B.A.D.

Dear diary,

And then there was a war in Eden. People on one of the sides were throwing rocks, and some folks on the other side had crossbows with arrows. I have no idea which team was winning or what the skirmish was about, because I ignore the factions; I love Jehovah and Lucifer equally, as well as all the gods of the pagans and especially the strange women. Temple maidens are my favorite. My name is Bryan and I am the Abomination of Desolation. You may have seen me perched arrogantly in the very place where you told me not to stand. I climb up on the holiest part of the temple and give gifts to everyone. People hate that: they want sacrifice, and I refuse to do that or to endure that; thus they call me a False Christ — so be it. I’m even happy with those believers who despise me. What are you doing in Eden, anyway? Why don’t you move to Rome or one of the Carolinas, where you’ll find more friends who think like you — wouldn’t that be more fun than arguing with ME every day?

Now I go for a walk around the city. It’s a perfect square in shape. The inhabitants are fighting, and I duck and dodge between them to avoid getting hit by their fists. (They don’t have swords yet, because they haven’t discovered how to make them.) I stop at the crystal stream for a drink. The liquid tastes good; I feel a slight buzz. Then I decide to go for a swim. The stream meanders around the land; and I go beneath the surface for a great while, just gliding around underwater — I like to hold my breath for as long as I can, because, down here, at the bottom of the river, it’s quiet and nobody’s cursing or yelling insults or slinging projectiles. Even if you were to try to throw a punch at someone in the subaqueous realms, your arm would move in slow-motion, like those boxing sequences in the film Raging Bull (1980) — in other words, it’s more fun to watch than to participate in. 

Anyway, after enjoying the depths of the crystal river for half a dream-span, I feel the need to breathe; and, when I surface, I happen to bob up right near the throne of God and the Lamb. (I’m not making this stuff up — for, recall that in Revelation 22:1, it is written that “a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeds out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.”) So I wave to God and quip: “Please tell me the war’s over.”

“Nope, still raging,” shrugs God. And the little Lamb bleats.

“Whose side are you on?” I ask God. “Or do you not have a horse in this race?” I dry myself with the white towel that the art department positioned at the bank of the stream; then I pet the Lamb’s head.

“I like Jehovah’s team,” sez God. “I’m rooting for him and Jesus.”

“You know there’s a Jesus on either side, tho,” I say.

“Yeah, I still like Jehovah’s Jesus. He’s so clean-cut, and he’s such a good speaker.” God strikes the classic “thinker’s pose”; then he adds: “How about yourself?”

“I just wish this whole war would end. I hate the noise, and all the danger,” I say, while I continue to stroke the Lamb, which paces before me purring. “But I far prefer Lucifer’s Jesus over Jehovah’s. I’m actually surprised that you can’t see thru the smarminess of the so-called good Christ.”

“No, I know,” sighs God, reclining back in his throne; “it’s not that I’m fooled by his act, or that I can’t see thru it — in truth, it’s the bold, unflinching bad-taste of his whole performance that intrigues me. In the end, I’ll probably tire of that, too, however. If I DO need to join the fray, I’ll definitely side with Lucifer. Just as long as this conflict is still minor and local, I’m enjoying the church’s Jesus from a perverse perspective — he’s like a Pop Art Messiah; see what I mean?”

“You know I do,” I say. “Almost thou persuadest me.” 

God and I laugh, and thunder and lightning fill the heavens; then I pat his Lamb a final time and give its little horns a playful back-and-forth tug while I prepare to leave. The Lamb licks my hand while I say:

“Well, see you around.”

God closes his eyes, and his Lamb lies down by his feet, as I walk away.

I take the route thru the woods, because there’s less fighting there. Hither and yon, the forest nymphs are posing before their tree-mounted mirrors, admiring their own angelic flesh; some of them have engaged in the act of self-pleasure. When one catches my eye, I give a little wave as I pass, and she smiles and sez, while panting: “Hello, Bryan!” — Only rarely does a rock or an arrow fly by. But I do happen to see a couple of male seraphim hanging by their hair from the tree branches in the wood of Ephraim:

“Where are your mules?” I say, clutching the sandals of the nearer seraph and helping to untangle him from this predicament.

“Some foes came by and patted their haunches, after we had stopped to study a map,” sez the seraph; “so the beasts took off, and we got instantly trapped in the branches.”

He and I help his partner down, as I remark: “You shouldn’t be riding thru the forest in the first place — you know that these trees of Eden are like velcro to angel-hair. Were you lost?”

“Yes, that’s why we had stopped to look at the map,” sez the first seraph. “My name’s Yohan, by the way. Thanks for helping us.”

“And I’m Jeff,” the second seraph bows formally.

“Nice to meet you guys,” I say. “I’ll let you get back to fighting.”

“Are you an Independent?” sez Yohan.

“Yeah, I’m undecided,” I shrug. “Noncommittal. A freethinker.”

“No convictions, huh? I see,” sez Yohan the seraph. “That’s alright; take your time — we’ll eventually win you over.”

“Well I don’t know about ‘convictions’; but I’m firmly persuaded in art-for-art’s-sake. I love nonsense, make-believe... anything useless. I’m a cardholding Pataphysician, plus a huge fan of Dada and Surrealism,” I say; “just neither side of this civil war seems…”

“Ah, sounds like you’re a soldier of Satan,” Jeff interjects sincerely.

I sigh, “Thou sayest. However, if that’s the case, and everything’s just this big toggle switch of ‘my way or the highway’, then fine, shelve me with Lucifer’s evil legions. But I can’t think of you guys as my enemies; Jehovah’s one of my favorite poets! (I’m also a fan of his daughter Stacey.) I’ve never understood the need for all this physical combat between him and his brother — I wish we could all just live together peacefully, like we were doing until last week.”

“But HE cast the first stone!” sez Jeff the seraph.

“Yes, but he immediately begged your pardon — he admitted that he just lost his temper,” I say. “You gotta admit, you guys were acting pretty obnoxiously. Why can’t you just forgive him and let bygones be bygones?”

“C’mon Jeff,” Yohan grabs his seraph-partner by the arm, “it’s time wasted talking to prophets like Bryan. It’s not for nothing that they call him the Abomination of Desolation.”

“Also the False Christ; don’t forget that,” I say. Then I smile and salute: “You guys have a good one. I’ll keep praying for your safety.”

They wave and half-ironically give me the figs, as they walk away. 

I head off in the other direction. Soon I encounter two mules, saddled yet unmanned. I walk over and stroke their manes and croon sweet nothings in their ears, so that they relax and begin to trust me; then I lead them out of the forest and catch up with Jeff and Yohan:

“Hey, guys, sorry to bother you again, but I think I found your mules.”

“Oh my gosh!” sez Jeff. “That’s Betsie and Tessie, all right!” And Yohan adds: “Thank you so much!” They hug their mules and then mount up.

“We owe you one,” sez Jeff. And the duo commands their beasts to trot forth upon the cobblestones, into the dust-cloud representing the battle that’s ongoing, in the midst of Eden’s Town Square.

When they’re only a few paces away, I yell: “You owe me nothing — just consider forgiving my friend Lucifer!” But they either ignore me or can’t hear, due to the 21st-century U.S. Country Music that is being pumped in at a medium-high volume over the battlefield’s ceiling-speakers.

I walk again in the opposite direction, and the soundtrack gradually fades out and changes from the pre-recorded commercial tune to regular jungle noises, like lions roaring and tropical birds shrieking.

I look to my right, past the giant ferns and the stegosaurus, and I see the familiar neon sign for the Paradise Diner. I enter and take a seat in the booth at the back, next to Tara and Lucy and Vanessa. 

“Good evening,” I say.

“Welcome, Count Bryan,” sez Lucy; and Tara and Vanessa both finger-wave.

“Did you order already?” I ask.

“No,” sez Lucy; “we were waiting for you.”

“Ah, thanks!” I say. Then the waiter comes by and I order mint chocolate-chip ice cream, a big basket of french fries, twelve Alaskan salmon fillets, one bottomless jug of vodka, and some hotdogs with condiments.

“Your order will take four moments and twenty sub-moments to prepare,” sez the waiter. “I will race back with all your meals and beverages when the time is ripe. And there shall be no charge.”

“Thanks, Ben.” (I see that his name-tag sez “Ben Angelson”.)

My girlfriends and I converse about hot lust until the appointed hour, when our server returns.

“Hey, Ben,” I say, “good to see you again.”

“Here is your order…” and he hands out the plates and the bowls and the silverware and the pitcher, along with everything else.

“Thanks, Ben; you’re a good server,” I say.

“I will now lie down on my bed of nails,” sez Ben, and he paces over to the side wall and does as he said.

I look at my girlfriends and then back at Ben; then I address Ben as follows, in a slightly raised voice because he’s further away now:

“Is that what you truly desire?”

“Yes,” sez Ben, “otherwise everything is too perfect here. This helps me enjoy the problem-free zone of East Paradise.”

“Ah, so you must’ve come from the good side of Eden?” I ask.

“Yes,” sez Ben, briefly wincing.

“I should’ve known that, with a surname like Angelson.”

“Yes,” sez Ben.

“Well, enjoy your meal,” I say. Then I laugh: “Oops, I mean: WE shall enjoy these meals that YOU brought unto US.” (My girlfriends all giggle at my mistake.)

Ben does not respond. He has apparently already vamoosed.

I address my tablemates, after taking a sip of vodka, just to make small talk: “Have any of you been to Venus lately?”

“We practically live on Venus,” sez Vanessa. “You know that.” She then takes a plate of oysters from a nearby table and sets it before her. “How about yourself?”

“I’ve been keeping busy here in Eden, to tell the truth,” I say. Tara and I got married at the end of our last trick together, and I don’t know what happened since then which pried us apart, but I’ve been walking around marveling at this war that’s been overtaking the region.”

“I’m still happily married to you,” Tara pipes up; “I just fell asleep in a cave for a while, and Vee and Lucy woke me up — I must have been hibernating or something. That was this morning; I didn’t know how much time had passed.”

“You’re kidding,” I say, taking another sip of vodka, “you look gr-r-reat, for someone who’s been sleeping for countless millennia.”

“Well my friends here were unclad when they paid me their visit, and we had a fine time; thus I’m rejuvenated,” explains Tara. “We recorded everything, too, with our hand-crank movie cameras that use actual celluloid film. Here, watch the entire event…”

She holds her portable device’s screen before my face, and I watch their feature film. It lasts about two hours. “I really liked that,” I say, when the credits begin to roll; “you all are very naturally attractive and passionate.”

“Thanks,” they all say.

“But how did your fornication continue for hours, seemingly without any breaks, when we all know that a reel of film, even if projected at only eighteen frames per second, yields no more than fifteen minutes of movie magic? And who was holding the cameras?”

“We had slaves do the cinematography,” explains Vanessa; “also we brought extra slaves along to change the reels when they ran out. And then an additional slave edited the raw film so that the carousal appears seamless.”

“Jeez, clever idea,” I say. “And the lighting looks professional.”

“Slaves, again.”

“Ha! Now you’re joking,” I say. “That seems too good to be true.”

“No, slaves have the finest artistic instincts,” sez Vanessa.

“Wow! OK,” I shake my head and sip my drink.

Now the handsome Jesus kicks open the glass doors of the diner and approaches and slams his guns down on the table. “Howdy,” he sez, sliding into the booth.

“How are you feeling?” I say. “This war seems brutal.”

“Yes, seems,” Jesus smiles. “It ain’t too bad.”

Ben the waiter now arises from his bed of nails and asks the handsome Jesus if he’d like to order anything.

“Ben, go rest,” I wave him off like he’s a bothersome insect, “I ordered the fish for my friend here, and this vodka is bottomless — we have everything we need.”

“Ah, okey-doke... ten thousand apologies!” Ben returns to his bed.

“What were you all talking about before I showed up?” sez Jesus.

“Slaves,” I say.

“That’s it? The usual?”

“Yep.” 

“Hey, do you all fancy helping me on a mission?” Jesus rubs his hands together.

“No way, C.J.,” sez Lucy; “you know we’re sitting this one out. We think that what you’re doing is a disgrace.”

“It’s noisy and bothersome,” I add.

“Alright, alright, calm down; I was only asking,” Jesus rolls his eyes.

“How long do you expect this war will continue?” I ask.

“At least another fortnight,” Christ Jesus replies. “My scientists recently discovered a way to make angel-flesh self-healing.”

“No!” I’m skeptical; “even if you hit it with an arrow?”

Jesus smiles: “Just yank out the shaft and it smooths right up.”

“But what if the arrowhead was dipped in poison?” I say.

“Ah, then it’s curtains,” sez Jesus. “If that’s the case, you’re pretty much a goner.”

So, after leaving the diner, Lucy and I go shopping for collared shirts. I myself buy a red linen pullover, and she finds a crisp white button-up for herself.