Authors: S. G. Browne
Tags: #Humorous, #Romance, #General, #Contemporary, #Fiction
Fated (31 page)
“So how many humans did you kill, anyway?” asks Sloth.
“Dude,” says Gluttony, with jook dripping down his chin.
“What?” says Sloth.
“You can’t ask him that,” says Gluttony.
“Why not?”
Gluttony lets out a belch. “Because it’s rude.”
Most of the customers in the restaurant are looking at us. Some of them, the ones closest to our table, have left or lost their appetites.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not like I have anything to hide.”
Sloth sits up. “Then is it true you told Jerry he was a two-bit deity with delusions of grandeur?”
Rumor. That little bitch.
“No,” I say. “That’s not true.”
Not that the thought of telling Jerry off hasn’t crossed my mind.
Almost all human children, at some point in their emotional development, decide they know how to manage their lives better than their parents. Usually this behavior manifests itself during their teenage years and continues into adulthood. We’re not any different. Most of us have felt for aeons that we could all do a better job of running the universe than Jerry, that he’s been out of touch with reality ever since Moses, and that when confronted with a reasonable challenge to his authority, he becomes childish and overbearing.
I can’t tell you how many times our discussions have ended with:
Because I’m God and I said so
.
Because I’m God and I said so
.
“So how many?” asks Sloth.
I think about it a moment, counting them off on my fingers. “I’ve killed at least two dozen,” I say. “Maybe as many as forty.”
“Forty humans?” says Sloth. “Dude, that’s, like, nothing compared to all of the humans Jerry’s offed.”
While it’s true Jerry has become a kinder, gentler deity, he used to smite humans left and right. Jezebel. Saul. Lot’s wife. Blasphemers and whores and complainers. He even killed a man who picked up sticks on the Sabbath. Talk about nitpicky.
“So what happens next?” asks Gluttony.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Depends on what Jerry does when he gets the report from Integrity and Trust.”
“Narcs,” says Sloth, coughing the word into his fist.
“But there’s a good chance I could get my immortality revoked,” I say.
“Dude, that’s totally harsh,” says Gluttony, waving down one of the dessert carts and getting two of everything.
“Totally,” says Sloth. “If I weren’t immortal, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Probably the same thing you’re doing now,” says Gluttony. “Nothing.”
“Good point.”
At the table next to us, a little girl is staring at Gluttony as he pops a couple of egg custard tarts in his mouth. “It’s not polite to stare,” I tell her.
The little girl looks at me, sticks out her tongue, then turns around in her chair. I look at Gluttony and shrug. He smiles, then belches and blows in the direction of the little girl. Moments later, she’s grabbing at all of the food on the table as her parents scold her.
“So what are you going to do if you get kicked out?” asks Gluttony, egg custard tart crumbling out of his mouth and onto his shirt.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I still don’t understand why the universe didn’t correct itself. Karma said that in spite of the impact I had on their fates, my humans would eventually find their way back to their original paths.”
“That’s usually how it works,” says Sloth.
“How would you know?” asks Gluttony.
“Dude, I didn’t sleep through
every
class.”
every
class.”
Sloth proceeds to explain path theory and the Tenet of Universal Correction, much as Karma did, only it sounds a lot different coming from a narcoleptic pothead. Mostly, there’s a lot less spiritual emphasis and a lot more
dude
s.
dude
s.
“That still doesn’t explain why my humans started dying,” I say.
“Maybe something else happened,” says Sloth. “Maybe it wasn’t your fault.”
“Like how?” I say.
“I don’t know, dude,” says Sloth. “I’m just saying maybe there’s something you haven’t considered. If it were me, I’d want to make sure.”
“If it were you, dude,” says Gluttony, “no one would have died. They would have all just fallen asleep.”
“Totally,” says Sloth, yawning. “On that note, you guys mind if I take a little nap?”
Before we can respond, he’s out cold, his mouth open, snoring.
“Check, please,” I say.
CHAPTER 45
The holidays are
usually my favorite time of year to behold humans at their most indulgent.
usually my favorite time of year to behold humans at their most indulgent.
Christmas baskets filled with Beluga caviar, foie gras, and pink cashmere socks.
Department stores filled with come-ons, temptations, and merchandise pimps.
Shopping malls filled with men and women spending beyond their means.
In the past, I’d sit and watch the parade of gluttonous humans spend and consume as their futures revolved around the meaning of their Christmas presents. But this year, I just can’t seem to get into the holiday spirit. At least, not in the way I used to.
Instead, as I sit on a bench at the South Street Seaport mall across from Abercrombie & Fitch and observe the throng of holiday revelers in their frenzied state of consumption, I think I’m beginning to understand why humans go into debt and run up credit card bills they’re still paying off in June.
It’s not because their lives are empty and they’re trying to fill the void of their existence with Godiva and Cartier and Victoria’s Secret. It’s because they have people in their lives, friends and family and lovers, who are important to them. Someone they want to spoil. Someone they want to do something special for. Someone they want to show how much they love them.
True, most of them are misguided when it comes to expressing that love in the form of chocolate, jewelry, or lingerie rather than demonstrating it on a daily basis without the use of something with a Universal Product Code, but at least their intentions are in the right place.
I realize this because for the first time in my two hundred and fifty thousand odd years on this planet, I have someone special to spoil. Someone whose existence has enriched my own. Someone I can’t wait to see wearing the purple lace flyaway baby doll with matching silk panties I got her from Victoria’s Secret.
And I’m wondering how I can write this off as a business expense.
My face breaks open in a smile as I imagine Sara’s expression when she opens the box. As I imagine her reaction and her smile. As I imagine how good the color will look against her fair complexion. Then a voice says, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Happy.”
And suddenly I’m imagining a different scenario.
Think beheadings.
Think drawn and quartered.
Think Salem Witch Trials.
“Aren’t we in a good mood?” says Destiny. Then she notices my smile has vanished. “Or maybe not.”
Before I can protest, she’s taken a seat next to me on the bench.
“So what’s it like being stripped of your powers?” asks Destiny.
The thing about Destiny is that she’s visible.
All around us, human men glance our way. The ones with wives and girlfriends try to pretend they’re not staring, but it’s kind of hard not to notice Destiny, who looks like a prostitute elf.
She’s wearing a red Santa hat, a red velour mock turtleneck, a red micromini plaid schoolgirl skirt, and red midcalf patent-leather platform boots.
“Aren’t you going to wish me a Merry Christmas?” she says.
My first reaction is to tell her to go to hell, but that wouldn’t be in the holiday spirit and I don’t want to let Destiny ruin my good mood. Besides, she’s been to hell. We all have. It’s just one of those places you have to visit at least once.
“You’re very festive,” I say, playing nice, indicating her jingle-bell wrist cuffs.
“I thought they were a playful touch,” says Destiny, shaking one of her wrists. “I can play just about any holiday song. My favorite is ‘A Holly Jolly Christmas,’ but only when I’m in the missionary position.”
“That’s very Burl Ives,” I say.
“You want to play some reindeer games?” she asks, stroking her thighs. “I’m not wearing any underwear.”
Big surprise.
“Maybe I could borrow some of yours,” says Destiny, peeking inside my Victoria’s Secret bag. “Gift for someone? Or is this part of the new Fabio?”
“It’s a gift,” I say, sliding the bag around to my other side.
“Who for?” she asks, arching her left eyebrow.
As if she didn’t know.
Destiny just stares at me, smiling that Cheshire-cat grin of hers, waiting for an answer.
“You really care about her, don’t you?” she asks.
“Care about who?” I say, playing dumb. We both know what we’re talking about. I’m just not willing to admit anything in case Destiny’s wearing a wire. I don’t want to get into any more trouble than I already am.
“You realize you can’t be with her,” says Destiny.
A little boy, no more than six years old, is pointing at Destiny and asking his mother if he can go sit on Santa’s lap. The father looks like he wants to ask the same thing.
“It’s sad, really,” says Destiny, shaking one of her wrists and jingling her bells. “We used to have so much fun together, you and I. Controlling the futures of humans. Keeping the cosmos in balance. All those millennia we spent having noncontact sex. On the Great Wall. During the Trojan War. In the Vatican . . .”
An elderly woman sitting on the bench across from us glares at Destiny with disapproval.
“In spite of everything, I’m going to miss you, Fabio.”
“Well, I haven’t been permanently stripped of my position,” I say. “So don’t get all sentimental on me.”
“Oh, come on, Faaaaabio,” says Destiny. “You really think Jerry’s going to give you your job back after the thirty-eight humans you killed?”
“I didn’t mean to kill them,” I say, a little too loudly.
The elderly woman sitting across from us gets up and walks away, glancing back with a look that makes me think I should get out of here before she calls mall security.
“Well, it’s been fun, Fabio,” says Destiny, standing up and jingling. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with Chance.”
I sit on the bench and watch her walk away, heads turning, men and women captivated by Destiny’s allure, until she’s gone—her long, red, seductive body gliding through the crowds.
I remain on the bench for a few minutes, trying to recapture the festive mood I had before Destiny showed up. But whatever holiday cheer I had is gone, so I take my Victoria’s Secret bag, make a quick exit out of the mall, and walk over to the Fulton Street Station to catch the subway uptown.
The train is packed with Ebenezer Scrooges and Tiny Tims. With George Baileys and Henry Potters. With Kris Kringles and Susan Walkers. Getting on and off at Bleecker Street and Astor Place and Union Square. True, it’s Christmas, so everyone could just be in the holiday spirit, but all of the humans on the subway seem to be wearing Destiny’s favorite color.
Women with red berets and red leather gloves. Teenagers with red tennis shoes and red knit beanies. Men with red wool scarves and red silk ties. Even the homeless guy who rides the subway all day and smells like urine is wearing a red bandanna.
Maybe they’re just festive. Or maybe humans wear red all the time and I just never noticed. But for some reason, this triggers something Sloth said to me at breakfast the other morning. About how maybe there’s something I haven’t considered. Something I haven’t noticed. Something about how maybe all of these humans who died weren’t my fault.
As the train passes the 23rd Street and then the 28th Street stations, I find myself thinking about something Destiny said at the mall, something about the number of humans I killed, and I find myself counting off the humans on my path who died after I intervened in their fates. Going back to Nicolas Jansen, my first convert, I come up with a count of thirty-eight. So I count again, just to be sure, going from Nicolas to the most recent and back again and come up with the same number.
Thirty-eight.
And I’m wondering how Destiny knew the exact number of humans I’ve killed.
Sure, she could have heard it from Rumor or Gossip, but that would have been a lucky guess. And I doubt Jerry would have publicized any of the details about my transgressions. While he can be dogmatic and vengeful at times, you can’t question his integrity. Besides, as far as I know, he wasn’t aware of the humans on my path who died, other than the ones he showed me on the projection screen at the church in Rockford.
On the other end of the subway train stands a middle-aged man who, if I could read him, would probably be fated to a future of giving in to temptation. He just has that look. On cue, I catch him staring at the pair of underage high school girls sitting across from him.
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