The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy (19 page)

One thing that was apparent from the e-mail was Satan’s bitterness toward my father. Despite their apparent “working relationship,” I got the feeling Satan was not best pleased with being an absent father, and he put the blame for the lack of relationship with his son squarely at Dad’s door. For God to cast him out of Heaven was one thing, but to then be unable to be with your family due to God’s apparent selfishness and “need for a break” was another. I suspected Satan was annoyed. I refolded the e-mail and handed it back to Bill.

“He sounds like a very nice guy. He seems very remorseful,” I said as Bill took the e-mail and placed it back into his raincoat pocket. Bill nodded.

“Generous, too. He deposited over two million dollars into my bank account.”

My eyes widened “Wow, now that is generous!” I calculated in my head how much I was due in missed allowances and pocket money, then realized that for any amount to be deposited into my bank account, it would have to be approved by one of God’s committees. Then there would be paperwork to be completed and ledgers to adjust. I doubted I would be as lucky. Then again, I had gotten my raise and partnership thanks to God, but I did note that the money was not coming from his own coffers, but from Henry’s and his partners. I let the matter rest in my head but filed it for later use.

“So, what happened next?” I asked Bill. “What did you do when you realized the e-mail was genuine?” I was eager to know exactly how Satan had dealt with the same situation as God. Already I felt that of the two, Satan was coming out on top.

“Well, I tried to trace the e-mail like I said, and I couldn’t.” Bill took a deep breath, and I thought his asthma was going to set off again, but luckily, it didn’t. “Then he called me at home.” Aha, so it seemed Hell also had a telephone network.

“What did he say? What did he sound like?” I asked eagerly.

“Texan,” said Bill. “He sounded like he could have been from Texas.” My expression did not hide my surprise. For some reason, I expected an Eastern European accent, kind of like Dracula’s voice in those old movies. “He wasn’t brash or loud; very pleasant, actually. He explained what was expected of me, as his son, and re-explained his absence of thirty-two years.” I found myself nodding, picturing the telephone call between father and son. “I thanked him for the money, and then we got on to you. He told me all about Armageddon, and he told me to read the Bible and specifically the Book of Revelation. He then told me to forget it, because that was not how he saw it.”

“Saw what?” I asked.

“Saw the ending. In the Bible, God wins, but Satan says he isn’t going to take a dive just to fulfill a prophecy. He wants to win, and badly. That’s why I am here, you see, I don’t want to be responsible for the end of the world, nor do I wish to send mankind to Hell.” I saw Bill was shaking.

“He told you this over the phone?” I asked. Bill shook his head and pulled another e-mail from his pocket, handing it to me.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

SUBJECT: ARMAGEDDON/APOCALYPSE/FINAL CONFLICT-CHANGE OF PLAN

Hi, son,

It was great talking to you earlier today.

Don’t be alarmed by the title of the e-mail! As I mentioned in my previous e-mail, being my son means you have some responsibilities. As I have already explained, you are the anti-Christ, or as described in the Bible, the beast (argh! I hate that!). As such, you need to prepare for the final conflict, or apocalypse, as referred to in the New Testament book of Revelation. I know you may think you are not ready yet, but I think you are; in fact, I know you are. You do not have to fear the Lamb of God. My intelligence is good, and I assure you have nothing to fear. He is weak and will be no match for you. We are going to cream them!

I know the book of Revelation indicates that in the end, God will prevail, but, after careful and thorough consideration, and due in no small part to the way I feel I have been treated by some so-called ‘colleagues,’ I have decided not to go along with what is written and prophesied, bowing down to let God win this one. Not after what he did.

I have consulted lawyers—believe me, I have many down here—and it seems I signed no contract that binds me to the contents of the Bible. I have also discovered that it was not correctly edited nor proofread before it was released, and, therefore, whoever deemed I was to be eventually defeated had no right in saying so without my consent, which I did not give.

So, dear son, disregard what is written. We are not going to throw this one; we are going for it! God’s son is called Seth Miller, but keep that under your hat. He actually seems like a nice guy but remember that nice guys finish second in our business. When the time is due, he will reveal himself, and then the battle shall begin. Do not fear—you are definitely the stronger. Well, looking forward to seeing you on Saturday. I will meet you near the main hall, and don’t worry, you’ll recognize me.

Dad

I handed the e-mail back to Bill.

“You are meeting him today?” I asked.

“Yes” replied Bill, “I need to go soon and get ready.” Bill checked his wrist watch. “We are meeting at the New York Comic-Con this afternoon, at the Jacob Javits Center on 11th Avenue. I need to change and get into costume if I am going to make it.”

“You mean Satan is going to be in New York? Today? But how?” I asked, amazed that the Devil could think he could simply blend into a crowd. “Won’t he be recognized? Doesn’t he have horns, and isn’t he red?” I asked incredulously.

Bill smiled for the first time since we met. “It’s a costuming convention; no one will even bat an eyelid. You should come.”

I declined Bill’s offer. I wasn’t sure how Satan would react when he realized that his son’s new buddy was the son of the man he hated. “What are you going to tell him about me? Are you going to tell him you sought me out?”

Bill shook his head. “No, I am trying to stall for time until I can figure a way to resolve this. We must keep this meeting between us quiet from our fathers,” Bill said earnestly. I agreed. I doubted God would be none too pleased either if he knew I had been fraternizing with the enemy.

Before Bill left, he confided in me that he felt sorry betraying his father in this way, but the responsibility was just too much; his irritable bowel syndrome had flared up, and he felt that condemning the human race to Hell and taking over the world was not something he could see himself doing. Between us, we agreed we would find a solution to our problem, and as two, logical and sane thinking adults, we felt we could avert Armageddon and the looming battle for souls. I wished Bill luck at the costume convention and shook his hand vigorously before he left. We exchanged telephone numbers and agreed to meet up soon.

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief once Bill left. It was a double sigh, for I was doubly relieved. For one, it seemed as though this whole Armageddon thing was not going to happen. Bill and I would avert the final conflict and sanity would prevail. God could go back to doing whatever it was he did, Satan could hire more lawyers, and I could return to being just plain old Seth Miller. Secondly, should Bill and I fail to avert Armageddon, and should they force us to go through with it, I had no doubt that I could kick Bill’s ass if I needed to. Like I mentioned earlier, I am not a fighter, I never had been, but, really, even Professor Stephen Hawkins could probably whoop Bill’s ass. What was Satan thinking in his e-mail? Did he really think Bill could beat me in any physical contest? I supposed it was a case of a father trying to live through his son. Unfortunately, though, like most things when it came to God, things were a little more complicated than they appeared.

CHAPTER

WHILE I HAD AGREED NOT
to mention my encounter with Bill to God, I had made no such promise when it came to my disciples. I decided I needed to contact Bob and inform him of the meeting between myself and the anti-Christ. Notwithstanding the fact that I knew tonight was Bob and Nancy’s ‘intimate’ night, I felt the circumstances warranted a call. However, plucking up the courage to call knowing there was a fifty percent chance Nancy would answer, was a different matter.

I hadn’t spoken to Nancy in several months, not since the pizza incident. The pizza incident occurred at Sonny’s Pizza Parlor on 37th around Easter time. I had agreed to join Bob and Nancy for dinner; it was Bob’s attempt to ease the tension that existed between his wife and his best friend. He had hoped that by us all breaking bread together, we could iron out our differences and maybe even become friends, and what better way to do that than over pizza and beer. To be honest, it hadn’t been a bad idea; I felt that if I could charm Nancy into liking me—and I was sure that over a drink she would realize I was a likeable guy who posed no threat to her relationship with her husband—then it would pave the way for a smoother baseball season without the added worry of Nancy jeopardizing our fun. Initially, I had been reluctant to go through with the evening, but Bob had convinced me otherwise, and by the time the night of the dinner rolled around, I was confident that our “Nancy problem” would soon be a thing of the past.

The evening had started well enough; there was the issue of the booth, of course, which Nancy could not fit into due to the proximity of the fixed seating to the table, and of course, her size. We eventually settled on a table, which Sonny quickly set for us. Bob and I were semi-regulars at the restaurant, and Sonny explained to me that the booths were standard size; even the largest American could slide into them usually, and that Bob’s wife must be expecting an extremely large baby.

I advised him not to mention that to either Bob or Nancy, as they were trying to keep her pregnancy a secret. Pleased that I had defused a potentially horrifically embarrassing incident, not to mention probably having saved Sonny’s life, I felt the evening was going to be an undoubted success. I made small talk with Nancy, who initially was hesitant to become embroiled in a prolonged conversation with me, but I persevered; the old Seth charm was working. After a few beers, Nancy loosened up a little, and Bob flashed me a grin that said that things were going well. Indeed, at one stage I had Nancy laughing at a joke I had heard that day in the office. All was going well until the food arrived. We had decided to order the largest pizza they had, and in the spirit of the evening, we thought it apt that we shared it amongst us. I was not too particular as to what flavor our pizza should be, and I suggested that Nancy choose the toppings.

When I heard Nancy mention the word “anchovies” to the waitress taking our order, I froze. I hated anchovies; I detested them; the only thing more vile-smelling than an anchovy was an anchovy with a body odor problem or bad breath. What the hell was an anchovy anyway, and who had decided they made a good pizza topping? Of all the pizza toppings available, why did she have to choose anchovies? Conscious of the fact that I had given Nancy carte blanche authority over ordering the pizza, I found myself in a rather delicate position. Not wishing to spoil Nancy’s evening or her pizza, I made a rather noble and logical suggestion. I politely pointed out to Nancy and Bob that I was unable to eat any pizza that contained anchovies, but, in the spirit of the evening, why not leave one slice anchovy-free, as I really was not overly hungry and really, in all honesty, my evening was complete thanks to the great company I was with. It was not a big deal. Bob asked why I couldn’t take them off the slices I ate; I informed him that was totally unacceptable, and that by just touching an anchovy, it would ruin my evening of fine dining.

Surprisingly, it was Nancy who asked the waitress that she inform the chef to make sure that one slice of pizza be devoid of anchovy, and therefore reserved for my exclusive consumption. I thanked Nancy for her understanding, and she smiled nicely as we cheered each other.

Once again, I felt my diplomacy and actions would only endear Nancy toward me. I was, in fact, ravenous, and I could have easily suggested that they make more than one slice anchovy-free; however, my sacrifice of a full meal was worth it if it meant baseball season would run smoothly. The pizza duly arrived, and Nancy and Bob both took a slice. I excused myself to use the bathroom and wash my hands. I was gone no longer than five minutes, but when I returned to the table to rejoin my dining companions, I was shocked to see that only one slice of pizza remained. Bob and Nancy, though I suspected Nancy, must have eaten seven large slices of pizza in what one could only describe as superhuman time. I estimated they had consumed seven slices in five minutes, which equated to more than one slice per minute. The remaining slice sat on my plate and naturally, I assumed it would be the anchovy-free slice. Without checking the pizza—and why would I?—I took a bite. At first, I wondered why Nancy smiled at me; her grin was disturbing, and she had a mischievous glint in her eye, but I presumed she had begun to warm to me, and this was her natural look when smiling. Bob, oblivious it seemed to Nancy’s moronic grinning, was busy quaffing his latest beer.

It hit me after about five seconds, the taste provoking what I can only describe as a knee-jerk reaction. I vomited. It wasn’t normal vomit, but projectile vomit, which hit Nancy directly in the face. To this day, I am sure Nancy deliberately exchanged my anchovy-free slice with an anchovy-laden one; her motive, to watch my discomfort. Unfortunately, the chain reaction of events that was set in motion was horrific. My vomiting caused Bob to vomit. Unfortunately, though, for Nancy, he had turned his head to face her after my initial vomiting began. Nancy was therefore covered not only in my vomit but in Bob’s. Tragically, and by what I can only describe as a macabre twist of fate, our waitress was passing at the exact same time Bob and I vomited in relevant unison. The sight of our vomit led the poor girl to throw up herself; unfortunately, she happened to be standing directly behind Nancy.

Nancy was covered from head to toe, front and back, in three separate bouts of vomiting. How she lasted as long as she did, I do not know, but eventually, the inevitable happened, and she vomited into her own lap. It was at this moment that Sonny appeared and explained, at the top of his voice to the full and packed restaurant, that Nancy was pregnant, and with a baby the size she was carrying it had to be expected that the poor woman would have delayed morning sickness. Nancy and I had not spoken since that night.

I took a deep breath and called Bob’s number.

“Hello?” It was Bob, thank God.

“Bob, it’s me, Seth; we need to talk,” I said quickly, and for some inexplicable reason, I was whispering.

“No, thank you, we already have cable,” said Bob cheerfully. “Thanks for your call; we will certainly bear you in mind should we decide to change providers. Goodbye.” Bob hung up. I looked at the receiver, puzzled. I considered calling him back, but the odds of Nancy answering had just increased. I was about to grab another beer when the phone rang. It was Bob.

“Are you crazy?” he whispered. “Are you out of your freaking mind? You do know what night it is, don’t you? You do know she is here?” Bob sounded perplexed. As soon as the opportunity had presented itself, Bob had called me back. Nancy needed to use the bathroom, and it sometimes took her as long as twenty minutes, depending on what she had eaten earlier.

“Sorry,” I said “but it is an emergency,” I told Bob about my visit from Bill, the anti-Christ. Bob listened without interrupting. Once I relayed the full details, Bob spoke.

“It sounds as though we have nothing to worry about. I presume you are going to go through with it now? You know, take him down.” The way Bob said it suddenly made me aware that I couldn’t do it. How could I hurt poor Bill?

No, no matter what, I was not going to get physical with Bill. There had to be some other way. I told Bob that meeting Bill had changed things, and I explained there was no way I was going to hurt him. Bob, after some persuading, agreed that it would be wrong, especially after Bill had been the one to offer the olive branch of peace. Bob thought that it would be good if all four of us—Bob, Bill, Maggie and I—to get together on Sunday to formulate a plan that would somehow prevent Bill and me from “getting it on.”

I thought I should include Maggie in the day’s events also, so after completing my call with Bob, I called her. I could have waited until the morning, but the truth was, I missed her company. I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind, and I didn’t need an excuse to call her. It was a feeling I had never had before. Maggie answered on the third ring, and I explained all about Bill. She agreed that we shouldn’t harm Bill and that we should all work through this together as suggested by Bob, and that she would be available tomorrow.

“So what are you doing now? You still working on your case?” I asked. I pretended it was passing conversation, but the truth was I wanted to see her.

“No, I’ve finished. I’m relaxing. Why?”

I wondered why she was asking why I was asking. Did she want me to invite her over? Could she tell from my voice that I missed her? “Oh, no reason,” I lied.

“Is there anything else?” asked Maggie. There was; I wanted to invite her over, not just for sex but because I, well, I just wanted to.

“No,” I said, immediately regretting what I was about to say, “nothing else. I will see you tomorrow.” As soon as I hung up, I kicked myself. I thought about calling her back, but I couldn’t muster the courage. Anyway, if she wanted to see me, she would come over, right? Was I not the Messiah? Surely I shouldn’t be doing the chasing; or should I? I looked at Walter, hoping for some divine inspiration, but none came. Was I falling in love with Maggie? I was a confirmed bachelor. There was no way this could be happening to me. But much had happened to me over the last few days, and I could feel it; I was changing.

I snapped out of my thoughts of Maggie and decided I had better call Bill to organize tomorrow’s meeting. I dialed the number he had given me, but there was no reply. I checked my watch. It was approaching eight. Maybe he was still at his costume convention. I decided to try again later. I got the feeling Bill was not a night owl, and that his bedtime on a Saturday night was probably before ten. I called again at nine, ten, and eleven, and still no Bill. I left him a message with my cell phone number and told him to call me when he got in. I thought Milligan’s would be a good place for us to meet on Sunday, and my message included this suggestion.

Maybe Bill’s convention went on longer than I had thought. Still, I would have expected him to be home. Usually on a Saturday evening, I would be having fun in the city, but I was tucked up in bed with thoughts of Maggie by eleven thirty. I drifted off to sleep, and I slept well, very well; it was good to be back in my bed after the previous night on the sofa, but I wished Maggie had been with me.

I awoke suddenly; something was making a noise, something that didn’t make a noise usually at six am on a Sunday morning. I could hear a humming sound, and I could feel vibrations. Confused, I fumbled in my bed until I found the reason for the disturbance. My cell phone, which was set to vibrate, buzzed and shook. I had a call.

“Hello?” I said groggily as I answered the cell phone, ending its incessant jig.

“Seth, it’s me, Bill. I just got your message.”

I rubbed my eyes; it was indeed six in the morning. “You just got it?” I asked still a little groggy.

“Yes,” exclaimed Bill, “I just made it home.”

I found myself becoming more alert. There was something different about Bill’s voice, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“You have been out all night?” I asked. Bill didn’t strike me as someone to stay out all night.

“Yes, kind of had a heavy one.” I heard laughter in the background, female laughter.

“Have you got someone there with you?” I asked. Once again, I heard laughter and possibly the clinking of glasses.

“Oh, them.” Bill, I presumed, cupped the receiver at his end before shouting, “You two, keep it down will you? I am trying to make a call.” Bill returned to me, “Sorry about that, it’s the twins.” The twins? Bill had a pair of female twins at his place? The laughter became louder, and then I heard different sounds, disturbing sounds, like zippers being undone, moaning, and more laughter.

“Bill, are you still there? Are you all right?” I asked, images appearing in my head that really should not have included Bill.

“Yes,” replied Bill as if he was being pulled around. “Look, I will meet you at Milligans I know it; I saw it yesterday. I will be there at noon.” I heard female cries of disappointed in the background. “Ok, one. I will see you at one, but come alone.” Either Bill hung up or one of the twins yanked the phone from him because I got the impression they dragged him off as the line went dead. As I was awake, I got up and showered, made coffee, fed Walter, popped outdoors for the Sunday paper, made some eggs, and relaxed.

I wondered why Bill wanted me to come alone. It was a disappointment, as I wanted to see Maggie, and now I had no idea when I would see her again. I waited until the hour was more reasonable and called her. I explained Bill’s phone call and how it seemed totally out of character; he hadn’t sounded nervous or even remotely timid. I mentioned the twins and what I had heard in the background. Maggie said Bill sounded like a party animal, and I had to agree that it did seem I may have underestimated the man. But how? How could the timid, shy, nervous, allergy-ridden nerd whom I had met less than twenty-four hours ago have suddenly transformed into Hugh Heffner on acid?