[Cont.]
Now the author, after being so angry about audiences not screening his series of memoirs thru to the bitter end, but then having calmed down and forgiven the sheeple because he is a true saint, rises up and twitches his blue mantle and begins to walk down the street, in the direction of the fux who are presently ignoring his text.
He bangs on the door with his fist: THUNK, THUNK, THUNK!
“It’s interesting that the sound of a big bang equals the past tense of ‘THINK’,” sez the author aloud to himself. And, in order for him to have this thot and to vox it aloud so that his brain, which is hiding behind his ears, can comprehend it (sorta), Bryan pauses in his banging — for authors cannot accomplish more than one sin at a time, and thinking while banging is like walking while stopping and balancing on one’s legs to chew one’s bubblegum — and, coinciding with the moment of Bryan’s pause in his door-banging, Devlin the robo-butler opens up and lifts his brow to listen, and he hears Bryan’s brief speech, which was meant as a private thot, and the butler misinterprets these words, as is the timeworn habit of machine intelligence, mistaking them for a direct address to his butlership, thus Devlin opens his mouth to answer: “I strongly disagree”; however, before he can get out even the initial syllable of his intended three-word phrase, Bryan returns to banging on the door again — or, at least, that is his aim; for he has not yet noticed that the android Devlin has opened the slab and is now standing in its place with his rubber visage looking blandly inquisitive — therefore, the author Bryan ends up pounding his door-knocking fist many times into the robot’s face, until its fake skin begins to tear and reveal the metallic circuitry and wiring beneath, along with a sinister narrow red rectangular eye-panel.
Anyway, after Bryan and the butler Devlin make amends and smooth over the difficulties of their mixup at the entryway, Bryan is led by the android into the room of the house where all of his non-readership are reading something else.
“Devlin!” sez one of the punks, looking up from his shit-book, “what happened? Did you get in a fight? For you no longer resemble Cary Grant when he played Tertius R. Devlin in the film Notorious (1946), but now you look more like John Hurt when he played the titular role in The Elephant Man (1980).”
“Everything is OK,” sez the robo-butler, “I will tell you later about our terrible misunderstanding — allow me to introduce ye to Bryan, author of the boox that our gangs refuse to peruse.”
“Bryan Ray? nice to meet you,” the punk extends his free hand, while his other hand still clutches the enemy volume.
“Pleased to meet you,” Bryan lies, while shaking hands firmly like an angry businessman so that the punk’s finger-bones almost crack, “And your name is…?”
The punk gives his name, but since this is Bryan’s book, the name has been omitted from the narration. It’s an ugly name, don’t worry; you’re not missing anything.
“Whatcha readin’?” Bryan asks, slightly lifting his head and nodding toward the book that the punk is holding.
He tells the title of the piece of shit and then names its author, whose name I hate.
Bryan huffs and replies, “Why are you reading that trash instead of my masterworks?”
The punk looks scared. “I didn’t know that you wrote readable novels. This is an airplane novel,” he lifts the book that he’s holding. “I assumed that you were a hoity-toity author. But, now that I know you write in the style and genre that I’m used to, I’ll definitely check out your stuff.”
“No you won’t!” Bryan growls. He begins to pace forward, forcing the punk to pace backward.
“Wh— why do you say that?” the punk stammers and stumbles physically. As he trips, the lousy book drops from out of his hand.
Bryan steps on the volume that has fallen as he continues to menace this punk and his gang (the other gang members are quiet throughout this scene, as they are too frightened to speak; and they hide their books that they’re reading, because they know that all their chosen volumes suck — oh, and by the way, the gang itself is entitled Not Fans of Bryan Ray). “Because,” Bryan mutters, while taking the cigarette from his mouth and snuffing it out by crushing its ash into a picture of the Good Jesus that’s hanging on the wall…
Actually, I wanna change up the attitude here. I got carried away with allowing my alter ego to menace those poor punks in that rental house who all have really bad taste in classic boox; but truly I’d rather let them waste their time with awful authors — it’s their life to live: Who am I to judge them? (HINT: I am the way, the truth, and the life.) So let me pretend that, instead of a big horror sequence where I whip all the punks for not reading my Collected Self-Amusements, I get visited by the Evil Jesus, who calms me down and stops me from harming our mutual enemies, the punks in the Anti Bryan Ray Gang…
[Fuck, I really wish I could have shown you how I dealt with those punk assholes, but let’s do the mature thing and follow the ways of the Evil One:]
So the Evil Jesus emerges from out of the darkness and steps forward holding some symbols. He looks just like the son of Adam — like Seth, the replacement of Abel the pioneer of martyrdom — I repeat, he does NOT look like one of the sons of God. Now, these symbols that he’s holding, he passes over to me; therefore I must hold them. — “What are the symbols, and what is their meaning?” you, my gentle reader, ask. And I will tell you the answer:
The Evil Jesus, as played by Executive Stevens (note that this Evil Jesus is different from the Handsome Jesus who appeared in my earlier novels — that other Jesus was only handsome, but this one is evil), I say, this Evil Jesus hands me seven golf balls and seven desk lamps. And their meaning is as follows.
The golf balls signify that there are from nine to eighteen holes in this scripture’s plot; but my readership shall fill them, by using clubs to play and cheat at literary criticism. So give it a swing: grab a desk lamp and get to work. I’m looking for praise and worship — it doesn’t matter if it’s good or if it’s believable, remember: quantity over quality — just flood the market.
“I am the true Messiah; that other one was false,” sez the Evil Jesus, “and I have soundbites to deliver to the seven different flavors of Christianity: Catholic-Protestant-Baptist; Mormon; Jehovah’s Witnesses; Seventh-Day Adventists; Pentecostalists; New-Agers; and Christian Scientists.”
The Evil Jesus continues: “To the Catholic-Protestant-Baptists and the Xian Fundamentalists in general, I say: You are allowed to eat from the Tree of Life, which exists within the Garden of God. Welcome! You are very good people. Stop teasing the others; there are toys enough for all.”
“And to the Mormons, I say,” sez the Evil Jesus, “You own the crown of life; you shall not be touched by the second or even the third or fourth deaths. Live long and prosper: Replenish the heavens.”
The Evil Jesus takes a sip of wine and continues: “Now, to Jehovah’s Witnesses, I say: I will bestow upon you hidden manna to eat, plus a bonus white stone with a secret password written on its backside. Use this code to get great deals in heaven’s marketplace. You’re in the club: Congratulations.”
“OK, Seventh-day Adventists,” the Evil Jesus closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. “I’m having a hard time remembering what distinguishes you from my other churches, but I really think you’re good people. I like you a lot. Thanks for your service. You did a fine job. You have love in your hearts, and you’re extremely patient — that’s what I’m looking for. I’ll give you the power to make it rain cash from the sky, if people need cash; and, if people have too much cash, ever, then I’ll allow you to shut off the cashflow. Stay true, my brothers.”
Jesus now addresses the Pentecostalists: “Pentecostalists, I love you. I just love the way that you speak, and the fact that you let ME speak fiery poetry thru your tongues. Not many people do that anymore. Awesome show, great job. I’m awarding you with clean white linen garments. And I’ll list your names in my book.”
“New-Agers,” Jesus sighs, “Please try to hold fast. Don’t let anyone take away your crown.”
Now the Evil Jesus smiles brightly and concludes his speech: “Christian Scientists! I can’t claim to understand much of what you’ve been teaching to my flock, over all these years — I trust that you’re doing the right things and treating others compassionately — but I DO know, for certain, one thing that’s immensely important to me; and that is this: The poet Hart Crane was raised in your traditions! I noted this while reading the biography by Paul Mariani, called The Broken Tower: A Life of Hart Crane. Now, I’m unsure whether Crane could be said to have embraced your ways or escaped from them, but the fact that he sprang out of your soil makes it hard for me to want to destroy you in my wrath. So, instead, I will let you live in paradise with all of the other Christian sects that I love. Thanks for provoking the emergence of such an exuberant heresiarch (if that’s the right term)!”
Now the mobile-throne of God appears, surrounded by thirty other wheelchairs occupied by all the rich men who rule the churches. The frame of God’s golden vehicle is shown to have various living entities leashed unto it: not only the Lamb, but additionally an Ox, an Eagle, and a Lion. There is also a nondescript human chained to God’s throne.
The prime succubus Gabriella now makes an announcement while wearing fishnet stockings: “I have a scroll here that I’d like to read to you, but it’s rolled up tightly and bound with grass-flavored seals. There are seven such seals, and I keep trying to suck them off, but they taste like lawn, which is a flavor that I find repulsive. Do you have any ideas about how I might get this document open?”
God uses his boot to nudge the chained Lamb forward, and the creature dutifully grazes the seals away, causing the paper to unroll.
Oh, and I almost forgot to mention: God’s Lambkin now has FOURTEEN horns and FOURTEEN eyes. Make of this what you will.
Gabriella politely applauds, seeing that the Master Codebreaker has cracked the password and gained access to her document. She steps forward and pulls the vellum out of the little Lamb’s mouth. This takes a couple tugs, because Lambkin has fixed his teeth upon a corner of the parchment with the intention of eating it. (Lambs love to eat vellum, as it is made from calfskin — at least our multi-horned divine Lamb has a taste for it, because God trained him to be carnivorous.) Gabriella clears her throat and begins to read the scroll:
“It sez here: Congratulations on hacking into this world’s security system. The following prizes shall be automatically credited to your account.
“PRIZE ONE: a snow-white hybrid automobile that has a cockpit built for an Eagle; a large booth in the back that can hold a Lion and an Ox; also a bucket seat on its roof that fits one small android butler, so he can hold his machine-gun and aim it around while the fourfold drives, scaring the life out of everyone howbeit never actually firing any bullets. This last point is crucial: the robo-butler must abstain from discharging his firearm, as that would be vulgar. We’re making a suspense picture here, not a horror flick.
“PRIZE TWO: A red pickup truck with a lamb in its bed. It comes equipped with several crates of heavy-duty power-tools and various supplies for home remodeling.
“PRIZE NUMBER THREE: Black mold, which causes famine, war, and mass-death.” Gabriella squints at the document that she’s reading from, then adds: “Or, wait, no: I’m sorry, I misread that — it actually sez: The elimination of black mold, and the ending of famine and war. Thus death goes back to being a friendly and gentle aspect of life. It doesn’t say ‘mass-death’; I don’t know where I got that from.
“PRIZE THE FOURTH: The pale horse of God shall receive his own private stall in the famous Stable of Hades, where he can enjoy lukewarm showers while sipping carrot juice thru a copper swirly straw. (Nice score, pale horse!)”
Gabriella continues: “PRIZE FIVE: The Word of God is, at long last, unmuted. Every living thing is granted salvation!”
[The scene cuts to a reaction-shot of God, who looks ambivalent about this last bonanza.]
“PRIZE NUMBER SIX (don’t worry; this list is almost done — there’s seven prizes, total; so, only one more after this) — I repeat, PRIZE SIX: The moon will turn hotblooded and lift all our tides and cause itself to grow long hair, so all the stars in the sky will come down to earth and land softly; then reveal that they are not spheres of exploding poison but hot masculine forms made of light; and they shall step forth and embrace us womenfolk, kiss us full on the mouth and then make love to us the way that our earth-males SHOULD but never COULD. They (the star-men) will be firm, if we want it rough; or tender, when that is our preference. They shall be able to pick up on our signs. (Why, by the way, is it so hard for earthly males to read us?)” Gabriella catches her breath and now concludes the scroll’s prize list:
“PRIZE THE LAST, WHICH IS LUCKY NUMBER SEVEN: This blessing contains multifarious sub-prizes. For starters, semi-clad damsels shall play trumpets. This shall heal the earth and make all the lands flame-resistant, so we can have a great fire-baptism without anyone receiving harm. Then the rivers, ponds, seas, and all the oceans shall be detoxified and made healthy and clean again. The saltwater will be exquisite, for those whose perversion is to breathe saltwater, and the freshwater will be fresher than ever for the… I hope you get the picture. (This part’s wordy; I’m skipping ahead a little.)
“Then the immense furnace inside the abyss will be converted into a discotheque. And grasshoppers shall dance there. And they shall appear as pretty as damsels in their prime. This is hard to imagine, but it will come true: You all shall grow sensually aroused by the sight of grasshoppers. I suggest you just roll with it: Go with the flow.
“Also scorpions will have their stingers changed into pleasers, so that a jab from their barb will feel EXCEEDING PLEASANT. And they will expand to human-size as well.
“Now, after about fifteen moments of this insect sequence, we’ll drop the conceit — all the hard, external thoraxes and cuirasses shall fall away from these outsize critters, and their iron wings shall detach, and the costumes will unzip to reveal that the spirits that were moving them, who are now stepping out of them, are just regular naked women: totally beautiful.
“So then we’ll finally be able to get enough camera coverage for the great orgy sequence that they’ve been trying to produce in Heaven, ever since they turned the place into an Erotic Film Studio. — Ooh, I like the sound of this.” The angel Gabriella’s free hand begins to smooth the lap of her stockings while she finishes the document. “And then the Euphrates river shall gush thru the main square of spacetime, and it shall bring each and all of us actors along with its current. This will feel free and easy, warmly welcoming and communal; not at all threatening or fearsome like canoeing down the rapids. And every manmade idol shall become clean and acceptable, and all whoredom shall be rendered not only permissible but praiseworthy, as was the intention from the beginning. Amen and amen.”
Gabriella tosses the holy scroll over her shoulder and, with the same fluid motion, removes her stockings and begins to please herself; but the scene cuts to a title card and advances to the next chapter before any enjoyment may be glimpsed by the studio audience; for this storybook is ONLY beyond good, not beyond evil.
No comments:
Post a Comment