The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (18 page)

CHAPTER

WILLIAM L. Z. BUBB, OR
Bill as he liked people to call him, was born on the exact same day I was. I was right about his accent. He was The Bronx born and bred but resided in Manhattan where he also worked. I would like to think that was all we had in common. Unfortunately, there was one minor detail which bonded us further.

Bill was a journalist of sorts; he was a columnist for the computer magazine,
Bytes.
Everyone had probably seen
Bytes
on the newsstand with a free CD with every purchase stuck to it. Many probably picked up a copy and browsed through it, then discarded it without even remembering what it was at their doctor’s or dentist’s office whilst waiting for their appointment.

Unless you are a computer nut and need to know all about the updated virus checkers, the new games, megabytes, gigabytes, and how to correctly handle your joystick, I very much doubt you would have ever purchased a copy.

Bill had two weekly columns in
Bytes;
they were not the highlight of the magazine but not the lowlights either. Each week, in his first column, Bill would appraise his readers on the newest antivirus software currently available on the market, which games were worth downloading, or what other computer “geek” items were available for purchase. He would rate each piece of software and advise his readers on whether or not it was worth spending their hard-earned cash on updating or protecting their laptops or computers with products such as “Firegate Version 3.4,” “Lock Out Version 18.9,” or my personal favorite, “Scum Blocker Version 1.2.”

Bill’s knowledge on those subjects, I later discovered, was undisputed amongst the computer communities of the world, and he was indeed an expert in his field. Bill’s second column was the more widely read of the two. It dealt with all aspects of retro arcade games, where to buy them, where to have them repaired, and where to buy updated software for them. Bill had a claim to fame that revolved around computer games. Bill was 1983, 1984, and 1986 World Space Invader Champion, a game I had never played as a kid but had seen. He was, without a doubt, the best player of video arcade games that the United States had ever produced, and he still receives fan mail, mainly from Japan, but also from Europe and Australia. He was an expert in the workings of those machines, and many considered him the guru on all subjects relating to them. Bill was also remarkably deft at other computer-related games and was a source of endless information about their workings and programs.

I personally had never read computer magazines, and if I did, I would doubt I would read either of Bill’s columns, but each to his own. I doubted Bill would ever look at one of the buildings I designed and comment on its angles, natural light consumption, or its parking facilities.

Bill and I were both white collar, single, and relatively successful New Yorkers. We both lived alone, but due to his allergies, Bill did not share his home with a pet. His apartment was like mine but was located mid-town, without any animals. Unlike me though, Bill was not a fan of sports; he did not like baseball and detested football, both games far too physical and violent for him. Apart from his computers and his interest in Space Invaders, Bill’s only other hobby was a thing I had never heard of called “cosplay.”

Apparently, this pastime was extremely popular in Japan but also had a vast following in the US. It revolved around the dressing up in costumes worn by superheroes, computer game characters, cartoon characters, and other fictional beings. The idea was that an individual would design and make the garments to enter into competitions judged by revered members of the fantasy and science fiction communities. Bill was well known on the cosplay circuit, and on average once a month, Bill would join other individuals and parade around conference centers, hotels, and other suitable venues dressed as Darth Vader, Batman, Pokemon, or some other fictional character. To be honest, it was hard to imagine Bill as Darth Vader or Batman; however I would later learn that Bill made a very convincing Bilbo Baggins, and other elfin-like characters were his forte. I would have found the whole thing laughable and ridiculous until I realized how many hot chicks Bill knew through this hobby. I did later verify that women outnumbered men two to one at those events, and Bill, despite his looks and appearance, often had propositions from scantily clad women looking for an elf. Bill was far too shy ever to take up those offers, so the only tights he ever got into were his own.

So that was Bill, really; he had a lot of friends scattered around the country, all members of the various costuming groups he belonged to, but he avoided close friends due to his painful shyness. His colleagues all respected him, as he was indeed a fountain of knowledge, but even his fellow geeks found him hard to socialize with. His endless complaints and allergies made being with Bill incredibly tiresome even for a guy he worked with, who had changed his surname to Spock.

It seemed the things Bill and I had in common were canceled out by the extreme differences we had in our respective professional and social lives, which, after spending two hours with Bill, was a relief. There would be no way I would ever dress like an elf and parade in front of thousands of other people, even if it did mean there was a chance I was going to get screwed by Catwoman later. However, despite those differences, I found myself liking Bill. He was extremely genuine, and I felt he was the sort of guy who would not or could not harm a fly. He was timid and gentle, and despite his ailments and lack of social prowess, I was enjoying his company. If I thought I was one of the meek, which I had, then I was wrong. Bill was without a doubt the most submissive and most humble individual I had ever encountered. So it came as a bit of a shock, I have to say, when Bill revealed to me that he was actually the anti-Christ.

CHAPTER

AT PRECISELY THE SAME TIME
that Bill had revealed to me he was “the Beast,” I had, rather unfortunately, been drinking a beer. I was not sure how much hit my poor guest, but the amount that sprayed from my mouth was vast. For one fleeting second, I thought I was going to choke. I coughed and spluttered for at least five minutes before I regained any normality of breath. I apologized profusely to Bill and was extremely pleased that I had laid clean sheets over my furniture at the request of Bill so none of Walter’s hairs would assist in provoking any reaction to Bill’s numerous animal allergies.

“I know I seem like an odd choice,” said Bill. He wiped away my spit and beer from his face with a new handkerchief he produced from his raincoat that he still wore, and considering the unexpected shower he had received, his decision not to remove it had proven highly fortuitous. “I only found out four days ago.”

I offered him some tissues to soak up the beer that had landed in his lap, giving the unfortunate illusion that he had urinated himself. “Four days ago?” I said trying to ignore Bill’s jerking hand movements in the vicinity of his crotch as he attempted to soak up beer with the tissues I handed him. It was a good job Mother Teresa was not around. “You mean you only discovered this four days ago? That for the last thirty-two years you had no idea you were the son of Lucifer?” Bill nodded. It had to have been more than a coincidence. How could Satan and God both have abandoned their offspring for the same amount of time?

“Apparently Satan had been away for a while,” said Bill. “Said he’d been out in the Universe, helping to create planets and new civilizations, and apparently he got waylaid.” Once again, I felt the need to interrupt.

“Bill, did Satan, by any chance, mention that God accompanied him on this journey around the Universe?”

“Yes,” replied Bill “Satan, Lucifer, the Devil, or however you want to address him—he prefers Satan, though,” confirmed Bill.

“Then Satan’s fine with me,” I interrupted.

“Well, Satan sent me an e-mail explaining everything—the whole thing, my birth, his absence—everything. At first, I thought it was a prank, but the email contained so many details only I would know that I decided to investigate its source. I know about tracing e-mails and viruses and all that stuff, so I did a track on my reply e-mail. It hadn’t originated from any computer or server I could fathom. I used all my expertise and the expertise of others— I mean people who
know
computers—in trying to find out where this e-mail had originated from, but no matter which program I used or tracing method I adopted, the results were always the same; it came back as unknown.” Bill spoke quickly, and I urged him to take a breath. Bill reached into his coat pocket and produced an asthma inhaler and sucked on it hard. Was there no medical condition this man did not have? Bill wheezed, and I asked him if he needed water. He waved his hand indicating to me he didn’t. Bill waited until his wheezing had subsided and then continued his story.

“Eventually, I found a program that would allow me to successfully trace the e-mail address, so I sent an e-mail to the address that Satan’s e-mail had originated from. It returned to me with a message stating the e-mail originated from no computer on Earth, which was impossible, but I couldn’t argue with it, as my knowledge of computers told me it was true.”

I knew exactly what Bill was trying to say. I had been through it myself. When faced with the illogical and what normally would be the impossible or bizarre, your brain tells you it is unacceptable to believe, but you start believing it anyway. I was amazed how quickly I believed I talked to God. Yes, I know my talking cat had helped, but I understood why Bill had accepted that the e-mail he had received was from Satan. He did not need to convince me. I already believed him.

“What exactly did the e-mail say?” I asked Bill.

Bill once more delved into the pockets of his raincoat and removed a folded piece of paper. “I printed it out for you,” said Bill as he handed the e-mail over to me, “please read it for yourself.” I unfolded the e-mail and began to read:

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

SUBJECT: HI THERE AND AN APOLOGY

Dear Son,

This e-mail may come as a bit of a shock to you, and I would not blame you for thinking that it is a hoax or a prank from one of your friends, but son, you do not have any friends who would be bothered to play such a prank on you. I urge you to take what action you want in ascertaining the validity of this mail. You will though discover that it is genuine, and so am I. I know you have the capability to trace the origin of this mail, and I would not expect anything less of you to try and prove this is a fake, but I assure you, your efforts shall be in vain.

First of all, I owe you a rather large apology. I have been an appalling father to you, but I never intended for things to be this way between us. I promise you, son. I deeply, deeply regret the missed years and missed opportunities, and I realize this is all my fault. I accept full responsibility for all my wanton and selfish actions. I have no excuse, and I feel nothing but remorse for the way I abandoned you and your mother. I am ashamed. I feel I am not fit to be called your father, but son, that is what I am—your dad—and a prouder man than II challenge you to find.

As you are fully aware, your mother always told you she did not know who your father was, and even up until her death last year, she continued to tell you she did not know the identity of your true biological father. Well, son, I am your father. Your mother was only trying to protect you from the truth, and who could blame her? I have always had a somewhat tarnished reputation, and I suppose that when the years passed, and I never showed up, she must have thought I never would, so she felt no need to burden you. For this, I am also ashamed. I promise you
it was never my intention or plan to not return and be there for you and your mother.

I met your mother in 1966 at a costume party in Queens. Your mother loved to dress up, and she loved masquerading, and I understand you have inherited the same quirky hobby. Your mom was an excellent costume maker, and I am sure, if she were alive today, she would be immensely proud of the little dwarf costumes you wear. Your mother dressed as Catwoman, not the modern day Halle Berry or Michelle Pfeiffer version of Catwoman, but the sixties version as worn by Eartha Kitt, Julie Newmar, and Lee Merryweather in the TV show, the one with Adam West as Batman and Burt Ward (was it?) as Robin.

Well, your mother and I got chatting, and she said she just adored my costume. I tried to explain that it wasn’t a costume, but she laughed and said she didn’t believe me. She said it was the best devil impersonation she had ever seen. She especially liked my tripod, and I recall she thought I had done an excellent job with the papier-mâché. Anyway, the drinks were flowing, one thing led to another, and we fell in love that very night.

You see, son, you are a love child. Unlike other celestial and underworld myths, not all births have to be from a virgin. That whole virgin thing has been very misinterpreted, by the way. And your mother was no virgin, believe me. Nor was she a jackal, which is another myth, due in no part to some bad proofreading of the Bible before the so-called “experts” released it. No, son, your mother was quite the “goer” back in the day. Boy, could that lady party. She could even turn me red, or redder! A virgin she was not. Oh no.

Anyway, we began a relationship, and as the months passed, she gradually started to believe that I was indeed who I said I was. I suppose the fact that I was never out of costume, my refusal to ever meet with her friends or family, and my hesitancy to ever be seen out in public helped in her realization. Other clues helped, I guess, such as my insistence on the heating to always be as hot as Hell (which it could never be), my penchant for raw meat, my inability to enter a church, my horns, and the fact that I would only ever call after she had recited the Lord’s Prayer backward whilst looking in a mirror. Despite your Mother discovering after three months that her boyfriend, who appeared to be permanently
painted red, was really the Devil, she had fallen head-over-heels in love with me, just as I had fallen head-over-hoof for her.

When I found out your mother was pregnant, I was the happiest man in Hell. We planned you; you were not an accident. We had discussed my need to produce a child, and your mother agreed. It was all I had ever wanted, and I had waited such a long time for the opportunity to be a father. It was a bonus that you were conceived out of love.

Unfortunately, business and other duties involved in my capacity as the Lord of Darkness took me away before you were born. A “colleague” of mine, who shall remain nameless, but we could refer to him as ‘God’, just for convenience’s sake, convinced me to join him on a trip into the Universe. He told me he had found a great planet that we could work on and maybe even develop. I remonstrated with him that I had responsibilities on Earth, that I was about to become a father, and I needed to be with my child to help with his upbringing and watch him grow up, not to mention my need to support your mother and help her with her pregnancy. I had responsibilities, and I swear I did not want to shirk them. My colleague, whom we are calling ‘God,' just for convenience’s sake, assured me that we would be gone for only a few months. He convinced me that he was in a similar position and that he would never allow me to miss your birth.

I have no excuse, and I am not trying to apportion blame, but he lied to me. Despite my protestations, I could not be released from my commitments elsewhere in the Universe. Each time I tried to curtail my absence from Earth, a situation would arise, or another excuse was levied at me to pressure me into staying. Now I realize that my traveling companion was enjoying his time away from the demands of his job and did not want to return. Unfortunately, due to certain rules and regulations, I was obligated to accompany him and not return to Earth on my own without him. It seems no one trusted me not to cause mayhem, chaos, and havoc. Believe me, son, when I tell you that was the farthest thought from my mind. My only desire was to return to be with you and your mother. The trip turned into a year, then a year turned into two, and then five and then, well, I suppose I lost track of time. I admit, I enjoyed my extended vacation, and the old adage “out of sight, out of mind” is true. I disregarded my
responsibilities on Earth, including you and your mother, and I indulged myself. The place where we were was indeed beautiful, and we had got into developing the project a lot deeper than we had thought. Maybe one day I will take you to visit it and, who knows, hopefully we could rule the place one day. It depends on how things go.

This brings me to the real point of my e-mail, dear son. I am Satan, the Devil, the Angel and the Prince of Darkness, the fallen angel, king of Hell, Lucifer, Old Nick -call me what you will, but I assure you, I am who I say I am. I do prefer Satan, though, should anyone ask. I know this has come as a shock to you, but it is the truth. I swear it. As my son, this makes you, by default, the anti-Christ, or as you are known in some quarters, “the Beast.” Personally, I hate that term because you are anything but a beast to me, son; you are my precious son whom I have missed so very much, and whom I love dearly.

I returned to my home—a place you call Hell, but for me, it’s my sanctuary—a week ago to find that your mother had passed on and, unfortunately for me but fortunately for her, she had made it to the other place. I immediately looked you up, son, and I am so proud of your achievements. I admire your informative and well-written columns, your fabulous costumes, and of course, your video-gaming skills are legendary. I am sorry about the allergies. I am afraid you may have inherited those from me. I have a problem with eider, and the only animals I seem to be able to tolerate are jackals and serpents. All other creatures bring me out in a rash.

I feel so bad that we have not spent any time together, and when I think of the things we have missed doing as Father and Son, it breaks my heart (well, it would if I had one). I know money isn’t everything, but I want to make up for being such a bad father to you somehow. Therefore, I have deposited today, into your bank account, a little something to say sorry and make up for my years of absence. I know money is not enough to make up for what I have done, but it is the root of all evil, and well, it was the least I could do. I have accumulated all the allowances and pocket money that I should have paid you, plus a little extra to make up for birthdays, and though I do not celebrate it myself, Christmas. I have also taken the liberty of compounding the interest and have adjusted for cost-of-living rises, so please do not be shocked when
you receive your next statement, and do not worry about the IRS; I have many, many followers there.

I love you, son, and I am so sorry for the way I have neglected you. Trust me when I tell you my former aloofness stops right now.

Son, we have many things to discuss, pressing matters that will affect you and the world as you know it, but I will call you and discuss with you man-to-demon the responsibilities that come with being my son. Once again, I will not blame you for tracing this e-mail or disbelieving these startling revelations. In the meantime, son, you do what you have to do.

All my love,

Satan (Dad)

XXXXXXX

I read it and then re-read it. And then I read it again. I got the feeling the author of the e-mail had put a lot of thought into its content, and I sensed the remorse expressed in it was genuine. Bill’s father had poured emotion and honesty into the e-mail, and I found it hard to believe the writer of such a humble and soul-searching document was the Prince of Darkness. I looked at Bill, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt a connection with him unlike I had ever felt with anyone else before. Like me, he had been abandoned by his father, and like me, he had been thrust into the family business, untrained, unprepared, and reluctantly.