and the Old Man had used for bandages. He held up her right hand examining her fingers one by one, “Say goodbye to those two.”

He rotated her hand, “Let me reassess, maybe some of the thumb’s still left. X-rays will tell us what we want to know. Not to worry, we’ll just see what we can do for you, Miss Osmond, Suzze.” As he made his vain attempt at humor, he noticed something unusual about her breasts and lifted up her gown to peek inside.

“Don’t ask,” she said.

“Ah yes, Osmond Suzze, now I . .”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said.

He walked out.

The Old Man walked in.

“They tried to kill me, Jack.” She held up her bloody nubs. “They blew my fucking finger off, Jack.” Suzze was angry, “Two of them.”

Gelb walked in, “Tatas Model 27 aka a Pissante. Nasty little bugger, capture it, it blows up. Just enough to self-destruct. You were never in any real danger. Not fatal. You probably squeezed it a little too hard. Frightened it, that’s all.”

Suzze looked toward Gelb and then to the Old Man. “What?”

Gelb continued, “First the boobies. Now this. Fantastic.”

“What?”

“We need a messianic figure,” Gelb blurted out, unable to contain his excitement at how well things were working out, even if they were completely off the plan.

“What?”

“Susan, you were not born for greatness.”

“Fuck you, Jack.”

“Susan, some people are born for greatness, some people have greatness bestowed upon them.”

“And that’s me?”

“Not exactly,” said the Old Man.

“It’s complicated,” said Gelb.

“Uncomplicate it for me, Jack.”

Okay, on that first day, when you went back to your house, to the mansion . . . “

“At the house? What, were you hiding in the bushes, Jack? Stalking me, Jack?”

“Observing. I was observing you,” said the Old Man. “And when you started bringing out the stuff . . . “

“I’m surprised you weren’t sniffing my panties, Jack, but go on.”

“And I was amazed, and . . and it occurred to me . .” The Old Man was looking for words.

“But he chickened out,” said Gelb.

The Old Man picked up a bloody scalpel left behind by the intern.

Gelb took a step backward.

“Sacrifice,” said the Old Man. “Conversion.”

“Transformation,” said Gelb.

The Old Man continued, “And then when you removed your breasts . . . “

“Jesus, Jack. Is that what this is all about? My breasts? What is it with you little boys and titties?

”Susan, it went viral. Millions of people . . “

“Billions,” said Gelb. “Billions of people saw you remove your implants.”

“My tits, Jack?”

”Sacrifice,” said the Old Man.

“My tits, Jack? Really? This is all about my tits?”

“Transformation,” said Gelb. “Billions of hits. Some old lady who worked for Olive Garden got the whole thing. Now YouTube. Conspiracy theories. These cloud people who follow you around. Billions. Billions. You’re a hit.”

The Old Man shot Gelb a shut-up glance.

“That’s why Johnnie here has been keeping you out of sight. Priming you for your grand entrance. But you’re ready. Billions,” he said again.

Suzze pleaded with the Old Man, the same plea she had made a dozen times before, “My God, Jack. I was crazy. I didn’t know what I was doing. Tell you the truth, I kind of liked my titties, paid good money for them, at least Joel did, but you know, Jack, right then, right there, I wasn’t me anymore.”

“The point exactly,” said the Old Man.

“Not being yourself,” said Gelb.

“Plus, they were beginning to say bad things about me.”

“They talked to you?” asked the Old Man.

“Did they talk to each other?” Gelb could not disguise his prurient interest.

“Sure, all the time. But when I started clearing out the house they really started talking shit about me, all the time, bitching and moaning about every little thing.”

“What did they say?” Gelb was bouncing up and down on his toes.

“Argue is more like it. Back and forth, bitching and moaning, always up my ass about something. I’d been thinking about it, about getting rid of them, so when you said those people wanted a show, those people in the park, when you said they wanted a show, I gave them a show. That’s what you said, wasn’t it Jack? Give them a show?”

“A sign,” said the Old Man. “They were looking for a sign, a sign.”

“A show, a sign? What’s the difference? I gave them a sign. A sign of what, I have no fucking idea, Jack. But I gave them a sign.”

“You martyred yourself,” said the Old Man.

“A billion people,” said Gelb.

“I was insane, Jack. How many times do I have to tell you? In-sane. People do strange shit when they’re insane, Jack. Seeing visions, hearing voices, staring at the sun, sticking their finger up their butt thinking they’ve found God. Insane, Jack.”

“Brilliant. Just brilliant. We never expected that,” said Gelb.

“Maybe, but  . . . “ said the Old Man.

“And I was happy, Jack. Perfectly happy sitting there on my own little bench. And my tits, Jack? Tell you the truth, I don’t miss them. Not one bit.”

“We need a messianic figure.” The Old Man repeated Gelb, as directly and as distinctly as he could.

“And that’s me?” asked Suzze.

“Not exactly,” said the Old Man.

“Fame and fortune,” said Gelb.

“Been there, done that,” said Suzze.

“Sort of like Oprah,” said the Old Man.

“What’s wrong with the real Oprah?” asked Suzze.

“Expensive. Ego’s too big. Can’t work with her,” said the Old Man.

“Although she would be ideal for the part. Ideal,” said the Gelb.

“And that’s me?”

“Not exactly,” said the Old Man.

“It’s complicated,” said Gelb.

“So that’s it? That’s all? Just be Oprah? Do a show? Give them another sign? Be Oprah, tell them I’ve looked into the mind of God and I’m his favorite?”

“Transcend Oprah,” said the Old Man.

“And exactly how do I do that?” asked Suzze.

The Old Man crossed his arms, striking a pensive pose, “That first day. Do you remember?”

A nurse entered to take Suzze to X-ray. “Why don’t you boys wait outside?” she said as she wheeled Suzze away.

Two hours later, Suzze reappeared. Her hand was in a hard cast. Her arm was in a sling. An ugly bruise ran halfway to her elbow. They couldn’t give her enough drugs to make her happy, no matter how many bedpans she threw. It hurt like hell.

She fast stepped toward the exit with the Old Man and Gelb in tow.

“How am I supposed to eat, Jack?

“How am I supposed to wipe?”

“The Old Man tried to pick up where they’d left off, “That first day. Do you remember?”

“Cut the shit, Jack. That’s it. I’m outta here.” She picked up the pace.

The Old Man didn’t give up, “Remember, that first day, you ran down the hill and jumped up on the gate shaking the bars and screaming like a monkey in a cage before the electricity blew you back on your ass?”

“You were following me. You still haven’t told me why you were following me.” Suzze was huffing.

“And then the next day you came back with those giant rubber gloves and you opened the gate and stepped outside, pacing back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth, hands on your hips, back and forth, angry beyond anger.”

“Stalking me, Jack. Hiding in the bushes. Stalking me, Jack.”

“And you stopped, and you stood dead center, right in the middle of the driveway, and you lifted your bathrobe and you defecated, right there in the middle of the driveway, right there on Buttermilk Road for all to see.”

Suzze looked back at him in disgust, still keeping up the pace.

“And then the next day you came screaming down the driveway in that car of yours . . “

“A Bentley, Jack. It’s wasn’t just any old car, Jack. It was a Bentley, a Bentley, Jack.”

“. . top down, tires squealing, around the curve and over the hill, gone in a flash. And then, not five minutes later you came screaming back from the other direction, slid to a stop, bounced up on the curb . .”

Suzze completed his sentence, “And I jumped up on the hood and took another dump. So what, Jack? So what?”

Suzze stopped, expecting to settle the issue once and for all, “Look Jack, I was just trying to express myself, that’s all. Looking back, maybe I was being a bit too literal. I was under a lot of stress, Jack, know what I mean?”

Without slowing down, she put her shoulder into the exit door and was outside with no idea of where to turn next. She paced from side to side, looking for a bus or a taxi or someone to hitch a ride with.

The Old Man wouldn’t let go, sensing perhaps that his time to make amends was running out, “And then the next day it was – what was it? -- a washing machine or  . . . “

With nowhere to turn, Suzze became thoughtful, catching her breath, loosening up, sharing the moment. “The lawn mower. It had wheels. I did the easy stuff first.”

“And I thought to myself, good God this is a show worth watching. I couldn’t wait to see what would happen next.”

Suzze became sincere, almost flirtatious, “And when it was all over, when I finally got my shit together, or at least out on the curb, you hung around. I could see you on the monitors, Jack, on the security things inside, I could see you there, that stupid coat of yours and the hat, just sitting there.”

The Old Man sensed that the tone had changed, that maybe he had a chance to win her back after all.

“Why did you hang around, Jack? Why didn’t you ring the buzzer and come on in?”

She didn’t give him time to answer. “You know you could have had me, Jack.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you could have had me. You could have marched right up the hill, well, waddled up the hill, you could have walked through the front door, laid me down and had your way. All you had to do was ring the buzzer, Jack. I was ripe for the picking. And you know what they say, Jack ‘Crazy girls do it best.’”

“Maybe next time,” said the Old Man.

“Maybe not,” said Suzze.

Realizing that his time was running out, the Old Man decided to close the sale, “And somewhere in the midst of it all, Susan, I realized -- You’re the one.”

“One what, Jack?”

Suzze bobbed her head sorting the traffic that was dropping off and picking up patients. She saw a taxi and raised her good hand to flag it down. “Well, I tell you what, Jack. I’m gonna have to think about that.”

She turned to Gelb, extended her left hand and rubbed her fingers together, “Money. Money, money, money. Hurry up. Give me all you’ve got.”

Gelb complied with a fistful of assorted bills.

Suzze shoved them into her pocket and came back with a crucifix, the diamond encrusted gold crucifix, Joel’s gift to her, the Pope’s gift to Joel, or so he said, the Christ who had guarded the entrance to her, well, her twat, no other way to put it. She bounced it in her hand, always impressed by its size and heft, “Here, Jack. I owe you. It’s the last thing I’ve got in the world, and it’s yours. Cash it in. Buy a new pair of sandals.” She dropped it in the Old Man’s reluctantly outstretched hand, “I’m done. No more.”

She saw a taxi pulling to the curb, “There’s a park bench with my name on it and there I shall be. Please don’t come looking for me, Jack. Goodbye forever.”

The taxi kept going, not for her.

In its place, three black Chevy Suburbans pulled to the curb. Three men hopped out of the middle vehicle. One manned the door. The other two lifted Suzze by the armpits and dumped her in the backseat before sliding in beside her.

And in a flash, they were gone.

 

Awaiting final edit

 

| Nothing Left to Lose

Susie remembered when they came for her mother.

They were all smiles.

She was reaching up to her mother’s hairy woo-woo. It was spinning all round and round, and she was under her mother’s skirt, and it was all pink and blue and lavender, and the sun was shining through so the colors were spinning round too, and her mother was singing that song by that woman she liked, Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose, as they twirled round and round, and the cold smell of grass, and how it made her dizzy and giggle until she fell down and mama tripped and they fell on each other and lay there in the grass tickling and giggling and laughing.

They came in a station wagon. It was old and black and had fins and a gold cross on the door and gold letters but she couldn’t read them.

And four men got out. The man who was driving stayed behind. The doors made a loud noise, bang, bang, bang when they slammed them shut, as if they wanted to make as much sound as they could. The driver leaned against the car with his arms folded, nothing special, like he had done it a hundred times before.

They were all dressed alike, not like a uniform but like they didn’t know how to dress any differently, black pants, white shirts, short-sleeves and skinny black neck ties, and black shoes, shiny black shoes. One, the fat one, the one who was in charge, was bald. The others had greasy hair, a lot of greasy hair, like Ronald Reagan.

Mother didn’t notice them, or pretended not to. She just danced and spun, spun and danced. Freedom’s just another word . .

They got closer.

The bald one reached out his hand, “Now come with us, [name, what should her name be?]. The Lord is waiting for you.”

And just when he reached out for her, she ran.

But they caught her. It was only a few steps. The two others, the two with the greasy hair, they grabbed her, and she still danced, or tried to, trying to spin herself out of their arms.

“Don’t you worry little Susie, your mama’s gonna be just fine,” the fat one, the bald one said, and he held her by the wrist, and when she tried to get lose like her mother, he held her tighter, pulling her closer, not letting her go.

And two men with greasy hair dragged her mother to the car.

And mother stared at them, never took her eyes off of them, Eunice and Dwight, standing on the small front stoop, arms crossed, watching them take away the daughter they could never control, the one who always wanted to sing and dance and blaspheme the Lord.

And she remembered her mother singing to them, Eunice and Dwight locking her eyes with theirs, not singing now, but screaming, freedom’s just another word . .

The fat man, the bald one who had her by the wrist said, “We’re doing this for you little Susie, so you can grow up with the love of Jesus in your heart,” as he lifted her by her wrist and walked her to Grandmamma Eunice.

And the man who was standing by the car with his arms folded opened the back door.

Susie’s grandmamma picked her up and put her over her shoulder and patted her on the back as she sang in a high pitched, discordant voice, Jesus loves you this I know . .

As Grandmamma Eunice turned to go back inside the small frame house, Susie looked backwards to see her mother crying out. But she could not hear her mother cry. She saw her lips moving but she heard no sound. She saw the tears in her eyes. She could feel mother’s pleading, feel it inside her body, in her soul, in her heart. She could see the anguish that contorted her mother’s body, anguish that reached out to Susie even though she knew that Susie couldn’t help. But Susie could not hear a single word as her mind went blank and one by one all of her senses shut down.

And that was the last time Susan Gilmore ever saw her mother.

 - - -

What did it say? The lettering on the door, what did it say? What did the lettering say? Where did they take her? She had thought, and thought, and thought about it, a thousand times and she never could picture the lettering, the name, what it said, or who they were.

- - -

The woman in the white coat watching the monitor saw Suzze, clear and plain and in high definition. But she did not know what Suzze was thinking. Nor did she care.

-end-

Awaiting final edit

 

| Little Piggies

The short man hopped out of the backseat of the Suburban, both heels hitting the pavement at the same time. The new black wingtips hurt his feet.

He walked briskly and bolt upright up the stairs, flashing his credentials as he passed through security and then across the lobby and down the elevator to the basement of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building where he boarded an electric trolley which carried him two-hundred yards underground to the basement of the White House.

Dressed in a Jos. A. Bank charcoal gray suit with a red, white and blue striped tie, he looked just like every other mid-level bureaucrat in Washington, D.C.

He hopped off the trolley before it had pulled to a stop and, without missing a beat, stepped into another waiting elevator manned by a quite attractive staffer doing her best to look schoolmarmish in dark rimmed glasses, flat shoes and a fitted suit. She noticed as she looked down on top of him that he was making no effort at all to conceal his admiration of her breasts.

Before she could feel too flattered – power is the greatest aphrodisiac, no matter how short the man – the elevator door opened and he stepped out. She, in turn, stepped briskly to jump in front, after all, she was escorting him, and led him through several twists and turns until they were standing in a small cupboard, an anteroom, in front of a closed door.

Neither spoke, but she could sense that he was now admiring her butt, which he was.

Ironic, he thought, that this was the very same spot where Bill boinked Monica.

Even thought they had been standing in front of the door only seconds, the aide made a point of checking her watch. And checking it again.

He made a point of checking out her ass from several different angles, which caused her to check her watch yet again.

Finally, a small green light to the right of the door flashed. The aide opened the door and stepped aside as the short man unofficially walked into the Oval Office.

Augustus Jefferson gazing out the windows, arms behind his back, looking presidential. Without turning, he said, “Is he on board?”

“I think so.”

“Think so?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got a little more work to do but he’s in.”

The President turned to face the little man now standing in the middle of the room, “What’s next?”

Before the visitor could answer, Chaim Herschfeld entered from the executive secretary’s office, having received his summons only minutes before. He glanced back and forth as the two men continued their conversation.

“So what’s next?” The President repeated the question for Herschfeld’s benefit.

“Initially, you express doubt. Then, when he catches on, you endorse him. He takes over, the main man. Only you’re really in charge. Or something like that. We’re going to have to play it by ear, see how it pans out, but, something like that.”

The President turned to face him, arms still behind his back, “That’s it? See how it pans out?”

“Sorry Gus. That’s the best we can do. The situation is fluid.”

Herschfeld was incredulous, “Gus? Who is this guy, Mr. President?”

The Old Man plopped down on one of the two facing yellow sofas, ripped off his wingtips without untying the laces and started to massage his feet.

“What’s going on, Mr. President?” Herschfeld was in the dark.

“The Second Coming, Herschbo. My second coming,” said the President.

“Our second coming, Gus,” said the Old Man as he pulled off his socks and ran his thumbs between his toes, kneading and popping them one by one.

“What did you do with the girl?” The Old Man rose from the couch and did a three-point handstand against the wall, bare feet in the air, necktie falling to his face.

The President looked at Herschfeld.

Herschfeld hesitated as if unsure of which ‘girl’ they were referring to.

“Suzze Osmond. You’ve got her, right? Let her go,” said the Old Man, upside down.

Herschfeld looked to the President for silent affirmation that he should answer the question.

“What we got, Herschbo?” asked the President.

“Nothing. Nothing to get. Talking to the commode, babbling shit.”

“Did the commode talk back?” asked the President.

“Never once took a crap the whole time, just sat on the throne. Yeah, the commode talked back, but we couldn’t hear what it was saying. The walls were talking to her. Her mamma was talking to her. Her grandmamma was talking to her, some woman named Eunice. Sounds like a bitch if you ask me.  God was talking to her. Her shoes were talking to her. She was looking for somebody named Dub. A guy named Steve was screwing her. The entire universe was talking to her but we couldn’t understand what they were saying. But no, so far she hasn’t said anything valuable. Ask me, she’s got a high tolerance for drugs. Give her some more.”

“So why hold on to her?” asked the Old Man, blowing the necktie from his face.

“Bait,” said Herschfeld.

“What you trying to catch?” asked the Old Man, once more blowing away the necktie hanging in front of his face.

“Don’t know,” said Herschfeld, “not until you throw the hook in the water. I still don’t get it, Mr. President. Help me out. Who’s coming?”

“Things are a mess, Herschbo.”

“An understatement, I’d say.”

“And we need to fix it.”

“Hardly possible, but I’m listening.”

“We need a paradigm shift.”

“Big words. Sounds good. What’s the catch?”

“No catch, Herschbo. Look, the Democrats are a bunch of do-gooders who can’t slap their ass and chew gum at the same time.“

“No argument there.”

“And the Republicans are just plain evil.”

“Your party, Mr. President. By the way, can I call you Gus?”

“No.”

“Okay, the Democrats are dumbasses and the Republicans are crooks, what else is new?”

“The girl,” said the Old Man, still propped against the wall, now breathing deeply, eyes closed, “let her go.”

“Is that what this is all about, Mr. President? A bimbo?”

“I’ve made a pact, Herschbo.”

“With who, Mr. President, the devil?”

“No Herschbo, I made a pact with God.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Mr. President.” Herschfeld was at a loss for words.

“Your man is cynical, Gus.” The Old Man’s face was turning blue. “Might as well tell him. You’ve gone this far.”

The Old Man flipped backwards through a half somersault and landed on his feet. “No H.”

“What?” asked Herschfeld, at this point totally confused.

The Old Man stepped forward to stand toe to toe with Herschfeld, “There’s no H. No H in Jesus Christ.”

Herschfeld did a double take, then shrugged, “Fine by me. Where do you want her?”

The Old Man picked up his shoes and socks, “Wait a couple of days. Send her to L.A. She’s harmless. Don’t worry about her. I’ll take care of her when the time comes.”

The Old Man picked up his socks and shoes walked back out the way he’d come in. “Catch you later Gus.”

 

-end-

 

| Pacifica

Jon Cromarty did love a closeup. He was nose to nose with a quite large penis that was hanging just inches from his face. It hung long and proud, was uncircumcised with just the tip of the glans peeking beneath the hood, deep blue veins running the length of the organ. It was truly the cock of Adonis and Cromarty was smitten as evidenced by his erection, small as it was, poking against the underside of his belly. As he leaned forward to get a closer look – until his nose almost touched the screen – his tongue emerged to slurp the cream off the top of his Venti Mocha Frappucino, his second of the day.

The electric security lock buzzed and the door snapped open.

“Cut the shit, Cromarty. Find me what I’m looking for.”  Aradhana Tatas walked through the door carrying a bag of Starbucks goodies which she distributed among the brown skinned young men and women sitting in groups behind monitors like air traffic controllers, each in an identical Aeron chair, each of whom appeared cheerful, engaged and enthusiastic in their work. But, of the bunch, sadly she often thought, Cromarty was her go to guy, a local, a bug specialist, the one who always got the biggest drink.

“Cromarty, you embarrass yourself.” She lifted her Chai Latte out of the bag and handed Cromarty yet another 560 ml of coffee-flavored sugar.

“You embarrass yourself, Cromarty. In fact, I say, you are an embarrassment to all humanity. So I ask you this, Jon Cromarty, why do you do that? Why do you want to be the embarrassment of all humanity?”

She pulled up a spare Aeron chair.

Cromarty leaned back and put his hand nonchalantly in his lap to hide his protuberance, “Get a load of that thing.” He pulled the HummingByrd back to view his newest love interest in all its entirety, nestled among its companion testicles, which were hanging low in their scrotum. It occurred to him that he could reach out and peck it. Giving the pecker a peck with his HummingByrd’s pecker was so funny to Cromarty that he gagged on his own joke, snorting air to keep from laughing out loud.

Upon closer inspection, Aradhana herself could not help but be stunned by the penis before her, the veins, the scrotum, the glans, all topped with wispy brown curls that waved in the breeze like wheat on the plains of Uttar Pradesh. Erect, it would surely be a formidable sight to behold.

The tea slipped from her left hand and splashed onto her foot. “Goddammit Cromarty, find her. She’s supposed to be there.”

Cromarty swung into action. “Imagine you are a hummingbird,” he instructed himself as if he were the omnipotent voice of God. “You flit and you flutter, and beat your little wings...”

Cromarty toggled back and the drone rose slowly, straight and true, still focused on the owner of the magnificent penis. The screen filled, first with an abscessed navel poking from a pot belly covered with gray hair, then past sagging man-breasts before stopping dead center of a bald head with a face full of stubble and a missing tooth. It grinned.

Cromarty snatched the drone upward, stopping ten feet above the crowd, caught his breath and began to rotate the Byrd in slow 360°s.

The ocean was in the distance behind tall palms. A naked man, a dwarf perhaps, was standing in a fountain. From the street, a ragged line of people were disrobing, one by one, picking up a folded bathrobe from a collapsible table before melding back into the crowd.

“Do we have sound?” asked Aradhana, talking and sipping come back at the same time.

“Music’s too loud. Can’t get the voices. Trying facial recognition, see if we can read their lips.”

“Let’s hear it,” she said.

In a gadda da vida . . .

“Gibberish,” said Cromarty. “Speaking in tongues, crazy rock shit.”

“Turn it up,” said Aradhana.

In a gadda da vida honey . . .

Cromarty tilted down. “Look at ‘em. Hundreds of them. Every size, shape, color. And nobody’s got a boner. They’re all limp.”

“No porn policy, Cromarty, remember?” Aradhana reached into the Starbucks bag, lifted out a napkin and wiped the tea from her feet.

Something is missing from here?

“These people are in-fucking-sane.” He slurped with his left hand and toggled with his right, flying the ruby throated HummingByrd back and forth above the crowd. “And thar she blows, maties! Arrr! Arrr! Arrr!”

Cromarty dropped the nose and sped towards three black Chevy Suburbans that were rounding the corner and pulling to a choreographed stop at the curb.

Suzze Osmond stepped out of the middle SUV, “Bye guys, thanks for the ride.”

Suzze waved her metal fingers as they sped away. “Assholes.”

She was slurping a Grande 2% Vanilla Latte. It was her idea to slide by the drive-through, against regulations but they didn’t mind. Anything to keep her quiet.

She was in a new, white, terrycloth bathrobe over new, white, flannel pajamas, covered with a new, beige, L. L. Bean overcoat, and a pair of bright red, Hush Puppy knock offs, 89¢ a pair, made in China, all government issue.

She did a quick take on the locale, had no idea where she was and didn’t care. It was warm and sunny. That’s all that mattered.

She didn’t need the coat and dropped it on the sidewalk for anybody who might want it and chucked the now empty cup in the trash.

Then it occurred to her. She looked up and down the street, across Palisades Park, past a row of palm trees and to the ocean. There was Josiah’s. There was Maurice, the Maître d', and Zippy, the Chef de Valet. Suzze always liked the beach more than the mountains. Santa Monica was like being home. She and Joel could never have a home here, too ostentatious, too Hollywood. That’s why they were hidden away in Aspen, affluent but hidden, had to keep up appearances. They came here only for brief visits, always ‘for business,’ never a place they liked to come, they had to do it, consort with the heathens. That was the cover story anyway.

She loved the Wild Mushroom Agnolotti, and the Potato Blinis with Royal Osetra Caviar at Josiah’s, and the Bitters, Egg White and Champagne at d’Oro just up the street.

She loved the fast cars and the convertibles and the gorgeous people who always seemed to have nothing more to do on weekday afternoons than lunch.

She loved it all.

 

She had to go.

She looked both ways, decided no one would see her if she was quick before squatting between a Bentley and a Ferrari. The cars were waiting in the valet parking line. She backed in between them, using the rear of the Ferrari and the front of the Bentley as arm rests.

Just as she thought it was going to happen, the Ferrari in front blasted alive and sped away with a chirp from the rear wheels.

Maybe later.

She crossed the street into the park. It was full of people, homeless by the looks of them. Nothing new. Santa Monica was known for its homeless people, some of the best benches in the world. The best leftovers. The best garbage. It was beginning to look like home to Suzze. Hey, you could do worse.

She looked around.

There was a fountain and a splash pool. Naked people were standing in ankle deep water. The Old Man was pouring water on their heads from a Gatorade bottle.

An old fashioned jam box was cranked to the max, playing In a Gadda da Vida.

She stood for a minute, in the middle of it, taking it all in, then walked toward the fountain.

“Well look at you, Jack. Aren’t you cute, standing there in your birthday suit?”

The Old Man stepped out of the fountain and wrapped a towel around his waist.

“I got to ask you, Jack, is there anything in the world uglier than old genitalia?

“Something else, Jack Why am I not surprised to see you here?

“Don’t I remember saying goodbye once already, Jack?”

“Three times,” said the Old Man.

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Jack. Nobody likes a smart-ass.”

She took the Old Man by the shoulders, steering him away from the crowd, “Let’s me and you go for a little walk and have a little talk, Jack, cause I got to tell you, I’m a little confused.”

They set off to wander through the crowd, groups and lines of half-naked people, who, was it her imagination or not? who took a step or two back as they walked by.

“Well, how was it?” the Old Man said, breaking the ice.

“Oh, it was a real trip Jack. Better than yours. I learned a lot, Jack. Yes indeed, I sure did.”

“Did they do that anal probe thing?” The Old Man was trying to be funny.

“I wish.”

The Old Man wasn’t sure if she was serious or not.

“So where did you go? On this trip, where did you go?”

“Back and forth, Jack. Back and forth. I’m beginning to think that’s the story of my life.”

“See anybody interesting?”

“My mom. And let’s see, and Joel. And Steve. They came to me in a dream, Jack. Just like in the bible.”

“Susan, you were in a drug-induced psychosis.”

“Well, it was still nice to see mother.”

“Your mother? Really? What did she say?”

“Goodbye forever, I guess. I really didn’t hear her say anything. Not out loud.”

“Oh.”

A Frisbee sailed by with an airborne dog in hot pursuit.”

“What do you think, Jack?” She click, click, clicked the pincers. “Suzze Scissorhands. Attractive, huh? One of the government guys did it for me. Took the butt of his gun and banged them into points.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“So I could poke him in the nuts when he wouldn’t keep his hands off me.”

Suzze pointed with her index claw to the Bentley, the one she’d squatted in front of, now pulling away from the curb.

“Brings back memories, Jack.”

Go back and check Chosen to confirm.

“Yeah, I saw it, remember? It was white, a white convertible.”

“Cream, Jack, not white. Cream. Or Crème, as the Bentley people call it.”

“The seats were blue, I’ll bet.” By now the Old Man was aware of the themes of Suzze’s life.

“Yep.”

“What was lavender?”

“The piping on the seats. And the carpets. And the custom luggage, it was lavender.”

“Logo?”

“Of course, Jack. What good is custom luggage if it’s not monogrammed?”

Suzze snapped her claws together making a clicking sound, still practicing, still learning how to operate them.

“Pink? You forgot pink,” said the Old Man.

“Pink. Pink? Let’s see now, what was pink? What was pink? Pink. Pink. Pink. Let me think. What was pink?” She clicked her nubs as she thought, “Oh yeah, it was the vibrator. I kept a pink vibrator in the console. A Pocket Rocket. I hated getting stuck at traffic lights with nothing to do.”

She put her arm around the Old Man’s shoulders, simultaneously clicking her fingers on one side and flicking her tongue in his ear on the other, “Ever have one, Jack? John? Did Old Man Johnny ever go bzzzz, bzzzz, bzzzz?”

Yes, he was sorry he had asked. “So what happened to it.”

“Batteries went dead.”

“The car, not the vibrator,” said the Old Man. “I saw the kid drive it away. Do you know what happened to it?”

“Yeah, saw it on the news. Got a couple miles down the road, pulled in to a quick mart to wash the poop off the hood, got carjacked, beat up and for left for dead.”

The Old Man shrugged off Suzze’s feigned embrace, “So tell me Susan, how did that make you feel?”

“Actions have consequences, Jack.”

Suzze raised her arms and let her head tilt back and closed her eyes, matching the angle of the sun.

“I could stay here Jack. Never leave. Never take another step. Live naked on a bench. Homeless in Santa Monica. That’s me, Jack.”

“Joel?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“You said you saw Joel. What did he say?”

“’Be careful.’ Not sure what he meant but that’s all he said.

“And Steve. Who’s Steve?”

“Steven Hadad. You know Steven Hadad, don’t you, Jack. Pastor Steve?”

“You know Steven Hadad? I didn’t know that.”

“Sure, Jack. Who you think got the little shit started?”

“Where’d you meet him.”

Suzze laughed, “In hell.”

“In the basement at BJU. He was there to give a talk, same as Joel. First time I met him he patted his lap and said ‘Welcome to hell.’ He was sitting on a commode. Told me I was his demonette for the evening. Got to tell you Jack, he sure was cute, still is.”

“But you married the other guy. Why’s that?”

“Steve and Joel, Jack. Think about it. One showed me his dick, the other showed me his money. Money won, Jack. Always does.”

A butterfly lit on her shoulder pulsing its wings slowly, angling to take in the energy of the sun.

The Old Man leaned forward for a closer look. “How perfectly beautiful,” he said. The Old Man continued to marvel at the butterfly perched on Suzze’s  shoulder, the facets of the eyes, the tiny sensory hairs on its body. Incredible, he thought, that anyone could believe a creation this magnificent, this perfect in form and function could have evolved from nothing. He waved his hand in front of it and noticed that the butterfly would follow his movements back and forth, up and down. With the creature distracted, he swept up behind it with his other hand, snatched it off Suzze’s shoulder, tore off the wings, broke the body in half and crushed it under his foot.

Suzze opened her eyes and recovered from her sun worship. “We need to talk, Jack.”

“We are talking, Susan.”

“Looks to me like you’re murdering innocent insects, Jack. No, I mean talk like really talk.”

“Okay, what do you have in mind.”

“I’m through, Jack.”

“Through?”

“Yeah, Jack. All this wondering and wandering, it’s not me, Jack. I need something real, Jack, something I can believe in, something to hold on to.”

“That’s where we’re headed. Straight is the path,” said the Old Man.

“Yeah, well, maybe for you, Jack, but I learned a lot back there, with mother and Joel and Steve. No matter where you go, there you are. I am who I am Jack. I am.”

“Well, now that you mention it, that’s sort of what I had in mind.”

“End of the road, Jack. My mom, and Joel, and the mansion,” Suzze paused to reflect, “and my breasts, and my fingers, and,” Suzze scrunched her nose in distain, “and you. It’s all too much, Jack. That bench over there, Jack, it’s got my name on it.”

“There’s a wino passed out on that bench,” said the Old Man.

“I can share,” said Suzze.

The Old Man grew agitated. “Look at this Susan. Look around. Look at all this. You think this is easy? Look at all those people. It’s a lot of work, Susan. Give me a break here, I can’t just snap my fingers and make it all happen, you know.”

Suzze clicked her nubs. “Well, at least you can snap, Jack.”

“Oh quit whining. Get over it. Shit happens.”

“I been meaning to ask you what you’re doing to do with them, Jack, all those naked people running around doing their best to look like me?”

“Can you wait just a minute?”

“Waiting’s over Jack. I told you back at the hospital. Remember the hospital, Jack? Boy that was a barrel of monkeys, wasn’t it?” She poked him in the chest, hard, with her index claw. “Don’t piss me off, Jack. I don’t like being pissed off and you’re beginning to piss – me - off.” She poked him again, emphasizing each word.

“Oh, and that thing under the bed.”

“What thing under the bed?”

“Didn’t your little friend Larry show you? I figured you and him were having a threesome. Not me, Jack. Huh uh.”

The Old Man was growing more agitated, even desperate, “You can’t do this to me. Not now. Not after all I’ve done for you.”

“Done for me, Jack? You’re right, Jack. I’m the one who’s gettin’ done here. I’m the one who’s been done, and you know what, I’m still waiting to be kissed. I don’t like being done unless I been kissed first, know what I mean? Pucker up, Jack, cause I think it’s your turn to get done for a while.”

“One more. One more, that’s all I ask, just one more.”

“More? Did I hear you say more, Jack? One more what, Jack?”

“All this stuff,” the Old Man raised his arms to envelope all that was going on around him, “all this stuff you see here, it wasn’t easy. So cut me some slack, okay? I’m about on my last nerve here if you know what I mean. One more stop. One more trip. One more adventure. You’ll love it, I promise.”

“One more zippy zappy, Jack?”

“If you say so, if that’s what you want to call it, yeah, one more. Just one more.”

Suzze thought for a second unable to contain a big grin, “What do we say, Jack?”

“What do we say? What do you mean, what do we say?”

“The magic word, Jack. You know the magic word.” She squeezed his cheek with her claws. “Come on. Say it, Jackie. Jackie, Jackie, Jackie. Say the magic word.”

The Old Man clenched his teeth and looked the other way, resisting the very idea of relinquishing control, nebulous as it might be.

“Please,” he said, in a low voice, still looking away.

“Nah, nah, nah, now. Be nice. Say it like you mean it.”

“Please goddammit. Is that what you want? Huh? Okay. Please. Please come with me, one more time.”

Suzze pecked him on top of the head, “That’s a good boy.”

The Old Man looked up, resentment oozing from every pore.

“Now you run on ahead and say goodbye to your little friends and gather up your stuff and I’ll catch up in a minute,” she said.

“What?!”

“Don’t talk back, Jack. Mommy spank.”

“Oh good grief.” The Old Man turned and walked away in a huff.

“Straight is the path,” he said, stomping across the park towards Santa Monica Boulevard.

She paused a minute to absorb the sun, and the park, and the beauty of it all, already regretting leaving. But a promise is a promise. And after all, he did say please. She grinned again. On the other hand, maybe things were looking up.

Then she noticed them as if a revelation. Waves and waves of white bathrobes from the curb to the edge of the palisade. They had been there all along. Only now were they seeping into her consciousness, the enormity of what was standing before her. And she did not have the slightest idea on God’s green earth what it was all for. Not a clue.

She looked across the park. The Old Man was already a hundred steps in front of her almost to the curb.

She ran to the curb, then quick stepped down the middle of the street to catch up.

Then stopped.

Something wasn’t right.

She dropped the robe to her feet, took off the pajamas and left them where they fell, standing in the middle of the boulevard naked as the day she was born.

A man, part of a foursome lunching alfresco a few feet away pointed to her and said, “That’s Suzze what’s her name. Slashed off her breasts, then ate them. A billion hits. All over the Internet.”

His face-lifted and liposuctioned companion filled in the blanks, “That Jesus freak who did those home shopping shows. I even bought a painting from her. You know, cute little cabins with stone paths and flowers everywhere? Like the English countryside on black velvet. Don’t ask me why. Turned out, it was a print. Paid too much. Way too much. Gave it to Juanita for her Christmas bonus. Bitch. Still asked me for cash. I tell you, these people don’t appreciate how good they’ve got it. They used to do her on TMZ. Runs around naked. I’m surprised she hasn’t been on Oprah.”

“Or Maury,” said the second man in the foursome. “That’s more her style. Look at her. Her fifteen minutes are about up. Next time you see her she’ll be living in a house trailer in Buggerville with a pit bull and a meth habit.”

The other woman at the table turned to him, “Maybe she needs an agent, Stanley. Put her on reality TV. Everybody you’ve got is in rehab anyway. She’d fit right in.”

Suzze slipped the robe back on and picked up the pace once more, the Old Man in the distance.

Halfway to the corner, she stopped again. Something still wasn’t right.

She untied the sash to her robe and tossed it into the foreign convertible beside her. She felt the cool air rush between her legs and sweep around her, up the back of her neck and through her hair.

After a few steps, it was there again. Something. Something. What? She was almost down to nothing. What was it? The Hush Puppies. She stared down at them.

“Hush Puppies, you’ve got to go,” she said to the shoes.

“No, no,” said the Hush Puppies. “Don’t leave us here all alone with these mean people in their Jimmy Choo’s and Manolo Blahnik’s.

“But I have to,” said Suzze. “You’ll be better off here where it’s sunny and warm and you can find a nice homeless person who loves you and will take care of you and not let the stray dogs chew you up.”

The Hush Puppy on the left wiggled her toes and said to the Hush Puppy on the right, “You want to go, don’t you? You’re with me on this, aren’t you?”

The Hush Puppy on the right wiggled his toes and said, “Sure, anywhere, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

“There, you heard him. He wants to go too. We both do,” said the Hush Puppy on the left.

“I can’t,” said Suzze. “I just can’t.” As she lifted her foot to slip off Mister Right, she heard Miss Left sniffling, holding back her tears.

Then, Suzze’s bare foot hit the hot asphalt.

“Goddamn it mother fu..!” she yelped. “Damn that’s hot.” Suzze hopped on her left foot, the one with the Hush Puppy, rubbing the blisters rising on the other sole.

She slipped Mister Right back on, stood up straight and caught her breath. She looked down at her shoes, Okay, I’ll keep the Hush Puppies. Hush Puppies are good.

Now she really had to run to catch up with the Old Man.

As she did, the Hush Puppies whispered to each other, “I knew she’d do it, I just knew she’d take us along.”

- - -

Three-thousand miles away, in a room overlooking the Potomac River, Jon Cromarty hovered his HumminByrd high above Santa Monica Boulevard.

One by one he saw them rise, slip on their white bathrobes and turn toward Suzze as a compass points to true north. They rose, with sagging breast and shrunken penis, with athletic fitness and the beauty of youth, with the bent shoulder of those who knew their waiting was near its end, all but naked not just to each other, but to the world.

Without speaking, without direction, without guidance except for the guidance they sensed from within, they flowed along behind, a single organism.

 

-end-

 

 

|Revelation

Suzze poked at a meatball with the tip of her index pincer.

“What’d you say, Jack? We were going someplace, ancient and romantic that had great food?”

They were in a Super Veloce, Rome’s excuse for bad fast food, a tavole calde, a hot table or mini cafeteria where glop is sold by the pound. She skewered the meatball onto the end of her finger and held it up to the Old Man, “Well, you were right about one thing, Jack. This meatball’s got to be a hundred years old.”

The Super Veloce was in the bus station across from the Vatican. They’d just arrived. Suzze was hungry. He was in a hurry. This was a compromise.

Suzze didn’t like Italian Food. Spaghetti gave her the runs and pizza bound her up.

She didn’t particularly care for the Vatican either. She’d been here before, on a trip with Joel to see the Pope, the good one, the one before now. She’d spent the day staring at old paintings while they did “bidnez” as Joel put it. Got to kick a little up. Got to wet everybody’s beak. Give them a little taste, deliver that Samsonite overnight case.

Suzze never liked Rome. Dangerous traffic, old buildings and hundred year old meatballs, she thought, wondering what was going on back at Josiah’s where she could be right now, watching the sun set over the Pacific while munching blinis and caviar. Might have to dig it out of a dumpster but anything would be better than this.

Yet here she was. Just like that. In Rome, under fluorescent lights at a plastic table, sitting in a plastic chair watching the Old Man eat leather pizza off an aluminum plate.

“Oh yeah, romantic. That’s the other thing you said, Jack, romantic.”

The Old Man gnawed off a piece of pizza.

“Help me, Jack. I’m gonna swoon.”

“Tell me about your mother,” he said.

“My mother?”

“Yeah, said she came to you in a dream but you never told me what happened. Where was home?”

“Where was home, Jack? Where was home really? I’ll tell you where home was, Jack. Between my mother’s legs. Singing and giggling and being free.”

“Between her legs?”

“Under her skirt. It was my own little world, Jack. Every time I remember my mother, she was singing and dancing. She’d wear these long, white cotton skirts, tie-dyed in these splashy colors. Pink and blue. Sometimes I’d dance with her, she’d hold my hands and we’d shake our butts, sometimes she’d swing me around. Hippie music. Mom was a leftover hippie. A flower child. She was born too late to be the real thing but she was still all peace and love and brotherhood and all that stuff. And if I needed to hide, I’d just sit between her legs and pick at the hair. Like being in a tent with the sunlight streaming through. I’d yank out a hair and she’d smack me. She never got mad. Never yelled at me. No matter how many hairs I pulled out of her legs, she’d always scoop me up and tell me how much she loved me.

“Our house, is a very very very fine house. That’s one I remember. One of the songs. One of her favorites. And Freedom’s just another word, that was another one.”

Suzze picked at her meatball, “We never had a very fine house, Jack. We lived with Dwight and Eunice, thank you Jesus, please Jesus, yes Jesus. Nothing was easy with Dwight and Eunice, Jack, so mother and me, we’d go out in the yard and she would smoke pot. I knew she was doing it because she would put me under her shirt while she smoked it. And when she finished, she would spin round and round and sing our house is a very very very fine house.

“That was my house, Jack. Under my mother’s skirt.”

“What happened?”

“They took her away. Saved her soul. Haven’t seen her since.”

Suzze took a bite of meatball and spit it out.

“You know, Jack. I learned a lot in there, back there in lockdown. Especially about Christians, Jack. A whole lot came back to me. A whole lot that I’d either forgotten or ignored, been ignoring for a long time.”

“What’s that?”

“That I don’t like them, Jack.”

Suzze pushed her plate away. “Not one bit.”

She pulled off her metal splints and massaged her nubs, healing now, but still sore.

“They’re stupid people, Jack. Stupid and dangerous. I learned I don’t like them Jack. Not one bit. Never did.”

“Made a lot of money,” said the Old Man.

“Can’t argue with that, Jack. A lot of money, sure did. I liked taking their money, Jack. I liked getting even. They wanted a ticket and we sold them a ticket. A ticket to nowhere maybe, but hey, give the people what they want. Isn’t that what it’s all about, the American way, Jack? A satisfied customer, Jack. All of our customers were satisfied. The more they believed, the more it came true for them, and the more they wanted more. That’s what we sold them, Jack. More. More of nothing, maybe, but it was still more. People need a dream, Jack. Sell them their dream. And the more it costs them, the more they like it. Stupid people, Jack. Screwing stupid Christians out of their money. That’s what we did. It was a win-win, Jack.”

Suzze reached over for a piece of the Old Man’s pizza, got it halfway to her mouth and tossed it back.

“Pussy, Jack. That’s what they wanted from me, Jack, pussy. Show them your pussy. Show them your ass. Show them your clothes, your furniture, your car. Show them your pussy and tell them that one day, if they’re lucky, and if they pray -- and if they pay -- one day they can have a pussy just like yours. A rich pussy. That’s all they all want, Jack, a rich pussy. That’s what we got paid for, Jack, living their dream.”

Suzze ran out of steam.

“So what happened next?” asked the Old Man.

“Next what, Jack?”

“After they took your mother away. What did you do then?

“I stayed with Eunice and Dwight.”

“Not good?”

“It was okay. They were hard-working, God fearing people. The firemen got there just in time.”

“Firemen?”

“Yeah, I was about fourteen by then, I guess. Got my period. Eunice went crazy, wouldn’t let me out of the house. Anyway, the house went up in no time. Bad wiring or something, they never knew exactly. They kicked in the front door and found me lying inside on the floor, almost unconscious. A few minutes more and I wouldn’t have made it. That’s what they said. They had a picture of me the next day in the paper, front page, the 6 o’clock news, the whole nine yards. Russ, that’s the fireman, Russ carrying me out in his arms, me like a rag doll in my pajamas all covered with little lambs and crosses and baby Jesus. God saved me. It was a miracle. I was famous for a day.”

“After that?”

“Foster home. Lived upstairs. Home schooled. Never came out of my room, except to go to church. Still had to go to church. No matter how much things change, it’s still the same, or something like that. Isn’t that what they say, Jack?”

Suzze pushed her chair back, stood and put her splints back on.

“Come on, Jack. Whatever you’ve got in mind, let’s get this show on the road.”

The Old Man collected their aluminum plates and plastic forks and tossed them on the floor beside the overflowing garbage can. He met Suzze at the door.

“Eunice and Dwight?”

“Yeah, what about them?”

“What happened to them? You didn’t tell me what happened to them.”

“Eunice and Dwight? Grandmamma Eunice and Grandpappa Dwight? They didn’t make it, Jack.”

- - -

It was early evening now, getting dark in Rome. Suzze and the Old Man were on the two-dollar tour, strolling past the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain, Suzze becoming more agitated with every step, having done it all before.

Deciding to take charge, Suzze steered them to the Via Condotti, one of the more fashionable streets in Rome, to her favorite place, her only favorite place in Rome, Il Cioccolateria. There was a line stretching out the door of the small shop. Truffles, Jack. Chocolate. She stood gazing into the brown and gold windows of the elegant little store.

“Romantic,” the Old Man said.

“My idea, Jack. You’re not stealing the credit. So far you haven’t been hittin’ on shit, if you know what I mean.”

They got in line, joining dozens others waiting to get inside.

Thirty minutes later, halfway through the line, the Old Man pulled at her sleeve. “There. Over there. There he is.”

“He, who, Jack?”

“Someone I want you to meet.”

“Screw him, Jack. I’m not getting out of line now. I’m hungry, Jack. I want chocolate. This is all getting to be a bunch of bullshit, Jack, and I’m way past over it if you know what I mean.”

The Old Man grabbed hold of her sleeve and walked her in tow across the street full of people strolling arm in arm on their evening paseo.

“Over here, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” The Old Man guided her across the street to the Brioni store, behind a man, a tall man,  his arms clasped behind his back, sizing up the suits in the window.

Suzze saw the reflection of the man’s face in the glass, out of focus and golden under the glow of the yellow street lights.

He had a lean, clean shaven face and was dressed in what Suzze might best describe as slummy but expensive formal wear.

A violet-grape-purple top coat, maybe silk, over a dark suit, no tie, coat unbuttoned, unstructured linen shirt, crisp, glowing white, with a deep-golden lamb’s wool scarf draped over his shoulders hanging below his waist.

He looked like Jeremy Irons -- or Keith Richards -- or maybe Johnny Depp -- in reverse, blurry in the shop window, but still graceful, elegant, self-confident.

In control.

Tall.

Bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Expensive shoes. Perforated leather.

Definitely in control.

No, not Keith Richards.

Jeremy Irons. Just like Jeremy Irons . . .

Except for the mascara . . .

The Old Man reached out to tap the him on the shoulder but as he did, almost on cue, the tall man spun on his heels, proudly upright, smiled, thrust out his both hands, both shaking and holding Suzze’s hands in his as he said with unrestrained enthusiasm in impeccable finishing school English, “Suzze! Suzze, I’ve heard so much about you! I’ve been just dying to meet you!”

Suzze was spellbound.

He, himself, was merely an oddly, darkly handsome, obviously refined man.

But his eyes, his eyes were the most captivating she had ever seen, with mascara, or a tattoo, she couldn’t tell which, that swept from the corners of his neon blue eyes and flowed onto his temples, swirling in spirals and curlicues, like the patterns that Arab women paint on their hands, except that his was dark blue and deep purple instead of henna brown.

“And – you – are?” asked Suzze.

“Yeshu’a.”

Suzze barely nodded her lack of understanding.

“Yeshu’a bar yosef?”

She shook her head again.

“I thought John told you?” he said and looked down at the Old Man.

Suzze glanced to the Old Man, then back to the man standing in front of her.

“Jesus. Jesus Christ. And it is such a pleasure to meet you at last. John has told me so much about you, and I have been waiting such a long time, and it really, really is a pleasure.”

 

-end-

 

 

 

| Breaking Bread

“It’s all about power, Miss Osmond, pure and simple.”

They, Suzze, Yeshu’a, and the Old Man, were having dinner. Yeshu’a had picked the place, his town, his prerogative, the Ristorante Piperno on Monte dé Cenci, on the edge of the Ghetto of Rome. [Duplicate] There were half a dozen tables outside, enclosed in a courtyard of faded pink and blue stucco, lavender shutters , white umbrellas, white tablecloths, discretely placed quartz heaters to fend off the late evening chill, ivy clinging to every crack and crevice, and a single cat who looked like she had lived there for a hundred years. It was, by any reasonable person’s standards, supper in style.

“Best falafel in town,” said Yeshu’a said as they approached their table. “And the artichokes in the Jewish style, outstanding. Burt Wolf, that dapper fellow who does the food shows, he recommends it . . “

Yeshu’a continued talking as another waiter seated Suzze at an impossibly small, round table set for three, “. . and who, of course, do you think turned him on to the place, hint, hint?”

Suzze was regretting this already.

Another waiter appeared and delivered a plate of olives, three small flasks of oil and a pagnotta di pane, a loaf of bread. A moment later, he returned smiled and presented a bottle of 2007 Brunello di Montalcino to Yeshu’a, a Sangiovese he knew to be among Signore bar yosef’s favorites.

Yeshu’a nodded his approval, took the bottle from the waiter’s hands, a breach of etiquette perhaps, and turned to Suzze, “Allow me,” and began to pour.

Yeshu’a cocked his eye and asked, “So tell me Miss Osmond, Suzze, may I call you Suzze?, Are you she who is to come, or shall we look for another?"

The Old Man interjected, whispering into his ear, “Slow down, take your time, give it a minute.”

“Did you know, my dear, that Sangiovese means the blood of God in Italian?”

“Jove,” said the Old Man. “Blood of Jove, not God.”

Suzze shrugged her indifference.

“A fine point perhaps, but hardly worth the distinction,” Yeshu’a smiled at Suzze.

“Jove, not God,” insisted the Old Man.

Yeshu’a finished pouring, took the loaf of bread, broke it into three pieces, placed them in the middle of the table and raised his glass to offer a toast.

Suzze raised her glass, then paused, a long and thoughtful pause.

Yeshu’a smiled a bit broader and tipped his glass a bit higher, inviting her once again to join him in his toast.

Instead, Suzze sat her glass back on the table, picked up a piece of the bread and gently but deliberately set it in front of Yeshu’a. She smiled, “Come on.”

Not understanding, Yeshu’a -- glass still in the air -- looked down at the bread and then back to Suzze.

Suzze repeated herself, “Come on. Do something. Show me what you’ve got.”

Yeshu’a sat his glass on the table, looked over to the Old Man expecting a response, an explanation for this impropriety, to get only a shrug in return, then looked back at Suzze and said, “My dear, I’m not a magician. I don’t do tricks.”

Suzze used her index pincer to nudge the piece of bread a bit closer, poke, poke, poke, as if teasing a child, until she had scooted the bread closer and closer.

“Just a little one.” She slid it one last teeny little bit. “Doesn’t have to be anything big. Make it roll over. Or sit up. Or beg, or bark. Anything. Just show me what you’ve got.”

“My dear, miracles are a state of mind, not being. They’re meta-physical. To receive a miracle, you must first believe that the miracle can occur. Faith, my dear. You must first have faith. You must believe.”

Suzze picked up her glass, killed it in one swig, snapped it back onto the table and looked Yeshu’a squarely in the eyes. “Hit me,” she said.

Astonished, Yeshu’a cautiously filled her glass.

She tilted her head full back, sucked the wine down, snapped the glass back on the table, looked to the heavens, raised her hands in mock reverence and said, “If only you believe my brothers and sisters. If only you be-lieve.”

She pointedly composed herself, shaking it off, discretely tapped the rim of her glass, click, click, click, indicating that she would like for it to be replenished, took a sip, took a breath and said, without any hint of sarcasm, “I tried it. It didn’t work.”

The water reappeared. They ordered. Cotoletta de Vitello alla Bolognese for Yeshu’a, Coratella di Agnello con Funghi for the Old Man and Spiedino di Mazzancolle for the lady, with a plate of Carciofa alla Giudia, artichokes, in the Jewish style of course, to get them started. And yes, of course, another bottle of wine, yes, of course, the Montalcino will do splendidly.

Yeshu’a decided to seize the break to change the subject. He tilted his head discretely, following the lapel of her bathrobe down the valley of her shrunken breasts, barely able to discern the edge of an areola. He rested his hand on hers, the left one, the good one, and leaned forward and said in a voice almost seductive, “Pardon me, but I do have to tell you how much I adore your minimalist sense of fashion. Shall we say, la mode provocateur?”

Suzze stared down at his hand, then back to his face, now replete with smug grin, wondering if he was real, what’s the game? She nudged her captive hand, a signal to be let go but he grasped it tighter, subtly tighter, perhaps an affectionate squeeze, perhaps a sign of passive dominance accompanied by a faint wink as he languorously allowed his hand to unleash hers and slide away.

Suzze lowered her voice, drawing from her diaphragm in an effort to regain control, “Tell me something Yeshu’a . . .”

He broke in, “Oh, please, do call me Yesh.”

“Tell me something, Yesh, can you zippy zap around like Jack, here one minute, somewhere else the next?”

Yeshu’a glanced sideways, to the Old Man,  “He does make an interesting travelling companion, doesn’t he?” Yesh answered, while avoiding the question. “Something about time and space, he tells me.”

Suzze waited for more.

Yeshu’a nodded, “But do let’s get back to the here and now. Carpe diem, that’s what I say.”

The artichokes, in the Jewish style, appeared.

Yeshu’a recited Suzze’s history to her, in more detail than she would have imagined he could have known, had she thought about it, or had she cared, which she did not, but it was his show and she was being polite.

“So, what a strange and beautiful trip you have been on, my dear,” he said in conclusion.

God, did the man like to talk. And talk and talk and talk.

The food was served, the waiters once again disappeared, dinner was begun, it was time for the resplendent host to regale his guests with the splendors of the Eternal City, where he currently made his abode.

It seemed to go on forever.

And ever.

It was mostly idle name dropping, a lot of dull history and the occasional goings on at the Vatican. None of it was very interesting and behind it all was the portent of doom and gloom, especially for the Pope, seemed like no way out, sad really, poor fellow, didn’t know what he was getting himself in to, yada, yada, yada.

Suzze was snapped out of her daze, which had been induced in equal parts by Yeshu’a insipid travelogue and the second bottle of wine, when the waiters finally came to clear the table.

“Power,” said Suzze.

“Beg your pardon?” Yeshu’a was still listening to himself talk.

“Power. When we got here you were saying something about power,” Suzze reminded him.

“Oh, yes, back to the beginning. Well, the crux of the matter, as I see it, is, in my humble opinion, always power. How do you get it? How do you define it? How do you keep it?”

“And how do you do that, Yeshu’a?” Suzze continued to play along.

“When you set out to dominate a society, Ms. Osmond, you first provide them with their play-toys. Then you control their arsenal. And then you provide them with a God. I’m in the early stage of that process, and I think we can be of benefit to each other. Are you interested?”

“What’s in it for me?” Suzze saw no reason not to be blunt.

“You my dear. You’re in it for you.”

Suzze expected the Old Man to jump in but he didn’t. His arms were crossed. He seemed to be counting the bugs circling a street light across the plaza.

“So I’m supposed to save the world, is that it?” She picked a stray olive off the Old Man’s plate.

“Goodness gracious, no. That’s such nonsense. No one can save the world. Of course not. Save it from what? Itself? No.”

“Then what?” Suzze was growing agitated.

The Old Man unfolded his arms, put his elbows on the table and leaned in, in an effort to keep the conversion confined to the table, “The world needs an agent of change. And it needs a woman to be a part of that change. Used to be, you could ignore them, women. Not anymore.”

Yeshu’a picked it up, joining the Old Man in a tag-team sales pitch, “The world is always changing, evolving. A new age is here. I realize that sounds a bit, what do they say?, corny, but it’s true. The world needs an agent of change and it needs a woman to play that role.”

Suzze, being an accomplished negotiator, went into introspective mode, hands folded under her chin, thinking of nothing but giving them the impression that she was considering the yet-to-be-elucidated offer. As she piddled in silence, she noticed a poof, an iridescent rainbow of colors emanating from between Yeshu’a’s legs and up his back only to realize a second later that he had pooted. Or farted. Can Jesus fart? Does Jesus fart? Rainbows? While she was considering the possibility, Yeshu’a continued talking in the background.

“Getting back to the issue at hand, perhaps the question you might consider is, Are you going to squander your good fortune wandering from place to place, chastising yourself with self-mutilation, picking up a few disciples here and there, showing your pubic hair, quite lovely, by the way, or are you going to crawl on top of the world and give it a good hump?”

“How you gonna pay for it?” Suzze decided to see if these two knew what they were talking about.

“Corporate sponsors,” said the Old Man.

“They’ll want diversity,” said Yeshu’a.

“You’re going to advertise?” asked Suzze, incredulous.

Jesus shook his head in supplication, “Advertising. I know. I know. Wretched stuff. People are so naïve. No wonder their religion is shopping. They’re brainwashed, powerless to think for themselves, unable to control their needs and desires. But it is the way of the world, pay the devil his due, I suppose.”

“You’re telling me you’re going to run commercials?”

“People will believe anything if they like the commercials,” said Yeshu’a.

“It’s a solid brand,” said the Old Man.

“We’re going to brand me,” said Yeshu’a. “I mean, really, how exciting is that?”

“Re-brand,” correct the Old Man.

“Just absurd. On the other hand, these are absurd times, are they not?” said Yeshu’a.

“Been there, done that.” Suzze skewered a shrimp onto her finger and popped it into her mouth, “Got to give the people what they want.”

“Exactly,” said Yeshu’a.

“And exactly what do the people want?” asked Suzze, wondering if she would hear anything she hadn’t heard before, something other than that tired old, new beginning bullshit.

“A new beginning,” said the Old Man.

“Which is what I do so well,” said Yeshu’a.

Suzze skewered another shrimp and bit it in half.

“Here’s the bottom line my dear, I need a wife. I need someone to do my dirty work and I think you are uniquely qualified.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” said Suzze, “but it sounds like any old brood mare will do. Why me?”

“Men are weak. Always have been, actually. Can’t resist the mother figure. Big tits and a juicy cooze will smite them every time.”

It wasn’t the answer Suzze was looking for.

“What he meant to say,” said the Old Man, “is that, historically, the Abrahamic religions have always diminished the Divine Feminine, a mistake in hindsight, but not one we can afford to make again in this day and age.”

Yeshu’a tipped his glass, “So, shall we do it?”

“Do what?”

“Get married and save the world.”

Suzze raised her glass, then paused in mid clink, Let me get back with you on that.”

Somewhat perturbed, Yeshu’a took a sip to save face, then patted his lips with his napkin, “Oh, how forgetful of me.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a box covered in beige leather, embossed with a golden cross, with blue and lavender ribbons. As he eased it toward her, he used the opportunity to turn it into an intimate gesture, to whisper, “John put the bug in my ear.”

Instead of a simple, thank you, Suzze cast her eyes back and forth from Yeshu’a to the Old Man and back again in obvious suspicion.

She pulled away the ribbons and began to lift the top of the box, then stopped halfway, “This isn’t going to blow up or anything, is it, Jack?”

She removed the lid and sat the top of the box on the table. Inside were two metal splints, very similar to those she was wearing, crafted from polished silver, honed to a fine point and lined with purple velvet for a snug fit. Around the circumference was an engraving, inset with gold, a few Latin words she didn’t understand.

Suzze eased them onto her nubs and held them to the light, rotating her hand to show them off.

Click, click, click, click, click. “Nice,” she said.

Suzze noticed that Yeshu’a had launched another rainbow as it wafted into the night air.

Satisfied that Suzze was satisfied, he stood, “Pardon me, nature calls, as they say.”

Suzze nodded her understanding.

Yeshu’a took a step, then stopped and turned back toward the table, “Oh, and one more thing my dear, that Pastor Steve fellow, a friend of yours, I understand. Reminds me of Billy Graham. And what a poseur he was. Allowed his poor wife to be buried beside a talking cow for heaven’s sake. Never spoke to him, not once, not ever. And what did he say, Been talkin’ to Jesus, been talkin’ to Jesus. Despicable. Don’t get me started.”

But Yeshu’a couldn’t stop, “These people, these tele-evanglists,” he made a point of enunciating the syllables, “are hoodwinkers, nothing more. I don’t mind hoodwinking, people have always been hoodwinked, always will be, but I’ll be damned if they’re going to continue to hoodwink by my name, under my mantle.

Another rainbow, a big one, shot across the courtyard.

“And?” Suzze asked, wondering what the conclusion of Yesh’s little diatribe might be, “you were mentioning Steve. What about him.”

“I’m sorry my dear, but he has to go.”

“And what if Steven is not so happy to just go?”

“And, and,” Yeshu’a was at a loss for words, “and I will smite them each and every one.”

“Looks like maybe somebody is beating you to it,” said Suzze, throwing the bait, wondering if he would bite.

“Vengeance is mine, and that’s all I’ve got to say on the matter,” he replied, in a huff.

Something crunched in Suzze’s mouth. She reached in, pulled out an objectionable piece of shrimp and flicked it away, “No need to have a conniption fit.”

“So glad we could get that out of the way.” Another rainbow trailed Yeshu’a as he made his way inside to the facilities.

Suzze waited until he was out of earshot and leaned over to the Old Man, “Just remember, Jack, that the greatest trick the Devil ever played was making people think Jesus was real.”

 

-end-

[Leonard Goldwater stands, dark suit, arms crossed, against a seamless white background. His expression is somber. The camera cuts to a head and shoulders shot. He stares into the camera with certainty and speaks, pausing for emphasis between each phrase.]

Goldwater:

It’s over.

He’s not coming back.

He never was … and recent developments at the Vatican prove it once and for all.

[Goldwater strikes a pensive mood, hand on chin, thinking]

Goldwater:

Maybe it’s time you told them something.

Maybe it’s time you told them you want your money back.

Not just the swindlers in Rome, not just the nuns and priests and pedophiles and debauchers of the Catholic church – but all of them.

All the Baptists and the Presbyterians and the Methodists and the holy rollers and the whole disgusting bunch.

[Goldwater wags his finger to assert his point]

Goldwater:

Remember, they came to you.

They got you hooked.

They took your money and promised you Jesus in – the – flesh.

[Goldwater nods his head in agreement with himself]

Goldwater:

Well fraud is still fraud.

And victims have rights.

[Goldwater points directly into the camera]

Goldwater:

So stop what you’re doing – right now – and call your preacher and tell him you want your money back. All of it.

Then call the law offices of Goldwater and Cruze.

[Goldwater gives a self-assured nod]

Goldwater:

Goldwater and Cruze. Cause he’s not coming back.

#end

 

| Bunga Bunga

“You’re a pimp, Jack.”

They had said goodnight to Yeshu’a who was on his way to visit an old friend, and were walking down the hall on the second floor of the Apostolic Palace, the guest apartments of the Vatican housing bunga bunga rooms for higher-ups in need of corporeal stimulation.

Suzze was talking to the HushPuppies, comparing dinner notes. Although they weren’t sure they cared for him, both Mr. Right and Miss Left agreed that Yeshu’a was a handsome man of impeccable tastes and sophistication, and oh, oh, oh those fabulous eyes.

“And the gift, the gift was nice,” said Miss Left.

“Yes, yes it was, but a little presumptuous don’t you think?” said Mr. Right, “for a first date.”

Suzze stopped and stomped her foot to admonish Mr. Right, “Don’t say that! It wasn’t a date!”

The Old Man fished for the key, compared the number to the door and entered the apartment. It was formerly the private domain of Cardinal Iacopo Borogolio who, having a fetish for pop art and the mod style of the 70’s, had it decorated top to bottom like a cheap motel. He had developed the fetish as a young priest while ministering to every street walking puttana on the south side of Naples. It had been vacant for some time and smelled of unwashed flesh and stale marijuana.

Cardinal Borogolio had been an oddity. Boys had never been his style. He preferred women like his sainted mamma, lusty, big breasted women with hairy armpits, a bush that extended from navel to knees, and breath redolent with the fishy aroma of fresh sperm.

Months earlier, Iacopo had hit the road when it was discovered that he was short something on the high side of two-hundred million Euros without offsetting receipts, having laundered the funds through the Istituto per le Opere di Religione, the IOR, commonly known as the Vatican Bank.

Cardinal Borogolio currently resided on a hillside villa in Panama, quite opulent, following a tradition previously established by Joseph Aloisius “Rat Man” Ratzinger, otherwise known as Pope Benedict XVI, namely, When the shit hits the fan, head for the hills. Quando la merda colpisce il ventilatore, testa per le colline, or something like that.

The loss, though not inconsequential to the Vatican, was not uncommon, so the press office spun it in biblical terms, see no evil, speak no evil, forgiveness this, forgiveness that, yada yada yada, and with the raised hand of a papal pardon, Iacopo, Jock to his friends and family, was off the hook.

They walked inside.

“Wow, Jack got to hand it to you, you still haven’t lost that wonderful sense of humor.”

“Hey, it’s free. And it’s the Vatican. And it’s Rome. And rooms are hard to come by. I pulled some strings. Quit complaining.”

Suzze sat on the edge of the bed and bounced up and down to make the springs squeak in simulated coitus, “I kind of like it, Jack. Reminds me of a Motel 6 me and Joel lived in for a while.”

As the Old Man wandered around opening drawers and peering behind the draperies, Suzze read aloud from an iPhone, “Nietzsche says that hope makes us forgo the essence of life, the here and now – which is why preachers and politicians always espouse Hope. They like to sell the future so they don’t have to be accountable for today.”

“Where’d you get the iPhone?”

“Stole it from Larry. His toilet. Remember? The day you blew my finger off? Fingers. Fingers, Jack.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that wasn’t me?”

The Old Man continued to inspect the premises. Crusts of dried semen stained the pink shag carpet. There was no bathroom as such, the bathroom and bedroom merely one large space. The fixtures showed their age, cast iron spotted with rust and mold. An ancient throne, complete with padded toilet seat sat between the sink and stand-alone shower stall. There was no tub. A coin box on the wall controlled the vibrating bed. Got to give the decorator credit, the room was a museum piece, a stage set for high-level high jinks.

Suzze dropped her robe and headed for the commode, draining the last drops of instant cappuccino that was sure to keep her awake but good for her bowels, which were in distress after spending the past hour and a half eating artichokes, in the Jewish style, no less, with Jesus Christ, catching up on old times.

Suzze’s bare bottom plopped down on the spongy vinyl seat with a smack, squishing the air from it with a honk. She removed the HushPuppies and sat them each at the base of the commode, Mr. Right on the right, Miss Left on the left, lifted her feet and folded them across the seat Buddha-like, joined palms, took a deep breath and began to hum.

“Susan, what are you doing?” the Old Man asked, still prowling the room, now flipping through a stack of vintage pornographic videotapes.

“I’m Supremely Relaxing My Anus, Jack.” She rolled back and forth on the padded toilet seat, settling in, “It affords significant health benefits. It’s Zen.”

“Oh.” He continued to scrutinize the dirty movies.

“A tight anus is not a healthy anus, Jack.”

The Old Man tucked one of the videotapes into his pocket, then continued walking around the fetid premises. He tried to open and close the door to the shower, which was stuck, pulled a lamp cord, turned it on, turned it off, turned it on again.

“Nietzsche got it right, Jack. Religion is a disease. A mental illness. A sales pitch. A promotion. A way to separate suckers from their money. Trust me, Jack, I know whereof I speak.”

The Old Man ran out of corners to explore and took his place on the floor beside the commode.

Suzze stopped her meditation, having given up on her unhealthy anus, and tapped in another book she had downloaded from Amazon. She looked down to Mr. Right and Miss Left, “So, picking up where we left off, Quantum physics might seem to undermine the idea that nature is governed by laws, but that is not the case. Instead it leads us to accept a new form of determinism: Given the state of a system at some point in time, the laws of nature determine the probabilities of various futures and pasts rather than determining the future and past with certainty.”

Suzze elaborated, offering her own interpretation of the passage to Mr. Right and Miss Left, “Those who believe in the desert gods, Yahweh, Allah, Jesus, etcetera, etcetera, find that incomprehensible, but people must come to accept theories that agree with experiment, not their own preconceived notions or what a preacher, the very personification of ignorance, tells them.”

She looked down at her shoes, “Still with me?”

“With you,” said Miss Left.

“Got it,” said Mr. Right.

She looked over to the Old Man who was reading the carton to the purloined videotape, or staring at the pictures, she wasn’t sure which.

“To continue, ‘What science demands of a theory is that it is testable. If the probabilistic nature of the predictions of quantum physics meant it was impossible to confirm those predictions, then quantum theories would not qualify as valid theories. The bottom line is that quantum physics agrees with observation.” Suzze enunciated for emphasis, “It has never, not once, failed a test, and it has been tested more than any other theory in science.”

“Wow,” said Miss Left, “you know your stuff.”

“Stephen Hawking and Leonard Mlodinow. The Grand Design. They lay it all out. I paraphrase, of course,” said Suzze.

“What about Jesus,” asked Mister Right?

“Well, there is little or no credible evidence that he ever existed.”

“Now, now, now,” said the Old Man, now fondling the videotape.

“Let me get back with you on the Jesus part,” said Suzze.

“I mean, what happens? Do our soles just wear out?” Mister Right was distressed.

“Are we just canvas and rubber?” Miss Left was catching his anxiety.

“What are we?” asked Mister Right.

“Yes, what are we made of?” asked Miss Left.

Suzze sought to comfort them, “We are stardust. We are golden. We will all return to our beginnings in a billion, billion little pieces. And we will join again and again with a billion, billion other little pieces for all of eternity. What a wonderful thing.” Suzze was in awe of the purity and simplicity of it all.

“I’m not so sure I feel any better.” Mister Right was forlorn.

“Me neither,” said Miss Left. “It’s good to have something to believe in, something to hang on to, something to hope for.”

Suzze decided to ignore them, clueless souls that they be.

Suzze lowered the iPhone and gazed around the room talking to herself as much as the Old Man, “You know, Jack, I loved Joel. I really did. Once upon a time, I did. Joel created me. He made me who I am. Or at least who I was. Maybe being who I was made me who I am, but when you get right down to it, Joel was just a slimy little used car salesman and I was his hot ride. I don’t want to be anybody’s ride anymore. I don’t. I won’t. I know that now.”

She looked down at the HushPuppies, justifying her decision, “He could barely read. Couldn’t write. Eight best sellers and he couldn’t write a lick. But boy could he smile. Smile and talk. I swear to God, the man smiled in his sleep.”

“How was he in bed?” asked Mr. Right.

“That’s none of your business.”

Miss Left piped in, “Oh come on, just between us girls.”

She leaned in close to Miss Left, “Like a rabbit. Fast, relentless and unimaginative, if you have to know.”

“Your man’s just like him, Jack. And do you really believe that anybody is really going to believe that this guy is the corporeal son of the Jew god Yahweh. Really, Jack? Really?”

“It worked before.”

“Before? Before’s not now, Jack. Now’s the Internet. Now’s Grand Theft Auto 8. He’s a pussy, Jack, weak in the knees.”

Suzze put her feet down, folded her arms across her knees and rested her head in her lap, looking down at the floor, whispering to herself, “Be-lieve. If only you believe. Believe, believe, believe. It is yours, if only you believe. If only you believe, my brothers and sisters.”

A minute passed in silence.

Suzze sat upright and looked the Old Man straight in the eye, “I don’t believe anymore Jack. I never did. I wanted them to believe. Not me. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m finished.”

The sweaty vinyl seat stuck to Suzze’s butt, then dropped with a plunk as she stood up and walked to the shower.

The Old Man returned the videotape to his pocket and looked into the commode, which was empty. He flushed it anyway, just for good measure.

Suzze stepped into the shower, yanking and jimmying the sliding Plexiglas door trying to get it to close. The shower started and stopped and started again as it spewed rusty water.

She called out above the hissing shower, “You know, Jack, they’re not far from figuring the whole thing out, this whole cosmic thing. And when they do, when ultimate truth is revealed, what then, Jack?”

“Four Horsemen? The Antichrist? 6-6-6?” said the Old Man.

“Come on Jack, that fire and brimstone shit is so ancient history. Bad things don’t have to happen. And when they do, they do, that’s all. That’s life. Buck up. Get used to it.”

“Buck up. Buck up? That’s life? Shit happens? You think they’re gonna go for that? You think that’s what they want to hear? Especially with no pot of gold on the back end? That’s your message? Stardust? Golden? Don’t count on it.”

Suzze turned off the water, grabbed a towel to dry her hair and stepped back into Miss Left and Mister Right, “You know Jack, I’ve been thinking.  No, that’s not true, you’ve been leading me to believe, Jack, you’ve been leading me to believe that this was going to be about me, Jack.  Now you tell me you want me to marry this guy. I’m going to be someone’s wife, Jack? I didn’t sign up to play second string, Jack, not that I actually remember signing up at all.”

Suzze donned her robe. “Remember Oprah, Jack? All about how you needed a Messianic figure? Me the new Oprah? And now you want me to be a freaking housewife, Jack?

“Oh yes, Yeshu’a you’re so special.

“Oh yes, Yeshu’a, I can’t live without you.

“Oh yes, Yeshu’a, you’re my one and only.

“Oh please, Yeshu’a, can I have some more, please, sir?

“Oh, and in case you’ve missed something here, Jack, I’m not exactly pure of flesh, if you know what I mean.”

“But Susan, there are sacrifices to be made. You have to think of the greater good.”

“Nope Jack. I sacrificed already, remember?”

“Think about it. You never know. You might feel better about it in the morning.”

“Why’s that, Jack?”

“Cause I don’t think I’ve ever known two people more perfectly suited for each other.”

“A dream come true,” said Mr. Right.

“A match made in heaven,” said Miss Left.

-end-

Have you or your children been approached by a Christian, at work, at home, in the park or a shopping mall, trying to recruit you into their morally corrupt and deviant lifestyle?

Were you overwhelmed with promises of happiness, health or financial independence?

Did you give them money, only to see those claims and offers fail to materialize?

You may be eligible for damages, for medical expenses, psychiatric evaluation and family counseling to help you and your loved ones recover.

Currently, there is no cure for Christianity.

But there is help.

Contact the Law offices of Goldwater and Cruze today.
It’s time to make them pay.

#end

 

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