So we’re about to leave Devlin’s Eatery. I’m holding open the door for Christ’s date, Bloody Mary, and my own date, the triune personhood Cinnamon-Dove-Eyeshadow. The women are pacing in slow-motion lockstep, the Trinity beside the Magdalene, as sisters and lovers: their aim is to cross the threshold of the present establishment and enter into the outdoor world.
Now, as is clearly stated by Zeno’s dichotomy paradox: that which is in locomotion must reach the half-way stage before it arrives at the goal. Thus, although our dates wish to exit the region of spacetime known as “the interior of Devlin’s Eatery,” so as to occupy the expanse surrounding the restaurant’s perimeter whose ground is cobblestone, before the goddesses can get there, they must get halfway there. And before they can get halfway there, they must get a quarter of the way there; and so on.
Now, just as our dinner dates are on the brink of traversing this “and so on” aspect of Zeno’s paradox, Jesus Christ rises up on his loafers while being dramatically lit in his fine Italian suit — he holds his arms out to either side in the split-‘T’ position, having a pistol in his left hand and a revolver in his right; and he shouts in a loud voice, which gains the attention of the diner’s patronage:
“Time for a long goodbye.”
I lean in and whisper, “Lord, what are you doing? Our ladies are hot; they’d like to undress in the open air. I suggest that we let them.”
Christ the Lord turns his face very slowly until he meets my eyes. He simply stares at me until I grow ashamed. Then he turns slowly back and faces the audience, who are sitting at the tables of the eatery.
“Have you ever seen a sea of glass mingled with fire?” Christ shouts. Then he tilts his head back slightly toward me while still fixing his gaze upon the crowd, and he mutters: “Bry, you’re a journalist, right? Then go stand on the sea of glass (don’t ask where it exists; it’s your calling to create it: bring the damned thing into existence), and prophesy loudly while Mary plays the harp.”
So I let the glass door gently close shut, and I take the hands of our respective dates, the Magdalene and the Trinity, and the three-to-five of us leave Jesus blocking the diner’s only exit. The damsels and I make our way back to the kitchen, pushing the robotic staff members aside as we do so — shutting them off if they try to resist — and we come to rest before the stove.
“Alright,” I say to the gals; “now I’ve heard that if you heat up regular sand from the beach, it will liquefy; you can then let it dry on a flat surface, and silver its backside — this produces a mirror. I’m thinking that we could then use a power drill and a few steel bolts to fasten a number of wooden logs underneath the mirror, so that it can serve as a table. We can stand on that for our routine.”
Then I turn to the Trinity and say: “Cinnamon, Dove, Eyeshadow, can you all run down to the beach and get us some sand?”
“I don’t know; can we?” sez sassy Cinnamon.
I shake my head: “Will you, please?”
“Sure,” the Trinity winks.
Now, as the girls are climbing out thru the eatery’s air-duct maze, I turn to Ms. Magdalene and say: “I gotta get started on these biscuits. Could you help me find a flat pan and extra oil?”
So Bloody Mary and I set to work in the kitchen baking my signature dish — it’s the same one that went over so well at Big Ed’s Diner, if you remember that episode.
§
Jesus is still standing, holding his firearms and blocking the exitway; but now he is leading the customers of Devlin’s Eatery in a hymn of praise to “Master Moses”. He himself is not singing, however — only the patrons are, while Christ conducts them.
And at about two-thirds of the way thru the second verse, behold, the saloon doors of the kitchen swing open, and smoke billows out and forms a pavilion, from which Mary and I step forth and greet Jesus Christ and the crowd. With my hand, I give the “Everything’s OK” sign to Jesus, and he nods and smirks. Then come bursting out of the kitchen the three ladies that I’m dating: Dove, Eyeshadow, and Cinnamon. They emerge from the thick smoke clothed in white linen skirts and having their bosoms girded with golden swim-tops; for they just returned from the seashore. Each is holding a leg of the molten mirror-base that we all manufactured. (I had to change the design slightly from the table that I intended, because we could not find a power drill or any bolts; so I improvised and made a tripod mount that needs no fasteners, as it hovers just on the verge of re-liquifying; thus it maintains a temp high enough to be constantly glowing.) My Trinity places this tripod on the stage-like area near the front of the eatery, after we clear away some of the robots who were standing there; and Mary and I step up onto this “sea of glass mingled with fire”. The audience at the eatery is now silent. We genuflect and prepare to begin our prophetic routine. I inhale deeply…
Just then, a gunshot rings out. I flinch and check to see if I’m riddled with bullets. Thankfully my trembling seems to be due to stage-fright, not loss of blood. I turn to my harpist and say: “I’m OK... Are you hit?”
While letting her hands glide up and down the sides of her figure, emphasizing her sizzlingly attractive hourglass shape, Mary quips: “I’m on fire — however, I’ve not yet received any fire; even the friendly kind,” and she blows a kiss to Christ, whose revolver is smoking.
Christ winks back, and, before I can ask my three backup prophetess if they have any holes in their person from wooden bullets, Jesus explains:
“That was the starting gun. You may begin to prophesy.”
I now notice that there is a microphone attached to a stand. In olden days, this was used by folk singers to perform live songs at Devlin’s Eatery — I deduce this by scanning the photos of past acts displayed on the wall — so I take up the device and begin to prophesy, standing atop the sea of glass mingled with fire which we have made. The Trinity of Cinnamon, Dove, and Eyeshadow are poised behind me in their golden swimsuit-tops. Also Bloody Mary accompanies me on her electric harp, as I prophesy loudly, saying:
“Beware! the seven Devlins who are employed as robotic butlers in this diner shall soon go berzerk. I can feel it in my bones.
“The first of these robo-butlers shall speed straight out the door, right past Jesus,” here I nod to Jesus Christ, who is guarding the front door in strip-‘T’ pose holding both of his firearms, and he nods back, “and this Devlin shall continue roaming aimlessly upon the rolling green hills beyond the cobblestone, until he reaches another diner. And Christ shall shoot at him.”
The crowd gasps.
“The second Devlin shall drink a vial of wrath; then fall down upon the linoleum and convulse before you. One of you damsels in the front rows here should film this with your portable device and upload it onto the Internet. Hey, you!” I shout while pointing at the robo-butler near Jesus, “Come here!”
The little Devlin tries to escape by dashing beneath the left arm of Christ and heading out the front door. The robo-butler sprints till he reaches the green hills. Christ fires his pistol at him. For about the space of half an hour, we hear that noise familiar from the soundtracks of old Wild West movies, as the bullet goes whining, ping-ponging, whizzing and ricocheting hither and yon about the landscape.
I now snap my fingers at the Devlin near the other arm of Christ (by the way, I’ve said it repeatedly in my other books, but, in case I forgot to explain it in this present one, “Devlin” is the brand name of these petite androids who serve as the waiting staff in this eatery — it comes from Hitchcock’s 1946 spy film Notorious, because these dwarf-size droids are molded to look like Cary Grant’s character, who in the movie is called T. R. Devlin; and, yes, those initials probably stand for Tertius Radnitsky); then I shout to this robo-butler:
“You, yes, you: Come here!”
This second Devlin obeys instead of trying to escape. He stops before the front of the stage. I put out my hand, and Bloody Mary stops playing her e-harp for a moment while she hands me an open wrath-vial. I lean forward and offer this deadly potion to the robot. The robot accepts it, bows graciously, and drains it forthwith. The bot then immediately begins to quake violently: the Devlin falls down onto the floor and gives up the ghost. He dies choking on his own lava, which is oozing out of his voice-vent and all of his screw-holes. His mechanical heart apparently exploded.
I now quip: “Send another cock to Asclepius, this bot is fixed.”
The audience laughs.
We then notice that a French Maid from one of the dining tables closest to the stage has risen out of her chair and is aiming her Bolex camera at the corpse of the robo-butler.
“Did you capture all that?” I ask this young female filmmaker.
“I think so,” she sez.
“The whole hissy fit, and then the final moments of agony?”
“Yeah; I tried to get a good shot, but he was wiggling around so rapidly, and I didn’t wanna get too close to whatever that orange stuff is…”
“May I ask: What do you plan on doing with the film?”
“Um… I’ll probably transfer it to digital and then edit it,” she sez. “Maybe use it in a movie.”
“So, at some point, the footage will most likely end up online?” I say.
“I guess so — if I can get the project financed, and if that’s how they choose to distribute it,” she sez.
I now raise my voice and continue to prophesy at the rest of the audience: “Let this lesson sink in, O ye patrons: Everything I say comes true.” Then I pause for a spell and watch the customers squirm in their seats. Eventually I command: “Another Devlin, please, front and center!”
A third robotic server steps forth reluctantly and stops before the stage.
“Lo,” I announce, “this electronic butler here will now glide himself over to the soda fountain and press the button that should dispense a carbonated soft drink, but, instead, it shall dispense a non-carbonated hard drink. And, no, I don’t mean adult beverages like alcohol-based cocktails — I mean BLOOD.”
So this poor, abused android ambles over to the soda fountain and dutifully grabs a cup and fills it up. He takes a sip; then shudders and sez: “Yes, that’s definitely not lemon-lime soda, which should be clear green and decaffeinated. This stuff is deep burgundy in hue, almost black; and it packs a punch,” he sips again and shudders: “whoo!” Then he falls to the floor.
“Another one bites the dust,” I quip to the crowd while smiling very sinisterly. The Devlin is swathed in a cloud of small lightning-zaps and jags, signifying that his circuit board is fried.
I turn back to my stand-up prophesying routine. “Any other volunteers?” I say, while shielding my eyes with my free hand so that I can see the audience. “I thought there were at least seven Devlins working at this place…”
Then suddenly a gurgling noise is heard coming from the indoor pool that’s installed in one of the corners of the eatery. Now emerges the familiar form of a robotic butler. He stands there, on the water, dripping wet (tho his hairstyle is still perfect) and sez:
“I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, O Lord. Now, how shalt thou judge thy servant?”
I point to the robo-butler who has just expired, and, while holding the microphone close to my lips, I say in a deep voice: “Take the cup from thy brother, and drink your fill of the BLOOD.”
The wet Devlin in the pool shakes his head fearfully: “No way — I’m not doing it: that stuff’ll kill me.”
I am taken aback by this little robot’s fear of death. I smile involuntarily and remark: “I kinda like you, you little rebel. You have grit.”
Then a gunshot makes us all jump. We look over at Jesus Christ, whose revolver is smoking — he murmurs:
“Pick up the pace.”
“Alright, alright,” I say. Then I address the Devlin: “Answer me, sirrah: Are you programmed to be able to make black holes appear in the local atmosphere?”
“I am,” the butler bows.
“OK, now, tell me,” I say, while beginning to pace the stage, “what’s more difficult: to summon a black hole into existence, out of nowhere; or to create a mini sun and cause it to float before us in this diner?”
The robo-butler thinks for a moment: “I suppose the localized black hole would take a bit more energy; but neither of these miracles would be very difficult.”
“Ah, nothing’s too hard for mechanical intelligence, is it!” I taunt my foe. “Well here’s what I command you now to do. Make a miniature sun appear about a meter in front of your face. Then make yourself airborne, and give yourself a trajectory so that when you begin to orbit this star — this fireball that you will have fashioned right here in this restaurant — you shall spin closer and closer to it, until its gravity sucks you in and you crash-land on its blazing surface and burn to a crisp. I wanna smell that distinct aroma of melting plastic. Can you do that for me?”
The robo-butler frowns and sulks. Then he begins the process of actuating his demise:
“Let there be light,” sez the Devlin.
And there is light.
Then, after separating the light from the darkness, he sez: “Let there be a firmament in the midst of this pool, and let it split the waters on this side from the waters over yonder.”
So a firmament appears and divvies the waters accordingly.
Then the Devlin sez: “Let the dry bottom of the pool rise up now and meet my hooves, so that I don’t need to hover like this in midair, brooding over the waters like a hummingbird at her feeder.”
And it was so — this really happened: the floor of the indoor pool rose up so the robot could stand on it.
Then after coming to rest on the dry land and retracting one pair of his wings, the robo-butler sez: “Now let the newly risen floor of this dry part of the indoor pool bring forth a thin layer of tender grass, as a uniform hieroglyph; then allow for the ground to have curvature, so that it resembles a scene of pleasantly rolling hills.”
The pool’s surface now brings forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind.
Then, while the Devlin is leaning and loafing at his ease, observing one after another of these leaves of grass that just sprang up, in an attempt to lengthen the interval of his existence and delay its inevitable doom, a big bang is heard — a warning gunshot — which sobers the Devlin, so that he blurts out his final magic spell:
“Let there be lights in the firmament to segregate the day from the night; also let them be for signs, for seasons, and to gaudify this shop.”
And it is so. Two lights now vex into existence, there in the dining room: one is a dim bulb in the shape of a satellite; to provide moon-lighting for the diners, who are raptly watching these proceedings; then comes the grand finale: a sphere of explosion — quite literally a mini sun — which is anchored to the air about one meter from the butler’s deadpan visage. The robot sprinkles some other stars also throughout the atmosphere, just for flair.
Then he goes into orbit: the Devlin spirals faster and faster around this sun that he just created, until he merges with its radiance in a blast that is blindingly bright. Once our eyes have adjusted to the afterglow, we note that a lamb has issued forth: it reclines on the floor next to a vegetarian lion — apparently one of these beasts represents the deceased robo-butler, and the other is a symbol for the solar body that sacrificed itself to rid the world of another Devlin.
I whistle for my Tyger, and he skulks in and pounces upon these beasts and eats them up.
The audience applauds.
“Well, that was entertaining,” I announce into the microphone, manning my station on the molten glass tripod. Then I conclude my prophecy:
“Last up we have a Devlin who is apparently filled with pain (I’m just reading from these notecards that he gave me) so that the poor bot constantly gnaws his tongue. Why don’t you come on up to the stage, Devlin Number Five of Seven. Are you out there?” I use the stack of notecards as a visor to sheild my eyes from the spotlight so that I can scan the audience.
The fifth robo-butler waddles forth and stands before the stage, and I prophesy harshly, crying: “Turn thyself inside-out!”
The Devlin does this, and he expires and tumbles down to Hades, having refused to repent of his virtues.
Butlers number six and seven then suffer similar fates. The crowd yelled “Encore,” after that last trick, so I deliver a bonus prophecy, causing one of the remaining Devlins to turn into a frog and then get squished by a passing patron, who happens to be walking up to the counter to order a scone.
Then I demand of the seventh Devlin that he strip himself of his plastic exoskeleton; and, of course, this robo-butler is forced to obey me, cuz Jesus is armed: so the droid unscrews all his panels and stands there before us with his motherboard exposed. Then we hear voices, and thunders, and lightnings; and there is a great earthquake, such as has never happened since any of us ever dined at Devlin’s Eatery, so mighty of an earthquake it is: it really feels great.
Then I bring my prophecy to its actual end — “No more extras, we’re running out of time,” I say — because Christ Jesus is giving me the hand signal that means “OK, wind it up; we gotta get outta here before the cops come.”
Then every island flees away from the hologram of the planet, which I was using as a visual aid to help the diners understand the order in which my spoken words would surely destroy the Earth. So, at this point, we successfully leave the eatery, thus proving Zeno weird.
Yet, once we step out onto the cobblestones, there falls upon us a great hail out of heaven: every stone is about the weight of a piano; and all the God-fearing Americans begin to blaspheme their Creator, because of this plague (for, truth be told, it was an exceeding bad plague… however, on second thought, believers should never indulge in blasphemy).
§
Thus, after prophesying, we hasten over the rolling green hills and spend the night at another diner.
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