The Chase

[Cont. from prev. entry]

Outside, God hails a taxi and directs the driver to go to Hell.

Taxis are plentiful here, and before God’s has driven off another is drawing up to the curb in obedience to the Holy Ghost’s peremptory hand.

“Follow that other taxi,” directs the young man, “Don’t lose it.”

The beautiful female chauffeur shows no interest in the Holy Ghost. She hoists down the handspike, which starts the pay-meter; then she begins to drive, obeying all the traffic laws. The Holy Ghost merely grunts and slouches down in his seat. The drive is uneventful. 

Lord Bryan hails a taxi, and it comes to rest at the departure platform just after the Holy Ghost’s. Your own taxi, dear gentle reader, is over at the booking-office; for you are making arrangements for your marriage to Lord Bryan, which shall take place any second now. UNE FEMME takes a first-class single airplane ticket to Bournemouth, which is a city in Hell. Betty and Midge, playing Vanessa and Tara, do the same. 

As he emerges, Lord Bryan remarks, glancing up at the clock: “I am early. The reader and I have nearly half an hour to mosey around before our wedding bells begin to chime. Maybe I’ll kill some moments by bothering God.”

Lord Bryan’s words arouse a new train of thought in the Holy Ghost’s mind. Clearly God was making the journey alone, hoping that his Ghost would remain in London. Therefore the Ghost was left with a choice as to which person of the Trinity he would follow: the Father or the Son — the former in Hell and the latter on Earth. (Jesus lives in a gravesite built in Year Zero.) Obviously, God’s Holy Ghost could not follow both of them unless…  

Like Lord Bryan, the Ghost glances up at the clock. He then gives heed to the announcement that is repeating “Board the train. God wants you in Hell, forthwith. The Bournemouth train left at 3:30. It is now ten past. You better turn back time, or learn to hustle. UNE FEMME and Lord Bryan are walking up and down by the bookstall, the former playing four women who are the gentle reader’s surrogates. The wedding is soon to occur: you MUST stop it or you’ll be forced to enjoy the festivities. That will be bad: God does not like to merge with humankind. Leave the Son of God to his fate. Stop the love-fest before it entices you. Remember Joseph, who rather abandoned his garment in the hands of his seductress than give in to the blisses of existence. Do NOT forget that you are God’s Spectre. If you allow yourself to be fleshed as EVERY THING THAT LIVES, you will displease your Superego.” 

The Holy Ghost, checking the visual display on his futuristic wrist-watch, gives one doubtful look at the cute couple — Lord Bryan is now arm-in-arm with you, O reader; and ye are browsing a used bookstore together — then the Ghost hurries into a nearby telephone box; the seagulls dare not waste time in trying to bash its glass, while the Holy Ghost quickly dials the number to God’s getaway Hell-Hut. However, just as God picks up and answers his side of the line, the Holy Ghost falls into a deep sleep and suffers a vivid dream in which he is enjoying a cocktail while reclining in a lawn chair that is situated in the still neighbourhood of South Audley Mansions. Now, coming to, the Ghost wakes from the vision and notes that, covering the front of his otherwise white robe, there is a stain from the Bloody Mary beverage that he was sipping in his dream-vision — he must have either spilled it, or it leaked out thru his phantom belly. 

“God?” sez the Ghost, in a quivering voice; “Are you there? Sorry, I thought we got disconnected — I think the Devil is giving my mind a new hairstyle: He just sent his Tyger to maul me, in a prophetic attack. I’m bleeding bad — I think my dress is ruined.” 

God answers this impatiently: “Blood cannot ruin your garment — the blood of sacrifice is, in fact, the agent that we use to cleanse our robes: it turns the fabric white as snow. If you have a bloodstain, you’ve got bigger troubles than I was aware of. Are you possibly having sinful thoughts about turning yourself into an infinitude of fiery tongues so that you might inspire all of mortality?” 

But at this point a Giant Squid comes squiggling down the alley and flings open the door of the phone booth with a tentacle. It snatches the receiver from the Holy Ghost while pressing the switchhook with another tentacle to end the call; then, with a third tentacle the Squid dials a fresh number and rings up the Ritz. It then uses its beak to ask for Lord Bryan and [Your name here, gentle reader], his bride. There is a click and a buzz. “Oh, the young American is in his room!” The Giant Squid cannot help blurting this exciting news to his enemy, the Holy Ghost. Now, on the phone line, we hear another click, and then that unmistakably mellifluous voice comes over the wire:

“Hello? Is that you, Stevens? This is the Great Lord Bryan speaking. I’m in the Waterloo Honeymoon Suite, at the Double-cross sector of the Redline Rubicon — yes, it’s a luxury hotel that can also drive on water. I've followed God and another man here. No time to explain. God’s off to Bournemouth on the 3:30 tube. Can you meet me there by then? I’ve got a little business to take care of, in the meantime. Listen close, cuz I’m gonna lower my voice a little — the reason being that it’s impolite to speak aloud what should be the quiet part about cultural secrets; but I’ll tell you the following, because you’re my friend and I like you: 

“It’s the custom in this part of the world,” Lord Bryan continues, “that, after entering wedlock, one consummates one’s vows of eternal friendship by lying in a coffin, very romantically, all night long. They call it ‘Posthumous Fame’. So I just married my own readership, and I am about ready to become one spirit with the mind who is perusing our story. No, not you, Stevens: you’re presently hearing my voice, as we’re conversing on the telephone — moreover, you’re in Giant-Squid form; and you know that I have a phobia about tentacles — the one I am referring to is she who’s reading this present text, with whom I’m inherently, hermetically monogamous.”

This reply was reassuring to Executive Stevens, who plays the Giant Squid in most of my storybooks.

“Understood,” sez the Giant Squid’s thought-bubble, while God’s Holy Ghost is still trapped in the telephone booth with this subaqueous monster blocking the door, as seagulls from The Birds (1963) are kamikazee-ing the booth’s glass panels, “I’ll hustle and try to meet you in Bournemouth sometime soon.”

The Giant Squid rings off. He/she/it offers the handset to God’s Holy Ghost, who replaces the receiver-transmitter on the switchhook with a sigh of relief. The Ghost’s opinion of the Giant Squid’s power of world-event manipulation is now quite high. And the Ghost feels instinctively that the American will do a good job in the bedroom tonight. (The Holy Ghost is fantasizing about you and me, gentle reader!)

§

Betty and Midge are now in their studio, engaging in artistry. Betty is typing up a new screenplay, while Midge is painting a mural — and these masterworks share the same subject: Lord Bryan has remained to see his current friend off; they are in the suite at the Rubicon, and all is well. 

After the Giant Squid transmogrifies before the Holy Ghost’s eyes into Executive Stevens and then walks away from the phone booth thoughtfully jiggling the caesar coins in his suitcoat’s pocket, God’s Holy Ghost steps out of the telephone booth himself, rather cautiously, noting with mild repulsion the booth’s cracked and feather-strewn glass. He looks down at his blood-stained robe; then up at the damaged window-panes; and murmurs to himself: “Funny how birdshit is white. I wonder why.” Also, as he walks away, he muses on the fact that seagulls and doves do not simply share the same name.

Now, in spite of the carte blanche assured to him, God’s Holy Ghost had not yet acquired the habit of going about with any considerable sum of money on him. The buying of the first-class ticket to Bournemouth had left him with only a few shillings in his pocket. I’m just mentioning this monetary fact to remind us all that we should pity the Holy Ghost. 

In the meantime, the minutes were blissing by, between Lord Bryan and you, the reader: 3:15… 3:20… 3:25… 3:27… We the audience of this scene at the hotel suppose that you two shall never get to South Hell in time to catch God. It’s now 3:29, and the bedsprings are STILL squeaking! The Holy Ghost, jealously pacing the sidewalk before the Redline Rubicon, feels cold waves of despair pass over him. Then a hand falls on his shoulder.

“Here I am, son.” (It’s only an angel — not God himself, the Holy Ghost notes, feeling slightly chapfallen.) “This British traffic beats description! Put me wise to the sin right away.”

“Well it’s not technically iniquitous, for they just got wed,” murmurs the Holy Ghost while pointing out the series of lit windows representing the Honeymoon suite; “That’s Lord Bryan, with the fluttering cape — you see him there with our reader, they’re getting in now, entering the big dark pleasure vortex. The other is the Eternal Woman they plan to enrich. They call her UNE FEMME, and she doesn’t obey logic or any of the S.T.E.M. disciplines (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics); computers abhor her, and she defies spacetime with her fancy.”

“I’m on to them. Which of the two is my bird?”

The Holy Ghost had thought out this question. “Got any money with you?”

The Captain shakes his head (it has now become apparent to the Holy Ghost that this angel is the same one who played the role of Jehovah in that scene from Joshua 5:13 ‘Behold, there stood a man over against him with his sword drawn in his hand: and Joshua said unto him, “Art thou for us, or for our satans?” And the angel said, “Nay; but as Captain of Heaven’s Army am I now come. Loose thy shoe from off thy foot; for the place whereon thou standest is holy.” And Joshua fell on his face to the earth, and did worship.’ 

The Holy Ghost frowns, on hearing that the Captain of the Heavenly Army is flat broke.

“Hey there! You two spies, give ear!” Lord Bryan is addressing the spirits from his suite, which is a great many stories up, at the Rubicon Luxury Hotel: “I have more than ten thousand caesars with me at the moment; and I know how you prefer them to be processed thru your moneychangers and turned into U.S. dollars — here you go…” 

Bryan dumps out several bags of cash, and the banknotes flutter into the wind, which bloweth where it listeth, until they reach the ground below (it’s like Jesus’ parable of the sower [Mark 4:3] except with loot instead of seeds) — some bills fall on the street and get run over by taxis; a few happen to slip into the cleavage of passing matriarchs, where they live a short but comfortable life; and much of the offering proves easily salvageable to our spectrous deity. The Holy Ghost gives a faint whoop of relief.

“Egad, these charitable thrillionaires!” scowls the Captain of Heaven’s Host, addressing the Trinity’s Third Person; “they don’t talk the same language as us physical warriors.” He huffs. “Here’s my advice to you,” the Captain clutches the robe of the Holy Ghost, as the latter is scrambling around on the ground trying to snatch up all the fallen dollars. “Climb aboard the lugger. Here’s your ticket. God’s your man.” — He presses a train ticket to the chest of the Holy Ghost.

“A one-way ticket to Hell?” sez the Holy Ghost darkly, eyeing the ticket that the Captain just proffered him. The train begins to chug forward. He swings himself aboard. “So long, Cap’n!” The train clambers out of the station. We now cut to...

THE CHASE 

God draws a sharp breath. The Holy Ghost is coming along the platform directly towards him. God disguises himself as an abnormally large wolf and allows his spectre to pass; he then takes up the chore of chasing after his Holy Ghost, like a slower and more relaxed version of the way that a suburban house-dog, off its leash, would dash after an automobile — especially the kind with big fins on its rear.

From Hell, the Holy Ghost takes the tube as far as Piccadilly Circus. Then he walks up Shaftesbury Avenue, finally turning off into the maze of mean streets round Über Soho. God mock-sprints after him at a judicious distance.

They reach at length a small dilapidated square. The houses here exude a sinister air in the midst of their dirt and decay. God, still in wolf-form, looks around, growling and sharply smelling of sweat; while the Ghost draws back into the shelter of a friendly porch. The place is almost deserted. It’s a cul-de-sac; thus no traffic can pass beyond this point. “The stealthy way that yonder wolf is gazing around stimulates my imagination,” the Holy Ghost thinks to himself. “I wonder what that stench is. I should see if the creature will allow me to give it a bath.” 

From the shelter of the doorway the Holy Ghost watches God-as-wolf climb up the steps of this particularly evil-looking house and bark sharply, with a peculiar rhythm. 

“What is it, friend?” sez the Holy Ghost aloud to his reeking pursuer. “Are you asking me to draw you a bubble bath?” The Holy Ghost retrieves the garden hose and attaches it to the spigot; then fills a plastic children’s pool with water. “Ooh, cold!” the Holy Ghost holds his hand out to feel the stream as it surges from the mouth of the hose. 

Now that the pool is overflowing, the Holy Ghost shuts off the water supply and heads indoors to fetch some dish soap from the kitchen. The person who is currently inhabiting this ramshackle residence now enters the room — upon seeing the intruder at the sink rifling thru the potions kept there, she screams and faints. The Holy Ghost flinches at the sound of the scream; then he goes over and checks the vital signs of the woman who swooned: Finding that nothing serious is wrong with her health, the Holy Ghost concludes that she simply passed out from fright; therefore he prepares a meal for her, so that she can breakfast once she awakes. “You’ll need your strength,” he whispers in her ear, as he slides the plate of eggs, sausage links, toast with jam, and a tall glass of orange juice mixed with vodka (the cocktail popularly known as a “screwdriver”) next to the head of the sleeping dame. He then leaves the room promptly, bangs open the screen door and paces toward the swimming pool. 

The great wolf is still waiting on the porch. “Sheesh, you stink!” the Holy Ghost remarks to God-in-canine-form. God, seeing that his servant is about to make the bubbles happen in his doggy bath, barks a happy rhythmic phrase or two in his new wolfy language; and the doorkeeper, overhearing this coded message, then passes inside. The door is pulled shut and locked.

It is at this juncture that Wolf God gets his bath. What the Holy Ghost ought to do, what any sane man would have done, is to remain patiently where he is standing and wait for God to come jump into the sudsy water. What he does instead is entirely foreign to the sober common sense which has been, as a rule, his leading characteristic. Something (as he expressed it later in a televised interview) seemed to snap in his brain. Without a moment’s pause for reflection he, too, jumps into the kiddie pool, and begins to splash about and baptize himself right along with Sir Wolf. All the while, there is a peculiar knock coming from the inside of the dilapidated house’s front door, as if the one responsible for this noise is trying to send a message to whoever has ears to hear; yet, seemingly oblivious to this incessant rapping, Ghost and Wolf continue their tub-frolic.

The door swings open with the same promptness as before. A villainous-faced quarter-sized robotic humanoid with close-cropped hair à la Cary Grant occupies the entryway.

“Well?” he grunts.

It is at this moment that the full realization of his folly begins to come home to the Holy Ghost. “If that robo-butler joins us in the pool, he will get himself electrocuted!” thinks the Ghost while splashing and playing with his friend, the Deific Wolf. But he dares not stop the watersports. He seizes at the first words that come into his mind:

“Mr. Devlin!” he bellows. And, to his surprise, the bot stops in his tracks attentively. (During the last few moments, this android butler has been approaching the pool with a determined stride, preparing to dive right in. I should have mentioned this fact before relaying his abrupt halt, to heighten the suspense. I guess I botched the potential terror of this passage by my inept rendering. Please forgive this — my training and certification is in soothsaying, not storytelling.)

“Upstairs,” the Holy Ghost commands the robo-butler, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “second door on your left.”

To the great surprise of both the Holy Ghost and the Wolf God, as well as to us in the audience who are watching this Bath Scene, the robotic butler Devlin dutifully turns around and obeys. He marches back into the house and strides sulkily up the stairs and takes his position behind the translucent drapes of the window. Instead of joining in on the pool-fun and thereby risking serious damage to his circuit-board, he stands and watches longingly as his would-be playmates rollick and romp in the bubbly-pool: splashing each other while laughing and barking.

The bristly coat of the Divine Wolf glistens with wet; sudsy water spills down his snout and his fangs. Little streams pass all over the body of the Holy Ghost. (An unseen robot-hand also passes over these bathers, descending tremblingly from their temples and ribs: it imagines itself massaging between their ears and lathering their fur.)