Dear diary,
I exit the store called Fantasmagoric Footwear and walk to the part of the mall where a Santa Claus lookalike would be receiving advances from starry-eyed fans if it were December instead of July. I step over the charred mounds of unsold copies of Merry Christmas from Bryan Ray that are heaped before the half-burnt sleigh, and I set down onto the vehicle’s comfortably wide seat the three gift-wrapped shoeboxes that I recently won.
I tear open the tropical-themed wrapping paper of the topmost box and retrieve the ruby slippers: Holding them in each hand sole-to-sole, I click the heels of the slippers together distinctly three times, causing sparks to discharge with each impact. Instantly, after the third strike, the background of my spacetime changes from the mall to a throne in Eden. We see God and the Lamb; also the liquid crystal elixir of the River of Life.
“Fut!” I curse, upon realizing that the other two shoeboxes are absent, as they failed to accompany me during this recent dimensional transfer. (The reason they remained behind is that I wasn’t making physical contact with them during the trip — that’s my guess, at least.) Then I re-click the slippers, which are now silver instead of ruby, on account of the fact that the scenes in Eden are filmed in glorious black-and-white, and my immediate atmosphere returns to the Mall of the Americas. Large sparks from the slipper-clicking fall on the wooden seat of the sleigh; but I brush them away from the shoeboxes, so that they don’t catch fire. Then I make sure that my foot is firmly planted upon the pair of remaining boxes, which contain the rest of the footwear that I recently won from the shoe store, and I click yet again the heels of the slippers together in my hands intently thrice, thus returning me to Eden. I look down at my left foot and breathe a sigh of relief when I see the hawaiian-themed wrapping paper of the additional gifts beneath it, indicating that my possessions successfully accompanied me on this second attempt.
After stomping out the new-fallen sparks with my loafers, I turn to God and the Lamb and say: “Sorry about that — I wanted to give you guys these prizes that I won, but my luggage got lost on the first take, so I had to go back and pull off a do-over. Here you go—” I hand one gift box to God: “this is for you. (Go ahead, open it!) And, this other one here is a present for you, Mister Mutton.” I place the remaining box before the Lamb of God, who immediately begins to sniff it and bite its bow with his teeth.
God unwraps his gift. “Ooh,” he sez, “look at these!”
“They’re army boots, made specially for warring in the stars (or starring in wars),” I explain. “They are bloodstained from battle — but not because they’re second-hand: they’ve truly never been worn — that’s just the way they design them nowadays: it’s the latest fashion. Try them on!”
God stands up and kicks off his feather-light, diamond-studded dress shoes that are made of soft goatskin, and he slips on the steel-spiked, gore-spattered footwear that I gifted him. He stomps around a little, then sez: “Perfect fit! I love them — thanks, Bry. I might even go join the fray this afternoon, just to try them out.” Then he sits back on his throne, kicks up his feet with his legs crossed, and thick blood oozes from the moonboots onto the footstool.
We now turn our attention to the Lamb, who is vainly still tugging at the bow on his gift.
“Here, let me help you with that,” I say, gently pressing his face away with my hand and then tearing a corner of the wrapping paper so that he can have something to tug at. “Here, try that.”
The lamb bites at the torn corner and jerks his head a few times; then repeats this process until the cardboard of the shoebox is revealed.
“Use your hoofs,” I say.
The lamb mashes the box until it kinda half-collapses, and I reach forth and help him pull the lid back. From within, bright rays of light bedazzle the air; and, when our eyes finally adjust to this brilliance, we all discern the marvels at the box-bottom: four glittery, sparkling, radiant horseshoes!
“Ma-a-a,” sez the Lamb.
“He’s gonna love those,” God remarks from his throne. Then he leans forward with a concerned expression and sez: “Hey, they’re not radioactive, are they? Little Lambkin is allergic to radioactivity.”
“No-no-no,” I say quickly, “they’re just made from extremely shiny elements.”
“Ah, OK,” sez God. “Why don’t you help him put them on…”
“Sure,” I say. “Do you have a hammer?”
“Here you go,” God pulls a small and a large hammer from his marsupium.
“Thanks,” I say. “Now, how about an anvil...”
God lobs me an anvil.
“Tongs?” I say. And then: “Clinchers?”
God passes each of these implements to me, as I ask for them: “Hoof knife… nippers… rasp and stand…” He and I are like a nurse and doctor operating on a patient.
I finish nailing the horseshoes onto the Lamb’s forelegs, and then I attend to his hindlegs. My patient is very well behaved throughout this process — he seems to be aware that a surprise awaits him…
“All done!” I announce. “Now prance around,” I nudge Mister Mutton.
The Lamb clippety-clops to and fro upon the crystal stream before me and God.
“Cu-u-ute,” God smiles.
I clap my hands, “Well, I gotta be getting back now. I just wanted to stop by and give you these offerings,” I say. Then I bend down and retrieve the silver/ruby slippers from the grass where I set them.
“So soon?” sez God.
“I’ll be back,” I say.
“Famous last words,” God quips.
I shake my head in mock-offense: “I just have a bit more shopping that I want to do at the Mega Mall.”
“Oh, you’re going to the mall?” God lights up. “Which era?”
“Early 1990s.”
“USA?”
“Yes, it’s a mall, God. Jeez, I thought you were supposed to be smart,” I rib my friend.
God laughs. “OK, I deserved that. But, hey, as long as you’re going back, will you pick me up a couple items? I’ll wire you caesars…”
“Sure, of course,” I say; “and don’t bother about the money — I have plenty of coins now. In the past, and for most of the last novel, I was flat broke; but then I decided to become ultra-wealthy ex nihilo. You were right: ‘The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.’ [James 5:16] What do you want from the mall?” I put the slippers under my arm and fetch my detective’s notebook from the pocket of my suit coat. (The heels of the slippers accidentally touch, causing a miniature firework of sparks: “Ow,” I say.)
“Yeah, if you could, please get me a lava lamp. Also a cassette player and some late-80s rap albums. That last quarter of a century was such an excellent decade for rhythm collage…”
Scribbling, I murmur: “Lamp and rap tapes, OK. Is that all?”
“That’s all,” sez God. Then he turns and asks the Lamb: “Do you want anything?”
“Ma-a-a,” bleats the Lamb.
“Alright, pick up a cat toy for Lambkin,” God sez; “anything squeaky will do.”
I scribble this addition: “One rubber rodent for Mister Mutton. Got it!” then I pocket the notepad, grab a slipper in each hand and salute with the left one: “Arrivederci!”
“Arrivederci,” God smiles, petting the Lamb with its newly glowing hoofwear.
Now, clicking thrice, I return to the mall. The first thing I do is rent a storage locker for the ruby slippers. Then I continue shopping...
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