

Hunky-Dory Bible Stories

By Fred Potter

Copyright 2014 by Fred Potter

Smashwords Edition

JONAH AND THE GREAT FISH

His chest rose as the desert morning filled his lungs with precious oxygen; then, after a delicate pause, his chest retreated. The soft sand in the shade of the tree molded to his shoulder, and his knees, drawn up toward his oscillating chest, rested the one atop the other. His eyelids twitched.

A dab of drool decorated the side of his mouth.

In his dream, water engulfed him, and although he knew he must be drowning, there was no panic, no thrashing, and no gasping for air. The water wasn't killing him, it was protecting him. He wasn't suffocating to death, he was drowning to live, the water's all-consuming, enveloping embrace blocking out all sound, all sight, and gravity, surrounding him with a comforting nothingness. There was only the water, an ocean of amniotic fluid, and limp, he drifted within that vast womb.

Jonah slept, and his slumber was certainly deep; but not nearly as deep as his body soon would be.

Someone was singing.

Not loudly, and very close to him.

" _Someone told me long ago  
There's a calm before the storm..."_

Jonah opened his eyes. Close, but outside his arm's reach, a man sat on a rock. He was a big man, probably six-four when standing, and tanned. Strange patterns decorated his bare arms. His long, gray beard dangled between his legs. He hunched over his left hand, digging his fingernails with an object gripped in his right hand, some sort of tool, and Jonah noticed that it was shiny.

The man's clothes seemed strange to Jonah. The man wore leggings unlike Jonah had seen before, bright blue and form-fitting from the hip to the ankle. A silver chain was attached to one side of the leggings. The man wore no sandals; instead, a dark brown material covered his feet, and the toes of the shoes were pointed. The man's upper body was covered with a black garment that fitted his muscular chest tightly. The garment displayed a bright and ornate image, and as the fog of Jonah's sleep lifted, his eyes fixed on the image and Jonah's brain struggled to process its strange design:

STURGIS 1995

" _Yesterday and days before  
Sun is cold and rain is hard..."_

"Who are you?" Jonah whispered.

The man flicked his fingers. He didn't look at Jonah.

"I need you to do something for me."

"Do something. Do what?"

"Need you to run an errand. And deliver a message." The shiny little tool disappeared. The man folded his hands, leaned closer and stared into Jonah's eyes, causing Jonah's bowels to flip and his body hairs to stand on end.

Jonah didn't move.

"What errand. What message."

"Well – there's a city. It's called Nineveh. You've heard of it?"

"Of course."

"I figured you had. I need you to go there."

"Why?"

"Because," the man said, and he exhaled a sigh through puffed cheeks as he glanced to one side. "The people there irritate me. Always partying. Always monkeying around. Don't pay enough attention to me."

"What's monkeying?"

"Never mind. They get on my nerves."

"You're God, aren't you."

"Furthermore," God said, ignoring Jonah, "I'm so irritated that I'm gonna nuke 'em. In forty days. If they don't straighten out, that is."

"What's that mean, nuke?"

"It means I'm going to wipe them off the face of the earth."

"Why forty days?"

"I've got a thing about that number. I like that number."

"Okay. So you're not just irritated, you're mad."

"Yeah, I am. Furious. Can't ya tell?"

"Uh-huh...you've got. Moods. Eh?"

"So. You'll do it then?"

"Let me make sure I understand. You want me to travel to Nineveh..."

"That's correct."

"Enter their city..."

"Yes."

"And warn them that if they don't change their ways, you're going to kill them."

"Exactly."

"All of them?"

"All of them. Fry 'em. And destroy the whole city, buildings, crops, animals – everything. Vapor."

"That's a little extreme, don't you think?"

"It's how I roll."

"How're you gonna do it?"

"With a big-assed napalm spitball. Works good. Used that on Sodom and Gomorrah, and there wasn't nuthin' left of them idiots."

"With a what?"

"With fire, Jonah. Fire. Look, I'm busy, I have to go, so you'll go do it? Deliver my message?"

"I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a bind here, dude."

"How so."

"If I deliver that message, wander into the middle of their city and tell them what you just told me about the fire and what-not, I have a pretty good sense of what'll happen: they'll kick my ass. But, minor detail, if I don't do it, you will kick my ass."

There was a pause while God examined what Jonah did not know is a boot.

"And? So?"

"And, so, I don't like to have my ass kicked."

"Not my problem. You done talking now? Go to Nineveh and do what I tell you. Tell 'em forty days. Tell 'em I'm pissed and I'm gonna blast the earth so clean, there'll be no trace they were ever there. Tell 'em – aw, go ahead and tell 'em if they say they're sorry and be good from now on, I'll let it go and we'll be square. How's that."

"Right..."

"Okay then. Good. So you can leave by sun—"

And without warning, Jonah jumped from the ground and ran. He ran south, he ran fast, he ran hard, and he didn't stop. He ran from the place of that encounter, legs kicking high, arms stabbing and clawing the air, robe flapping, long hair bouncing, sand and dust plumed behind him.

God watched Jonah for a moment, then he removed the boot and shook it, eyeballing for the rock he had felt. He turned the boot to another angle, shook it again, and the rock tumbled out. He glanced in Jonah's direction as he shoved his foot inside the boot again. Jonah was fast. He would make the flat desert horizon within the hour.

God stood up, sighed, and noticed that his clouds were especially white against his impossibly blue sky that day.

Then, had Jonah looked back, he would have seen that his visitor was gone.

After three days of running, walking, and little sleep, Jonah arrived in the port city of Joppa, where he stayed for three more days as he earned enough money to board a ship bound for Tarshish. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say "stole" enough money. During his life as a prophet, Jonah had become adept at various forms of gambling: casting lots, pitching coins, and other parlor games wherein a wager for money was involved. Jonah discovered that such games were especially easy for a man gifted with seeing the future, and in particular, any bad future. By the end of the third day, his motivation to set sail for Tarshish was equal parts running from what he perceived to be God's dirty work and running from the angry residents of Joppa who had been so deftly and mercilessly relieved of their life's savings.

Having paid the fare, Jonah boarded and found a comfortable place below deck where he quickly fell asleep. The exorbitant fare included a promise from the captain that Jonah would not be obligated to do any work, and Jonah was determined that the sailor make good on that arrangement.

Jonah slept for sixteen hours. Meanwhile, all shoreline disappeared from sight.

When he awoke, he was hungry. The three members of the crew, Jake (the captain), Bill and Eric, were dining at a table near Jonah's bed. Jonah opened his eyes and studied them. The men were so similar in appearance, Jonah wondered if they were brothers: big and mangy black beards, wide noses, little eyes, round bodies, weathered skin. They realized he was awake and regarded him warily as he rose from his reclining position. Jonah rubbed his eyes, in part because they were glued shut, but also because they were stinging from the smell. Jonah was grateful for the oil lantern swinging above the men, as he knew it was consuming some of their fumes, and without it Jonah would probably be dead from the gases. Jonah guessed they hadn't bathed for a long time. More specifically: ever.

"So," Jake mumbled around a mouthful of mutton, "you eat?"

Jonah paused, stared at Jake and restrained the urge employ his usual Prophet Sent By God Sarcasm.

"Yes. Generally."

"Hungry?"

"Yes...."

"C'mon." Jake kicked the fourth chair back from the table and cocked his head, motioning for Jonah to approach. Jonah stepped over to the table and took a seat slowly, cautiously.

"You said yer name is Jonah," Jake said, eyeing the prophet. "Right?"

"Yes."

"Mmph." Jake took another bite. "Well this here's Bill, and that there's Eric. You and I already met when you paid fare. So. What you doin' on this boat, Jonah?"

Jonah said nothing.

"He runnin'," Bill said. "Ain't thet right, bud?"

"Maybe so."

"Don't matter none," Bill said. "Ever body runnin' from somethin'. You don't tell us, we won't ask. Want some mutton?" He thrust a leg under Jonah's nose.

"Okay. Thank you."

The leg plopped on the table before Jonah.

"We got wine," Bill said, spitting flecks and pouring a cup for the prophet. "But we ain't got no sides. No taters, no rice, no beans. No veggies. Jussa meat. Hell, ain't got no plates neither. But I wiped the table down 'fore we leff Jopperville. So it's good 'n clean. Least it is now! Ain't that right Eric?"

Jake and Bill exploded with laughter, their guffaws booming in the ship's hull, bits of food flying from their mouths. Eric continued chewing on his meat, expressionless, ignoring them. The laughter died. Jonah took a tentative bite of his mutton leg.

"See, Eric here got 'im a – well, less call it a hobby," Bill continued, speaking to Jonah while staring at Eric with mischievous eyes.

"Yeh," Jake said around a mouthful of meat, "as in, he likes them whores."

"Likes 'em so much, he cain't keep no wages, even with us runnin' this unlawful cargo of ours. We gits paid good, but. Eric never has no money. Spends it all on whores. Soon as we dock, off he go, ever time. Doncha Eric? Cuz he horny." Eric didn't speak. Outside, the wind gained speed. No one noticed.

"You could say he's, uh, familiar with ever damn whore in ever damn port we dock. And last time, while we was at Jopp, Eric figgered he'd have himself some, rightchereonna boat! Instead of at the whore's house! So we had us a guest, but Bill an' I never wuz the wiser! 'Til later on, that is!"

"Hilk! Know how we knew? Cuz he done his bidness where? Right here on dis table!" Bill hollered the words, pounding the table with his open palm, once for each of the last five syllables. "Ain't that right, boy!"

"Me 'n Bill, we was in Joppers, so we missed out," Jake explained. "But once we git back here, after the carnage was done over with, you could say it was – noticeable! The thing that had happened! Table was. Hilk! A bit. Differnt! So Bill here, he had to scrub 'er down! Elsewise we'd haffa eats our supper on deck! Good job Bill! Hella good! This ol' table is juss like new! Cain't even tell, can ya Jonah?" The men began to laugh again, loud and deep-throated. Jonah's mutton leg slowly lowered from Jonah's face as he stared into space, eyes wide.

Unflummoxed, Eric reached for another mutton leg; but the legs of mutton slid across the table, away from him, as the ship pitched to the side.

"Whoa baby!" Jake yelled and he clung to his chair, causing more laughter. Eric stared at the pile for a moment, annoyed, then the ship pitched to the other direction and the meat slid into Eric's grasp. Satisfied, he began gnawing his third mutton leg. Appetite gone, Jonah looked up and around with worried eyes.

"Anywho," Jake continued, "later, if y'ant-too, we can bust out some-a our cargo!"

"Yeh," Bill said as the wind began to howl, "we gots good` cargo. You gon' feel way better soon. An' you need it, bro. We can tell you got lots on yer mind."

"Matter fact," Jake began, but he was stopped by a crash of lightning so loud that it seemed to strike inside the hull, causing the men to jump to their feet. The ship lurched and they were thrown down. Before they could stand again, rain poured in like a waterfall.

The four men scrambled up the ladder to the deck where they were nearly swept away by a gust of wind. Sideways rain stung their faces. While they were still on their knees, Jake looked up and screamed "WATCHIT!" as a wave descended from the blackness. The men were flattened by the force. The boat lurched and spun like a drunken old man.

"We must pray to our gods or we'll die!" Bill hollered.

"I know!" answered Jake. "You go first!"

"Ralph, have mercy on us! Save us, we pray! We are sorry for shipping wacky weed to Tarshish! And for smokin' most of it!"

Another wall of water blasted the men. Lightning seemed to set the waves on fire.

"That didn't work, now you!" Bill screamed. The wind screamed, too.

"Herb!" Jake called at the top of his water-logged lungs, "We beg of you, rescue our sorry hides from this storm! We worship you almighty Herb, and we is sorry we never took no showers, for we do stink bad enough to stop ship rats unconscious!"

The boat rose fast on a rolling wave, and at the arc of ascent, Bill threw up, after which the boat seemed to slam to the bottom of the ocean.

"Will you two shut up?" Eric shrieked. "My turn! Almighty Huey, god of deliverance, send your calming presence! Dismiss this torrent of wind and rain, O Huey! Snuff out the great sparks from the sky! And at the next port city, we pray you provide us with three young women who would be willing to—"

"ERIC!" Bill shouted, "WHAT THE HELL ARE Y'DOIN? DON'T PRAY THAT, YOU DUMBASS!"

Another wave pounded the ship. Jake noticed that the water was now higher on all sides. They were sinking, and be under water soon.

"Jonah!" Jake yelled.

"WHAT?"

"Wha'd you DO?"

"Nothing!"

"You a liar! This has to be your fault! You brought this storm on us!"

"I knew it!" Bill said, pointing his finger at Jonah while clinging to the ship with the other arm. "I tole ya! He's the reason we's about to die! He runnin' from God! You cain't do that! So it's him! He killin' us all cuz his god is angry! You know what we gotsa do, Jake!"

The men stared at Jonah with hard, resentful eyes as they clung to the ship, waiting for Jonah's answer. And as the waves thrashed the boat, now tearing off chunks of it, Jonah remembered his dream. He remembered the water's embrace, the loving protection it conferred to him, how he didn't feel panic, how he didn't feel terror, how he felt a drifting serenity that seemed to calm every nerve in his weary body. He wanted to be inside that womb, he wanted that feeling again. But he remembered more. He remembered his lifetime of being nothing more than a trivial messenger boy, a doom merchant, a man without a family, without a home, always wandering, always running, never knowing when HE would show up again, never knowing what form HE would take, and what ugly, horrifying prediction Jonah would be forced to deliver. He decided that he was tired. Tired of knowing every awful future. Tired of pestilence, famine, fire and frogs. Tired of being the warning bell for destruction and death.

He felt alone.

He felt despised.

And at last, he saw a way out.

"So throw me over the side and God will save you! He is the God who created the sea and the earth and he will spare you if you throw me off!"

The men stared still, but now without anger. Instead, they stared with amazement.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Morons!"

The three men prayed again to their gods Ralph, Herb and Huey. They asked for forgiveness for what they were about to do. Then, they grabbed Jonah by the arms and legs. His eyes closed and he became limp as a carried kitten. They swung him twice, and on the third swing his body went over the side.

Another wave crashed upon the boat, knocking the men from their feet. They feared they had made a mistake.

But there had been no mistake. That was the last wave. The rain stopped. The wind died. The water flattened.

Sunlight.

"Dang," Jake muttered. "Did thet work good er whut?"

Jonah had been the source of their trouble from the beginning. But the men also realized that Jonah's God was the One True God, and never again did they worship Ralph, Herb or Huey. They worshiped Jonah's God until many years later, until the day all three men perished in an earthquake while they were at a neighborhood poker game twenty miles south of Damascus.

On this particular day, however, deep beneath the boat, Jonah was experiencing a realization of his own.

The realization that his dream had been a lie.

Jonah sank through the ocean, and as he descended, he watched the ship rise away from him and the water's surface transition from impenetrable blackness to a sparkling light. He knew from the light that the storm had lifted. He knew that Jake, Bill and Eric were saved.

But he also knew he was drowning.

Deeper he went, plummeting, and the pressure around his body intensified. His head throbbed. His chest was in the grip of a great hand. His legs ran and his arms clawed, but down he sank still. Jonah thought of his dream, and he was angry. It wasn't supposed to end like this. The water was supposed to be his friend. In the dream, he was going to be swept to paradise by the warm caress of the waves, his body floating, drifting, peaceful, restful, one final, easy ride, like a mother carrying a sleepy toddler to a naptime of forever.

This water was cold. And it was driving him, punishing him, fast down to nothingness.

He waited for the choking crush of death.

Then, everything changed. He stopped sinking. The water was gone. He was face-down on a smooth, wet, pillowy, sticky surface. He rose to his knees, extended his arms and felt gooey walls around him. He was in a small, soft cave, and the cave was so absent of any light he felt as though he had been born with no eyes in his skull.

Jonah panicked. He tried to scramble to his feet, and each time he tried, he fell. He couldn't get any traction.

The cave was hot, slippery, and black. It was also moving.

A push of sideways gravity slammed his body into the right wall, then the left. Side to side, again and again. He was on an incline, and he fell and slid farther within the cave; but the next moment, he was on an opposing slippery slope of slimy slither slobber. No matter how he tried, no matter how he thrashed and scrabbled about, it was impossible to stand, because every surface was an indistinct mass of gushy goo and gravity had run amok. Jonah collapsed, screaming, overwhelmed by the fear that he was in hell, and that hell wasn't fire after all, but instead was eternal sticky moistness.

Wracked with coughs from the smell, a stench so foul, so awful, he thought _this is what it must be like to be inside a fish,_ Jonah at last collapsed to a fetal position. His body moved to and fro in the blackness, limp, surrendered, finished, and with every slide, he was slathered with more slock.

His mind stopped. His brain shut down.

Jonah's eyes stared into the black.

The cave pitched up and down, left and right, rolling Jonah around in the that cave of mucusy sludge.

Slowly, his brain rebooted. Moments passed. Slime all around him. Slime covering his body, in his hair, in his beard, in his mouth, in his ears, stinging his eyes. Utter darkness. The constant, sickening pitch of gravity from every random direction. And that despicable odor, that overpowering funk that seemed to permeate every pore of his skin.

Slowly, his mind stepped back, and he tripped over his own thoughts.

Where was the water? Where had the waves gone?

What's that smell?

What is this place?

Upon making the connection that his metaphor was no metaphor, Jonah screamed.

But deep inside the deep inside, no one heard him.

On the third night of his entombment inside the fish, Jonah had an epiphany.

He didn't know it was the third night. He knew he had been in the fish belly for a long time, but he thought it had been three months instead of three days. He was exhausted, hungry, shriveled and desperate.

His epiphany was simple: apologize. Beg. Promise to do what he had been commanded to do.

So he conceived a prayer to God.

And he prayed his prayer loud from the guts of that insufferable realm...

"Oh God, you must have sent a big fish to eat me  
Of spirit and mind, this creature depletes me  
My stubborn-ass ways once again will defeat me  
Unless you will force this carp to secrete me

I call you now Lord, I beg of your rescue  
You've banished me deep and encased me within goo  
I'm trapped in this place, and it smells like – um – well – WHOOO!  
And now I can see I should have never have left you

If you'll get me out, I will praise you forever  
I'll crack all those Nineveh numbskulls together  
I'll keep my word, always obey you (whatever)  
Just please end this horrible stinkified weather"

There was a pause, and the cave began to lurch. Jonah was thrown to his back. The cave lurched and quivered and convulsed. The gooey walls squeezed Jonah like a bug. He couldn't breathe. He thought: _maybe that wasn't the right prayer to pray..._

Once again, he waited for death.

And with a last, violent spasm of the cave walls, he was expelled from the fish like a rock from a slingshot. He was airborne, flying, sailing across the sky. As he flew, he wanted to turn and gaze upon the creature who had eaten him; but he was sun-blind from living in darkness for three days and could not open his eyes.

The air above the sea felt fresh and invigorating.

The breeze touched him like the caress of a lover's hand.

Peace.

A third time, he waited for death, the death of an impact on the waves below.

Instead, he crashed into the peak of a sand dune and tumbled down the dune's far side.

At the bottom, he lay covered in slime and sand. Afraid to move and unable to believe that he was alive, he remained there until the sun slipped low on the horizon. By then his eyes had adjusted to light, so he put his legs beneath him and stood. Knees weak, he stumbled, but he was able to walk toward the water from which he had escaped. Under the desert dusk sky, Jonah waded into a shallow area and washed the sand and fish mucus from his body. The water was clean and cool.

Later, Jonah discovered a pomegranate tree. Raging thirst and gnawing hunger satisfied, he collapsed on the beach and slept beneath the full moon. Hours before dawn, he awoke, and upon surveying the landscape, he knew from several nearby landmarks that he was just south of Joppa.

With nothing but the robe on his back, he began the three day journey to Nineveh. He would sleep during the day, finding shade to avoid the sun, and his sleep was bedeviled by terrible dreams of being trapped inside a large bag with dozens of live carp.

The carp were very pissed off.

On a bright and cloudless afternoon, there entered the narrow streets of Nineveh a staggering, pale, wrinkled, barefoot old man. His matted hair and scraggled beard, black and gray, made seem his white skin whiter still. His voice, loud and baritone, cut the air like a scythe, stopping the craps games, the fistfights, the toking, the drinking, and the half-naked groping make-out activity. Jonah bellowed without fear, for he knew that if he were to die at the hands of an angry mob, he might as well do it knowing he had provoked them with colorful abandon.

Having lived inside a fish, nothing could frighten him anymore.

"CITY OF NINEVEH!"

A few people stopped and turned.

"PREPARE TO MEET THE JUDGEMENT OF THE LORD GOD BY ALL-CONSUMING NUCLEAR NAPALM FIRE AND DIE FOR YOUR IRRITATING, ANNOYING WAYS!"

The young men who had been fighting stared quizzical each one at the other. The eldest of the two, the one who didn't yet realize that his nose had been broken, said:

"What's napalm?"

Jonah stumbled toward the craps game.

"YOU!" he boomed, skinny arm extended, finger pointing.

The dice were kicked aside and wide eyes focused on Jonah's withered, emaciated form.

"You'd better quit gambling your lives away! Or else you will be BURNED ALIVE! Vaporized! Your bones will become ash where you stand, only to be carried and scattered by an indifferent wind! Your skin will burst aflame like dry leaves while you thrash and scream in agony! Is that what you want? God hates Yahtzee, do you hear me, dammit!"

Now less than four feet away, they recoiled from the prophet, teeth barred, aghast grimaces.

"Dude! What the hell happened to you?"

"Yeah, how'd you get to be so white?"

"And why are you so shriveled up? You look like a giant albino scrotum..."

"What's yahtzee? And what's that smell?"

"SHUT UP!" Jonah yelled, causing the men to jump. "The Lord God sends his prophet to warn you of doom and so what, you make mockery of Him? You dare ridicule the Lord's holy messenger? The temperature of your fire just went up two thousand degrees for that! REPENT, IMBECILES! Lose those dice or I'll kick your ass myself and you'll wish for God's fire by the time I'm done with you! Repent now! Repent! Repent! Rhymes with the cement you've got for brains, you stupid malcontents! Repent, or else you'll feel the fiery torment! Repent, cuz I be the Prophet President, don't gimmie no argument, no smack 'bout me bein' absent my skin pigment! God don't give one freakin' cent which way you ashes went once he breathes the flames you can't circumvent! Do you get it? DO YOU GET IT? REPENT REPENT REPENT!" By the end of the rant, Jonah was looming, shrieking his words, eyes blazing at the men, arms high above them and hands like claws. Two of the men ran away and another two passed urine where they stood, too afraid to try to escape. Then, Jonah stumbled onward, on to the next victims.

Most activity in the main square had stopped. All eyes were on Jonah, who made a straight line to the half-naked threesome within the open foyer of a nearby structure.

"HEY!"

The groping ceased, and the two women scrambled on the ground for their clothes while Jonah stomped their direction.

"Guess what! I see you, therefore I can pretty much guarantee that God sees you too! And trust your Friendly Neighborhood Prophet of Doom, God has a real bad attitude about little parties like you got goin' on. You having fun? Hah? Are ya? Anybody making a video of this little soiree? Gonna put it online, are ya?"

Jonah strode to the man, who still hadn't found his shirt, and backhanded him across the face and head repeatedly to emphasize each word. The women covered their breasts and screamed.

"Listen meathead: Don't. Fornicate! Don't. Fornicate! DON'T FORNICATE! DON'T FORNICATE! Do you GET IT? DON'T FORNICATE! What does it take to get that through to you? What does a prophet have to do to get you to do something useful with your time, like plowing crops instead of plowing the likes of THEM? HAH? HUH? COLLECT STAMPS OR SOMETHING, you MORON!"

The man fell backward, whimpering, arms raised in defense. Jonah towered above him for a moment, glaring at him with a ghastly white face of angry condemnation, then he turned his attention to the women. "And I've got news for you two tramps, God's gonna give you both a mammogram with a waffle iron! Ya got me?" The women stopped screaming and stared at Jonah, wincing.

"But as for you, my swingin' studly friend," Jonah bellowed at the man, "God has a plan for you, and it involves a burning sensation in a bad place! That place being every place actually; but especially THAT place! Now you kids GET YOUR CLOTHES ON! And REPENT! Or else go find a tent!"

Jonah lumbered into the square, yelling louder still.

"EVERYONE WHO CAN HEAR MY VOICE, LISTEN! I am Jonah the Prophet, sent by God Himself! You might find this next piece of information just a LITTLE BIT IMPORTANT."

There was a pause. All eyes were fixed on Jonah.

"Here comes a fire, the fire God made  
There is no escape, ain't no shelter, no shade  
He don't like none of you wretched renegades  
So prepare to die at one thousand centigrade

All of your flesh, all your bones, and your soul  
Cooked and flash-fried 'til black as charcoal  
Vaporized, vanished, and vacuumed up whole  
Sucked inside God's belligerent, black hole

You're tiresome, tedious, tawdry and torpid  
Insolent, indigent, idiots insipid  
Wayward and willful, weaselly and wicked  
Oh wait, I'm so sorry, I forgot -- and damn stupid

God's out of patience with all of your asses  
Your gambling and groping and farting of gases  
Your treacherous tricks and your trying trespasses  
The fire comes closer each minute that passes

Forty days, forty nights, start up the countdown  
When your time's up, God levels the town  
Unless you repent of your tricks, ya dumb clowns  
On Day 41 in his flame you will drown

Atoms will split, ninety-nine megatons  
Unleashing the power of God and the sun  
And when it all blows, believe me, you're done  
There'll be nothing left, not a thing, and no one

Listen the prophet and open your ears  
I'm saying it loud and I'm saying it clear  
The fire he sends will your lives disappear  
And no one will know that you ever were here"

The people of Nineveh were stiff with terror. Bodies of stone, faces white as Jonah's fish-digested flesh, eyes glass, lips stretched thin and pale, faced the square where Jonah stood. A few people fainted.

A woman could be heard crying.

A crow landed atop the tallest building of the square and called out. The crow snapped his head left and right, as if expecting a dramatic answer from someone or some thing. No one moved. No one spoke. No one gave the crow as much as a glance. A slight breeze slipped through the buildings. The crow flew away.

Jonah spat on the ground, glared at everyone once more, then shuffled out of the square without another word, heading for the edge of the town.

Meanwhile, the king, round eyes fixed and large, forehead sweaty, watched from a high window underneath the perch where a crow had called out only moments before.

It was the third night of Jonah's journey back to Joppa -- thirty-seven days before Nineveh would be wiped from the earth by God's hellfire -- and Jonah was muttering to himself.

His calloused feet shuffled through the sand. His white skin, still sensitive from the damage done by three days of fish acid, felt every night breeze. Jonah traveled at night and slept in caves, under rocks, anywhere he could find shade during the day, because he knew the sun would kill him otherwise. He would burn blood red and die in the grip of a fire demon's fever after one full day's exposure.

So he walked at night. And on this, the third night, he was muttering.

"There ya go, Old High and Mighty. Message delivered. Happy now? Nuke 'em. Sounds pretty scary and I don't even know what that means. But you give the orders around here, doncha. I just follow 'em. Eventually. Else I get eaten by a giant carp. That was a great trick, I gotta hand it to ya. If there's one way to get a reluctant prophet's ass moving, it's with a category five hurricane at sea, while on board a rickety toy ship, with a pack of brainless burned out sailors who don't have the sense to shower or use deodorant, but who do have the circuits to figure out that good 'ol Jonah is The Problem, at which point they throw him overboard, whereupon Charlie the Tuna proceeds to eat Jonah. Great. That's just great. Could have had sharks rip me to pieces, oh no, that's too easy. Could have had a massive ocean wave pancake me into the bottom of the ship and crush my skull, but no, that's too easy. Because in both cases: no more messenger. Nooooo. That won't do. Still need that Instagram of Doom delivered. Need Jonah for that! Have to waterboard Mister Prophet with fish mucus – while inside the fish, I might add – so as to motivate him. Works much better that way. Motivates Mister Prophet real good. And, it's so good for a prophet's skin tone! Clears that acne right up!"

A lizard slithered across Jonah's path. He considered leaping to grab it so that he could twist off the head, squeeze out the guts and eat the lizard meat for a quick hit of protein; but he decided against it. Only a few hours to go and he'd be at Joppa.

"Dang it, I'm gonna smell like a neglected aquarium until I'm one hundred and sixty years old."

He noticed the moon, and it seemed especially bright.

"At least I'm done with that assignment. No more yelling at those imbeciles. Figured they'd kick my ass, but it was a job well done, because they were crapping their robes left and right from my rants. I mean come on, that was my best work so far. Was it a virtuoso performance or what? Scared their weenies off. A couple of them almost died from the fright, me bitchin' 'em out. Not that it'll matter. Didn't matter when I did my show at Qarfoom, did it? No. They got nuked. And it didn't matter when I warned T'saminumin, did it? No again. Nuked. Garzomagg? Nuked. Then there was Harveyville. Old High and Mighty swept them numb-nuts off the earth with a flood. Now that was some heavy water. What a gusher. He likes to change things up once in a while. But did my warnings matter to any of them? Not a chance. Stubborn bastards. When the Prophet President speaks, you morons need to listen. But do they? Noooo, no one ever listens to old Jonah. Sheesh, you'd think word would get out. You'd think rumor would spread about me, and about God's wrath. But I guess not, eh? Nope. Not when God kills everyone involved, leaving no one to talk about it! Minor detail."

Somewhere distant, an animal howled.

"Oh well. I did my job, that's all that matters. And now, it's Jonah Time! Gonna take advantage of my natural disguise: the beard, the weird skin deal, the frightening weight loss, the painfully short memory of those Joppa idiots, and relieve them of still more cash. Two or three more days of con games and I be flush, Homey. My wallet be phat. First, I think I'll hit that wonderful all-you-can-eat buffet on the south edge. Have some wine and get myself good and plastered. Then – I'm due for a stay at the spa. Hell yes, gonna get a hot shower, a haircut, a beard trim, a facial, a mudpack, and a manipedi, considering I look like Howard Hughes is gonna look three thousand years from now. A new man. A new prophet. Yes indeed, I'm going to feel so much better! Good times here I come. And I deserve it. Chill out at the inn for a couple of weeks, then head back over to Nineveh in time to see the show. Wouldn't miss it for the world. I know just where to camp, there's an elevated spot about a mile north that's perfect. Great view for seeing a hundred thousand unrepentant souls to get snuffed out with ninety megatons of Godness. Hmmm...better pick up a pair of Ray-Bans in Joppa so I don't get blinded. Or wait. They don't make those yet. Dang it, that gets on my nerves. I get so mixed up sometimes. I hate this crazy prophet-who-sees-the-future crap..."

Jonah continued muttering and stumbling, and four hours later arrived at Joppa where he did everything he had planned to do. On the thirty-fifth day, refreshed and invigorated, he headed back to Nineveh and set his camp high above the city. He worried that he was too exposed to the sun, but his skin had mostly healed, and he felt good. He planned to get back his customary youthful tan.

As Jonah would soon see, however, he did not know of every future. Jonah was wrong about Nineveh. While Jonah was away, Nineveh did repent. Gambling ceased. Fighting yielded to pot-luck dinners and block parties. Illicit sex orgies became group therapy sessions wherein family values were discussed. The king, who had heard Jonah's rants, moved decisively to avoid God's wrath. The king issued a dozen edicts designed to build community and good will. He started a food pantry. He established a retirement fund. He opened relations with Nineveh's neighbor to the west, Zubbakwap, and they became "sister cities." Wine could no longer be purchased in quantities greater than one wine-skin per day. A sundown curfew became the law. And to increase tourism, the king decreed a new advertising slogan for the city: "Nineveh. Always a good judgment!"

On the forty-first day, Jonah rose from sleep at his camp high above the city. He rubbed his hands and cackled softly as he sat upon a comfortable rock before his campfire. He prepared to eat a lizard on a stick for breakfast.

His thought: _this is gonna be one hell of a show._

By the late afternoon of the forty-second day, Jonah was pissed.

He was also weak from heat exposure and dehydration. The desert sun bore down upon his camp, hot and relentless, making him feel as though God's hellfire had been focused on him instead of Nineveh.

The city was still standing. No nuclear napalm had fallen from the sky.

And from his camp above the city, Jonah could hear Nineveh's music, and their laughter.

Jonah's body writhed on the sand. He whispered to himself: "See how it is? Some show, eh? Not so much as a lightning storm. All that work for nothing. Nothing. I deserve to see some people get incinerated, dammit. That's my paycheck for all this dirty work. Now I'm going to die here in the desert sun. Never should have come here at all...made a mistake...but then...who cares...gonna die...and that's just fine with me...tired...so tired..."

He heard a sound. A roaring, rumbling sound never heard before. It grew closer. Unable to stand, Jonah rose to his knees and remained there, swaying and lurching, his weary eyes gazing in the direction of the noise.

He nearly blacked out while remaining upright; and then, suddenly, the source of the sound was before him, a beast unlike any he had seen before. It was longer than a camel but lower to the ground. It had no legs; rather, it stood atop two large, round circles, fat and black and textured, circles which had been spinning upon approach, but were still after the beast arrived. The beast's arms, stretching up like a man attempting to fly, glistened in the sun, reflecting the light with sharp beams. A cloud of smoke, dark gray and harsh like iron, filled the air.

Straddling the beast was God.

He reached low and twisted something, causing the beast to stop roaring and rumbling and billowing smoke. Still straddling, God walked the beast alongside Jonah, and regarded the prophet with strange eyes, eyes covered with something bright and reflective like the beast's arms. Jonah saw himself in the eye coverings, and noticed that his gaunt frame was smaller than he remembered it to be.

A bright red cloth covered God's head, tied at the corners and fitting snugly.

God's face didn't move.

A bird screeched overhead.

"What...what manner...beast...this...."

"THIS?" God boomed, startling Jonah. "Aww, this my baby! This, my prophet friend, is my 1995-era custom Harley chopper, sixty-five bottom end, and shovel top end. Strooker flywheels, four-speed tranny, sixteen inch rear, twenty-one inch front, wire rims, hundred inch motor, brand new forward controls. An' I just love to go desert ridin'! But I don't actually go ridin' in 1995, or or any year that far 'head, cuz of the cops! All they do is harass a brother! Gets on my nerves! I guess I vaporized one too many cops from those times, getting' all aggravated with 'em, and that nonsense had to stop, pure an' simple, so now I just bring my bike into this time period and ride around by myself out here in the wild. That way no one gets in trouble! Including me! Good plan, doncha think?"

"...don't...understand..."

"Aah. Y'don't need to. Now lookit. What're you so mad about? Is it right for you to be pissed about Nineveh? They repented, don't you know that?"

"...repent...they...what...."

"They got their silly act together. They quit fartin' around. No more fightin', no more gamblin', no more sex parties. No more gettin' drunk. Crime is down eighty-nine percent! Peace and harmony! Everyone cleans up their animal poop! They've even got a city-wide health insurance program now! So – I spared 'em! You did a good job! You got nothin' to be irritated about, boy! I'm proud of ya!"

"...no...no...this...sucks...wanted...see...fire...see...people...burned...alive..."

"Now is that the right attitude? Huh? Is it? You ought to be ashamed of yourself for that talk. Why would the Prophet President actually want to see one hundred thousand morons get fried? That's just. Morbid. Iffa ask me, anyhow. 'Sides. They ain't that bright, Jonah. Can't find their asses with both hands and, well, someone else's both hands. But – they repented! And that's all that matters! So I let 'em live! Why ain't ya happy 'bout it?"

"...still...pissed...so pissed...want to die...kill me now..."

Jonah flopped to his side, motionless.

"You big baby," God muttered, and removed his shades. He glared at the ground next to Jonah, and within minutes a large plant had grown ten feet tall, the broad leaves providing Jonah with shade.

"How's that," God grunted. Jonah didn't move.

"Here," God said, and threw a wineskin at Jonah. It landed next to Jonah's bearded face. Jonah's eyes fluttered open and he saw the wineskin. Jonah reached for it.

"It ain't wine, it's only water, but you need it, cuz you didn't bring enough up here with ya, didja dumbass?"

Jonah squeezed out a stream and coughed as he drank.

God sneered, put his shades on, and fired up the chopper.

"Get some rest!" he yelled over the roar, "I've got another assignment for ya soon!"

Jonah watched the beast speed away, faster than any camel, spitting sand behind it. Jonah was asleep before the beast had vanished from sight.

The next day, Jonah woke to searing heat again. He looked up. The plant had withered. The shade was gone.

He wished for death again.

Hours later, however, he heard the now familiar rumble and roar.

Then, God's face was low to the ground, whispering beside his ear.

"You're probably wondering why I gave you the shade, then took it away. Aren't ya bud. Huh? Confusing. Ain't it."

"...want...to die...so angry...so tired...kill me...."

"Oh, shut up, little toddler. It's not right for you to be angry about that plant. I did it to make you appreciate me. See? To teach you a lesson. A lesson about who's in charge around here. When I say go warn a city about my hellfire, I don't mean haul ass for a cargo ship to sail across the ocean, imbecile; I mean go warn a city about my hellfire, period. I mean for you to do what I tell ya. Later, when they repent, I spare them at my option. Not at your whim. I'm God. You're the prophet. Let's get our roles straight here, Bubba. I don't have to fry anyone just so you can watch your own little Fourth of July Armageddon Spectacular from a front row seat on a hill. We're talkin' about my judgment – the judgment of the Almighty God – not prime time entertainment programming customized for you personally. That's the concept. Can you bluff your way through that one?"

Jonah groaned.

"...death...want to die..."

"Quit whinin'. What IS with you prophets and the whining? Honestly. And when I give you shade, blessed shade to protect you from my desert sun and certain, slow, agonizing death, I expect one thing. One simple thing. And what is that thing, Jonah? Can you guess? It's: THANK YOU. I expect: some GRATITUDE. Get it?"

Jonah's head nodded, broken, surrendered, his eyes filling with tears and his ear full of sand. God sighed.

"You're not that bright for a man who so often knows the future. You're kinda dense. Aren't ya. Now come on. Let's go."

God helped Jonah stand. He poured water into Jonah's mouth and onto his head. Then he helped him mount the Harley, despite Jonah's frightened resistance, and while Jonah hung on tightly, God and his prophet blasted into the open desert, fast and loud and wind-blown, heading for the nearest oasis, where Jonah would bathe in a pond of sky-blue, cool water beneath high trees that blocked the vengeful sun. He would feast on fruits and nuts and lizard meat grilled over a fire.

Before God left him there, before he again mounted that fearsome machine and roared away, God playfully smacked Jonah up the side of the head with an open hand.

"Next time, LISTEN. Moron."

Jonah watched the horizon long after God and his amazing beast had disappeared beyond it.

DAVID AND GOLIATH

The tents on each side of the Valley of Elah covered the sides of the small mountains like patched blankets. The Israelites were on one side of the valley and the Philistines were on the other. King Saul was in his tent finishing his meal, juice and flecks of meat covering his large beard, and two of his high-ranking soldiers were sharpening their spears and swords.

"You boys ready to kick some Philistine butt?" Saul muttered around a thigh as he gnawed off another lusty bite.

"Damn straight," Jason said.

"Hell yeah," Justin said.

"Mmph," Saul grunted. "Good. Been waitin' for this for a long, long time. I hate those guys."

"Me too, boss," Jason said.

"Yeah. They suck," Justin said.

"Mmph."

A murmur grew outside the tent. Within the murmur could be heard a loud but distant yelling.

"What's going on out there?" Saul said. The men shrugged.

The three stepped out of the tent to find the soldiers staring at the other side of the valley. Their faces showed amazement and fear. It was as if they were gazing at the Angel of Death himself.

Saul and his lieutenants pushed to the edge of the crowd, and once at the front lines, they looked across the valley.

Standing before the Philistine soldiers was a monster.

Dressed in full battle gear – brass helmet, brass leggings, brass body armor – the man was brandishing a sword, yelling across the valley at Saul's army. He was nine feet tall. His head was like a boulder. His face was ugly like a bat. Saul had to restrain his urine.

"HEY!" the monster yelled again.

Saul's army drew back a step.

"Are you not hearing me? I am Goliath the Philistine! And you are PUSSIES!" He thrust his middle finger high into the air.

Saul looked at Jason and Justin. Their faces were stone.

"I am the biggest, baddest bastard who ever lived! None of you worthless weakings can take me! Send one soldier down to fight me! If he wins, we are your slaves! If I win, then slaves to us you are! And slaves you'll deserve to be, you ignorant camel farts! You don't deserve to rule us, you have lizard brains! Your children are so ugly the camels try to kill them! Come and fight me, you pussies! I will annihilate your best fighter, wipe my ass with him and punt the carcass all the way to Jerusalem! Send a soldier now, I will bust his head like a melon and twist off whatever is left! I will snap his arms and legs in half like dry twigs! I will tear his skin off with my bare fingernails and make jerky out of it! I will rip his heart out and EAT IT! LIKE THIS!"

And with that Goliath produced a live chicken from seemingly nowhere and without hesitation bit off the head.

He stared at his opponents for a moment, posture defiant, flailing, flapping chicken body in his grip, gristly, dripping chicken neck protruding from his mouth, and then he spit the chicken head an easy thirty yards into the valley.

"That'll be one of YOU chickens! Let's GO! Whoooo-hooooo! ROCK AND ROLL! I will kick your asses! Send some retarded loser into the valley for me, I will crush him to sand! Then I'll pound the sand up whatever is left of his butt! HOOOO-EEEEE! Goliath will beat yo momma! And yo momma's momma! And yo momma's first and second cousins! Goliath will kill your whole family with one swipe! Goliath bad! Goliath gots da skilz! Golilath nationwide! Goliath the wrong Philly to fart with! Come on, LET'S GO! YEEEE-HAAAW!"

He strode back and forth at the edge of the valley, each stride equal to three strides of any other man's, swinging high his sword and shield like toys. His oversized brass armor could be heard clanking and crashing under his screams and taunts. In his frenzied pacing to and fro, he accidently bumped into two other Philistine soldiers, who bounced off Goliath like raindrops on a rock, rolled into the valley, and scrambled to get back to the top. Goliath didn't notice.

Jason leaned toward Saul and whispered in his ear.

"What is rock and roll?"

Saul stared. Most of Saul's soldiers were either transfixed or running for their tents.

But there were puddles of urine everywhere.
Frank, Marcel and Luiz were sitting in their tent before the dawn of the next morning. Frank sat cross-legged, staring. Marcel knelt by the tent opening, occasionally peering out. Luiz had his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, rocking. His face, red from tears, was buried in his knees, only his eyes visible. The three men had been that way for the last hour.

"So what are we gonna do?" Frank said at last.

Neither of the other men spoke.

"I said: what are we gonna DO?"

"Don't snap on us, Frank," Marcel said. "We've got to stick together on this. Just chill, dude."

"Stick together?" Luiz said, beginning to cry again. "Stick together? Do you see anyone in the army coming out of his tent? Everyone is totally spazzed out psycho freakin'! He'll kill us all! The three of us couldn't fight that – that – that thing! No one in the army can! He's not human! Did you see the size of his hands? His head is huge! He'll bite our heads off, like he said yesterday morning! He'll tear us to pieces! We're doomed! Doomed, I tell you! We're gonna die! We're –"

"Shut UP," Frank snapped, his face sneering. Luiz kept whimpering.

"Look, Saul's lieutenants haven't told us squat, and we have to have a plan," Marcel said, watching out of the tent. "That's the key. A plan."

"Run like the pussies he says we are," Luiz said, sniffing. "Run. That's what I say. Run now!"

"SHUT UP, Luiz," Frank shouted. "We're not running, we'd be exiled. And we're not fighting him man-to-man either, any of us, it's true we'd get killed. But Marcel is right, we've got to do something. We can't just sit here."

"I can't move," Luiz said. "So I can sit here."

"You can't get up because we'd find out you crapped your robe, idiot."

"I did not, Frank."

"Then what's that smell, Luiz?"

"Marcel farted!"

"Hell if I did," Marcel said. "I'm on a strict, low-carb, all-natural diet. Olives and nuts, that's it. It's called the Damascus Diet. Very popular. It's practically eliminated the gas problems I was having. And my joints feel better, too. I have more energy. Harry got me on it. You should try it."

"What are you talking about, Marcel?" Frank said. "Nuts make me blow enough gas to knock a camel down."

"Not as bad as King Saul," Marcel said. "Have you ever stood by him more than five minutes? What a wind bag. And bad. Bad enough to knock a buzzard off a manure wagon."

"King Saul's farts would make the buzzard burst into flames!" Luiz said.

"That's the plan!" Marcel said. "We could have Saul fart on him!"

"ENOUGH ABOUT FARTING!" Frank shouted. "That's no plan! Geez! I'm sorry I brought it up! What are we going to actually do about the situation?"

Marcel and Luiz were silent.

"I tell you one thing," Frank said, "he might be nine feet tall, but he's got to have a weak spot. And I bet I know where it is."

Marcel and Luiz looked at Frank expectantly.

"Don't look at me like that. You know what I'm talking about. Every man's weak spot."

"Oh right," Marcel said, "just walk up and kick him in the balls, eh? It's that simple?"

"No," Frank said, "we could spear him there. From a safe distance. A spear in the groin would certainly take him down."

"I'm not accurate enough," Marcel said. "Can't even spear fish."

"Don't look at me," Luiz said, "my hands would be shaking so much I'd spear myself."

Frank rolled his eyes.

"And speaking of his Johnson," Marcel said, "can you just imagine the size of that thing?"

"It must be like a python!" Luiz said.

"Like a dragon!" Marcel said.

"There's no woman who could take him!" Luiz said. "It must be the size of my arm!"

"Or my leg," Marcel said. "And when stiff like the tree, it must be the size of the tree!"

"Beyond belief!" Luiz said. "He could use it as a weapon if he had left his sword at home on accident!"

"It would be more fearsome than the club or the mace! He'd only have to swing his hips, and it would –"

"WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP ABOUT HIS PENIS?" Frank shouted. "Good GOD. What IS it with you two? What. Is. Our. Plan? Be serious, could you? Please? For five minutes?"

The two men lowered their heads.

Sunlight began to slip through the seams of the tent. The men looked at the light and squinted. None of them had slept.

That's when they heard the shouting again. Distant, but clear.

"Good moooooor-ning!"

The three eyed each one the other. The distant voice continued.

"Good morning pussies! Goliath had a good night's sleep! Did you? Or did you shit your robes all night? Hah? I can't seeeeee you! You're not scared of the big, bad, Golmeister are you? Now why would you be scared me? I'm a nice man. I don't want to hurt anybody! I'm kind and gentle and caring! I've got lots of friends! I like to garden and cross-stitch! But it also happens that I have certain talents and attributes! Like – being nine feet tall and six hundred pounds of raw gristle! Like that fact that I can lift a full-grown cow with each arm! Oh and by the way, I like nothing better than to grab pussy soldiers like you and squeeze until your guts come out of your ears and mouth! That's not a problem, is it? You don't think I'm rude, do you? Come on, let's be friends! Just because I like to kill people with horrible, slow and grisly methods doesn't mean we can't have a relationship!"

The three men had eyes the size of melons. Goliath's belly laugh, his "HAR HAR HAR" sounds echoed in the valley.

"What a bunch of pussies! You can't even come out of your tents, you cowards! Send someone to fight me! Let's go! WHOOOOO-HOOOOOO! Goliath will tie your best fighter into a knot like a shoelace! I will eat him on a sandwich with a full-grown lamb and a block of cheese! YUUUUUUUM, YUM! FEE, FI, FO, FUM! WHOOOOO-EEEE!"

"Huh?" Marcel mumbled. "Fee fi fo fum?"

"What the hell is cross-stitch?" Frank said.

Luiz whimpered and rocked faster. He grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled.

"Mommy!" Luiz whined. "I want mommy! Luie want mommy now! Mooooom-meeee!"

"SHUT UP!" Frank shouted.

Every morning, Goliath would greet the Israelite army on the other side of the valley with his challenge to fight one of their soldiers. The Israelites remained paralyzed with fear, and Goliath became more restless and frustrated with their silence and indecision. As the days passed, his taunts came from farther and farther regions of outer space...

DAY 4:

"My name is Goliath, and I'm here to say  
You all are pussies and I'll make you pay!  
I'll taunt you 'til you're a nervous wreck  
Then I'll hunt you down and I'll snap your neck!

Hooo-ahhh, hooo-ahhh, hooo-ah-HOO!  
Go-Man is gonna come and murder YOU!  
Hoooo-ahhh, hooo-ahh, hooo-ah-HOO!  
Good bye, ain't nothin' you can DO!  
Hooo-ahh, hooo-ahh, hoo-ah-HOO...."

And the Philistine soldiers danced with their fists in front of their chests, elbows bent and forearms parallel.

"Go, go, Goliath. Go, go, Goliath..."

DAY 10:

"HEY NOW! WHO DA MAN!" And with that he exposed himself. "WHAT? HAH? WHAT? WHOA! HOW CAN DAT BE? Is that CRAZY? Does that make you feel INADEQUATE? FEEL THE POW-AHH! YEAH, BABY! WHOOO!" He began swinging his manhood by rotating his hips in an alternating motion. He turned around, bent over and slapped his ass. "OOWWWW! WhusssUP, BABY? Whuussss-UUUP?"

DAY 17:

Goliath sat at the edge of the valley, legs crossed, propping his chin with one fist, elbow on his leg, the other hand thrust high, the middle finger extended. He sat there, unmoving, not speaking, for more than an hour.

DAY 23:

Goliath became emotional on Day 23. The longer he ranted, the more he seemed to be crying and sobbing.

"I'm not really a bad man. I'm misunderstood. You don't know what it's like growing up and being different! You don't know what it's like for all of the kids to run away from you because they're afraid! Afraid because you happen to be bigger than them! To not have any friends! It's not my fault! My mom and dad getting killed by a camel stampede like they did – when I was only four, only four years old – being raised by sheepherders like I was, it was hard! Life was hard! No one understands me! So of course I turned to killing! Of course people got their heads twisted off! What else was I supposed to do? I'm only human, even though no one believes that. I'm only trying to live out my purpose! I'm so confused. I don't mean to be a bad man. No one likes me, no one really likes me. I'm so lonely. But. I wanted. They said. But. I'm not. Please. I dunno. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

Day 24:

Anger resumed full force.

"SO HOW LONG DO YOU THINK YOU CAN STAY IN YOUR TENTS, PUSSIES? Y'know, I oughta stomp over there and pick you off one at a time, you worthless pieces of shit! I am just about at the end of my tether with you people! I asked you for one thing! One simple thing! Pick a soldier with enough balls to fight me, and we'll settle this argument. Doesn't that seem reasonable to you? You win, we're your slaves. I win, you're our slaves. One fight, one fight only. Mano-a-mano. Why should countless soldiers die just because of our petty differences? We can settle this with one damn fight! Me versus one of your pussy soldiers! He can bring any weapon he wants, but for Pete's sake let's get this thing over with, shall we? What is wrong with you people? Don't you know I could handle all of you weaklings by myself? Don't you know I could come over there and use a boulder to throw a strike in the first frame with you as the pins? Hah? This is a reasonable offer you're getting here! Look, I'll tell you what, you win and we'll throw in a FREE SET OF TUPPERWARE, how's THAT?"

Frank and Marcel remained in their tent, frozen with fear, yet puzzled.

"What's Tupperware?" Frank said.

Marcel's brows furrowed and he scratched his neck. "Strike," he muttered. "Frame. Pins. What?..."

Day 30:

Goliath howled like a wolf for forty-five minutes, then yelled "PEACE OUT!"

Day 35:

Goliath juggled three pomegranates, then four. For part of the act, he stood on one leg. He also threw some of the fruit behind his back and head.

"That's actually pretty good," Saul mumbled. His lieutenants Justin and Jason nodded. At the end of the routine, the Israelite solders applauded politely.

Day 37:

"WHY are we HERE? I mean, really, for what purpose? Is there a God? You have your god, we have our gods, but hey, who knows in the end? Do any of us have the real answers? Why does the camel spit on the one who feeds him? Why does the lizard sleep during the day and hunt at night? Do the stars run on batteries or AC power? Is there life after menopause? What causes that weird goo that forms in the corner of your mouth sometimes?"

Day 38:

On Day 38, Goliath yodeled.

"I be killing YOOOOO-ooo-ee-ooo-ee-ooooou! Bite your head off TOOOO-ooo-ee-ooo-ee-oooooo!...."

Meanwhile, the men were growing hungry. No one had brought any food. So Saul sent a messenger to find David, a young boy who was the son of Jesse, to deliver some provisions to the men. David was a shepherd who often played guitar for Saul in his tent, to soothe him. And he was small, but known among the young women for his impossibly handsome features.

A few minutes before dawn on Day 40, David mingled among the soldiers, giving them bread and trying to figure out what was so upsetting to them. Most of the soldiers were in their tents, but those who were not simply took the bread from David, nodded their thanks, and averted David's gaze. They didn't speak.

Once at the front line, where some of the larger, more experienced warriors were milling around, he got a different response.

"Heeey, David!" Lonnie said. "C'mere, kid!" And the two embraced.

"Who we got here," Burt said, walking up to Lonnie's side.

"This here," Lonnie said, grinning broadly, "is David, Jesse's other boy. He's a shepherd. Tending those sheep, ain't ya bud?"

David grinned. "Trying to, yes. They're wild sometimes."

"Oh yeah," Burt said, "you Eliab's little brother, right? Eliab's around here somewhere....."

"Yes," David said. "That's right, I am. I haven't seen him yet this morning, but he's probably close by."

"Well, it's good to see ya," Lonnie said. "Eliab says you're mostly a good kid. Eliab, on the other hand, he couldn't find his ass with both hands and a torch!" Lonnie and Burt laughed loud. David grinned briefly, but then his grin yielded to a puzzled look.

"This boy is gonna have any woman he wants," Lonnie said. "He pretty. Makes you look like a donkey's ass, Burt."

"A donkey IS a ass, you dumb ass," Burt said.

"I mean he makes you look like the ass part, the butthole, of a donkey animal. Geez, Burt. Keep with the flow of the conversation. Focus, my brother, focus."

"HEY!"

The voice from across the valley was familiar to the men, and Burt and Lonnie flinched. David craned his neck to see who it was.

"I hate to belabor the point, but I think we ought to return to a theme! A study review, if you will. CHECK IT OUT." And once again, Goliath exposed himself. He pointed with both forefingers.

"DID YA MISS IT THE FIRST TIME? In case you did, here it is again! YEEE-HAW! You know you intimidated by that stuff! Way bigger than John Holmes, you pussies! WHOO-EEEE! YEAH, baby!" And once again, he began slinging it around with hip rotation.

As Goliath continued his taunts, Burt leaned to Lonnie's ear and muttered: "Who's John Holmes?"

"More importantly," David interrupted, "who is that?"

The men's faces were dark. "That," Lonnie said in a low voice, "is Goliath the Philistine. We were all set to battle those ya-hoos forty days ago when he showed up. He wants to settle the war with one fight, him versus one of us."

"So who's going to go down there?" David asked.

"Don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? No one will fight him?"

Lonnie and Burt said nothing, grim-faced and angry. Goliath turned and bent over, slapping his ass repeatedly with both hands and occasionally giving them the finger.

"What's the problem here?" David asked, irritation in his young voice. "He can't talk trash to us. That bastard isn't even circumcised."

Burt's head and Lonnie's head slowly rotated toward David. Their faces were confused to the point of grimace.

"What's THAT got to do with anything?" Lonnie blurted.

"He's not one of us," David said. "The Lord God is on our side. Not his. We don't need to fear that blowhard."

"Kid," Burt said, impatience growing, "he's nine feet tall!"

"I don't give a damn if he's nineteen feet tall," David said, "the Lord will beat him. What's the reward for taking him out?"

"Ho, boy," Burt said. "You can pretty much write your own ticket. Big pile of cash. Big. No taxes for life. And Saul's daughter."

"Which one?" David asked.

"Merab," Burt said, "his oldest."

"Hmm," David said, "she's the one with those insanely, crazy big –"

"Yep," Lonnie said. "That one."

"Ah. Well. That could be interesting. But I don't know if I'm ready to be Saul's son-in-law, that'd be kind of weird. Saul is. Well. Different."

"Geez," Lonnie said, "I'd like to see how interesting Merab is..."

"Yeah, me too," Burt said.

"I've got lots of girlfriends," David said. "So what. But I bet I can take him out..."

Goliath was dancing around in a circle with his arms straight out from his sides. He was making "ZOOOM! ZOOOOM!" sounds as he did.

"Are you out of your mind?" Burt said. "Look at the size of that soldier!"

"You'd never live past the first ten seconds, kid," Lonnie said. "Don't be stupid."

"What are you guys talking about?" the voice said from behind. They turned and found Eliab, dressed in full battle gear, scowling at them.

"What are you doing here, David?" Eliab said, almost shouting. "This is a battle zone! Get back to tending sheep like you ought to be doing!"

"I don't really see much battle going on, big brother. I see a bunch of scared men, that's what I see. Do you see any fighting? Any swords swinging? Spears thrown? I'm looking. Hmm. Battle. Um – nope, I don't see any battle. I see a nine-foot retard swinging his uncircumcised stuff around like a moron, but battles? Sorry, can't find any of those. Maybe if I look in the other valley...."

"You're so proud of yourself, aren't you?" Eliab said. "Such a cocky young pretty boy. You've never been in battle. All you've ever done is raise sheep and chase girls. Wha'd you come here for? To mock the soldiers? While you left the sheep behind? Get back to work, stupid ass. I'm a soldier, I'm entitled to be here, you aren't."

"Wait," Lonnie said. "If he wants to try it, why not let him? Let's take him to Saul."

David ignored Lonnie and stared at his brother with blazing eyes. "I haven't done anything WRONG. ELI. The sheep are fine, Larry is with them right now, wha'd you think, I'd just leave them all alone? Same as always, you talk and talk but I can't say anything. Y'know what? The truth is, that big brother schitck of yours really gets tiresome, sometimes. Have I mentioned that lately? Do I see any babes following you around, dude? I've nailed and forgotten more women than all of the women you've had put together. Why don't you mind your own business? I know what I'm doing. Boy, we live in a world with sheep, and those sheep need to be guarded. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lonnie? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You're scared of Goliath, yet you curse me and my sheep. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know, that the sheep, while stupid and in need of tending, SAVE LIVES. The wool for that uniform of yours and the tasty grilled lambchops you eat SAVE LIVES. Therefore my existence, while incomprehensible and useless to you, SAVES LIVES. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain my shepherding to a man who rises and sleeps under the wool blanket that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it! I would rather you say thank you, and go back to your tent. Otherwise I suggest you pick up a weapon and go kill that retard. Otherwise, let the shepherd do it. Either way, I DON'T GIVE A DAMN WHAT YOU THINK YOU ARE ENTITLED TO!"

Frank ran up to them, wide-eyed and breathless. "David! Saul heard you were here and knows what you guys are talking about! He wants to see you right now!"

David smiled thinly at Eliab and followed Frank.

Frank pulled aside the tent opening for David. Frank watched David as he stepped through. Inside the tent, Saul was pacing. He glanced at David.

David stood at the tent opening, waiting for Saul to speak.

"You can't imagine the burden of being King right now, kid. The pressure. You can't imagine it."

Saul paced faster. David remained still, listening.

"Over seventy defections. That's one-fourth of the army. Soldiers running off in the night, running to God knows where, taking their weapons but leaving their clothes and toothbrushes and razors behind, they leave so fast. One soldier left a year's worth of Maxim magazines behind, can you believe that? I got the best ones, though. Our food and provisions are low. Morale is almost non-existent. And all because of that – that – I don't even know what to call him. He's a monster, that's what he is. A freak."

Saul stopped pacing and looked at David.

"Have you seen the size of his thing?"

David frowned. "Why is everyone so concerned about that? It's not the size of the ship, my king, it's the motion of the ocean. Trust me."

Saul's forehead wrinkled and he barred his teeth, eyes boring into David's.

"Huh? What?"

"Never mind," David said. "Look, I can take this character out. I'll kill that bastard."

"Please," Saul said, again pacing. "He'll break you in half and eat you for a midday snack. What are you, sixteen? You're too small. He's five of you. And you have no battle experience, son. This man has been killing soldiers for so long he's running out of creative ways to do it. And he juggles pretty good, too."

David looked sideways.

"You play a mean guitar, kid," Saul said, shaking his head. "I like what you've done with your soloing, it's really matured. Kind of has a jazz feel, but still rock. But this Goliath thing is out of your league. Thanks for bringing the provisions. Go tend your sheep now, son."

"I know I can win."

Saul stopped pacing and stepped into David's space. He looked into David's eyes from less than two feet away.

"How, exactly, would that happen, pray tell? Are you out of your mind?"

"I have the Lord God on my side."

"What, God favors pretty boys with guitars? You're a lady killer so that makes you a giant killer, too? Is that it? I got to be King but I had to finaggle my way into it. And God and I haven't been on the best of terms lately. You, on the other hand – you've got The Power of God on your side because girls faint when you walk by. Because you can play the Comfortably Numb solo note for note. Sure. Yeah, why not."

David's face was blank.

"There's an overwhelming irony in there somewhere," Saul said. "but I can't quite figure out what it is."

"Look," David said. "I've done some pretty serious stuff while tending sheep. Once, a lion carried off a sheep and I knocked him out cold, then snatched the sheep from his mouth. The same with a bear. Carried off a sheep, but I caught up and snuffed 'im. A bear, Saul. I'm sayin'. I be the wrong shepherd to mess with. Yo."

"Uhh. Right."

"The Lord God gave me the power to do it. The Lord God versus lion's paw? The bear's paw? No contest. And he'll give me the power to end this sideshow."

Saul stared.

"He's only a man," David said. "Give me a chance."

"A very big man," Saul said.

"Not as big as my God," David said.

Saul studied David's face for a moment.

"You just want my daughter, don't you?"

"That's not it."

"Yeah it is. You've got a thing for big boobs."

"Really, no, I want to fight him and win. For the Lord."

"Oh, for the Lord, is it? For the Lord. Uh-huh. You sure it's not because you like miles of cleavage?"

"I swear, king, it isn't. Honestly."

"And the reward money. That and the no taxes thing."

"Well. Tha'd be nice..."

"But not for Merab and her huge melons."

"No."

"Yes it is. You wanna get your little paws on her massive ta-tas."

"King Saul – no. NO."

"She's not really that pretty, you know. Kinda homely, to tell the truth. I mean I'm her dad and all, but hey – gotta call a spade a spade. Not so cute. So you've got a double-D fetish, then. Yes? Come on. Admit it."

"I don't even know what that is! No, dammit! Geez. Let Eliab have your daughter! I think he has a thing for all that. I simply don't like hearing so much trash-talk from that big Go-try-it, or whatever his name is! It pisses me off! No one talks to my people that way! Not without me doing something about it. So can I fight the giant monster man, now? Please? King? Because he will go down."

Saul eyed David through narrow slits.

There was a long pause.

Saul spoke quietly.

"Cocky, aren't you?"

David was silent.

"So sure of yourself. This isn't a woman you're conquering, David. It's not a lion, it's not a bear, or any other dumb animal. It's a thinking man. A thinking superman. A freak of nature like none of us have ever seen. And it'll be a fight to the death. His death or yours. This guy is a pro, and fighting isn't what you do. Killing people is what he does. Notching your bed post, that's what you do. It's not the same thing. Ya get me?"

More silence. Saul studied closer and cocked his head slightly while David said nothing.

"You trying to show me up? Trying to get my job, are you?"

"No, my king."

"No? Because I'd have your throat ripped out."

"No. I fight for my people."

Sault nodded. "Yeah, I get that. So you say. But that had better be all there is to it, understand? Or. I'll. Kill you." Saul's eyebrows shot up to emphasize the point.

Still more silence. David's eyes remained locked into Saul's.

"But it probably doesn't matter, because I think you're gonna be chopped meat as soon as you step into that valley either way. I'd give you thirty seconds, tops. You don't think so?"

"It isn't going to happen," David said. "He will die. The Lord is God and with me."

"And you're either a crazy little bastard with a death wish or I need to watch my back with you around."

Another long pause fell between them.

"Do you think when all of this is over," Saul said, "if you're still alive that is, you could bring those friends of yours over for a jam session in my tent? What's their names?"

"Geddy and Neil? And Keith?"

"Yeah, that's them," Saul said. "I really enjoyed that the last time. The wine will be on me. Unless you bring your own, you know, stuff. Like you boys do. It's a musician thing, I guess. I don't care, really, just don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

David grinned.

"Maybe get that Miles kid to come with you too."

"Sure, my king. Whatever you want. We can jam out for you."

Saul sighed.

"Let's get you suited up, son."

David staggered out of Saul's tent, armor from head to toe, and none of it fitting worth a damn. He crashed and clanked and stumbled forward. His head floated inside his helmet like an olive in a clay pot. His tiny arms poked out of his larger chest and body armor. His leggings were equally oversized, and his walk was erratic and serpentine as he tried to carry the mass of heavy metal that clothed him.

He dragged a sword that was almost as long as he was tall. Its sharp tip dug a zig-zagging line in the dirt and sand as he dragged it like dead weight.

King Saul walked behind, grim-faced and angry, dismissing any of the soldier's comments with a menacing glare before any such comments could be uttered.

David and Saul navigated through the crowd of soldiers that had gathered, David nearly knocking several of them down as he headed toward the edge of the valley. It wasn't clear whether David could see where he was going, and occasionally Saul would extend an arm and guide him to the left or right. Many of the soldiers were curious and followed David and Saul. Some of them appeared befuddled and muttered quietly among themselves, no one brave enough to question something that the king had evidently sanctioned.

A few outbursts of laughter could be heard from the back of the crowd.

At the edge of the valley, Saul grabbed David's steel shoulder and halted him. Saul stepped around to the front of the young soldier.

"God be with you," Saul said to the helmet.

"Huh?" a muffled voice said.

Saul raised the face shield and leaned into the opening.

"I said God be with you!"

"Oh, heh," David chuckled, peering out at Saul. "He already is."

"Right," Saul mumbled, and lowered the shield.

David took two steps over the edge, heading down the hill, and tripped. His armored body tumbled and rolled down the side of the mountain, leaving his sword behind.

Saul's shoulders slumped and his eyes rolled up.

David lay at the bottom, now committed to the valley, squirming slowly to get up.

The crashing sounds stirred the Philistine army, who scrambled to their edge of the valley and craned necks to look at David and his pile of metal.

Goliath stomped to the front of the line. At first he didn't notice David. Then David tentatively rose to his feet.

Facing the opposite direction.

He took two steps, and fell down again.

Goliath went nuts.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

Saul and his army stepped back. The soldiers looked around, confused and full of despair and disgrace. Saul shut his eyes and dug them with his fists.

"THIS is IT? You sent THAT to fight me?"

David righted himself. He stumbled toward the middle, flat part of the valley.

Goliath exploded with laughter.

"You people kill me!" he roared. "After more than a month of listening to my crap, finally you send someone to fight me, and it's The Tin Man! How can I cut his heart out when he doesn't have one?"

Saul kicked the dirt.

"What's in there, a boy? He can't even walk straight! I'm gonna come down there, knock him out with one shot to the head from my sword butt, drag his scrawny ass back to camp and put him on a fire! It'll be like a Swanson TV dinner! And with the same puny portion of meat! So I'll have to feed his scraggly ass to the birds!"

David continued to lurch toward the center of the valley, and without a sword.

"The Lord God is wiff me and will destroy you!" the muffled voice said from inside the helmet.

That sent Goliath over the edge. He went to his knees, bellowing guffaws. The Philistines laughed with him, a wave of ridicule washing over the Israelites, who were stone from shame and fear. After a minute, Goliath had a coughing fit from his hard laughter. David continued to meander forward.

At last empty of wind, Goliath wiped his eyes and rose to one knee.

"Oh, my GOD what next? Hilarious! Just when you think you've seen it all..."

He stood and wiped his forehead with a cloth. He casually unsheathed his sword. His six foot sword.

"Whooo-eee! Man oh man. That's rich. Okay. Let's get this over with. Damn. How about it, Charlie? I'm going to go and kill a blind monkey in a garbage can. Ain't that a bitch? What a day. All right, here we go. Won't take but a minute."

And the grinning Goliath slowly made his way down the side of the valley, swinging his sword with easy twirls and spins over his head, occasionally flipping it three-sixty and catching the handle. It looked like the Jolly Brown Giant had become a majorette in a marching band.

Suddenly David stopped.

He raised his helmet and took it off, throwing it aside. It rolled into a bush.

He pulled off his arm pieces and tossed them away. He did the same with his leggings and chest armor.

Within seconds, David's armor lay strewn about him, and he stood in the valley wearing nothing but a tunic and sandals. He faced Goliath, who had stopped, feet planted about fifty yards away. Goliath watched, puzzled and thoughtful.

Saul's soldiers were looking around, panic descending. Some of them were already preparing to run.

"What in the name of Jehovah..." Saul muttered.

David produced a slingshot from his tunic. He bent down and picked up several rocks. He put one of the rocks in his slingshot and dropped the others in his tunic pouch.

He began swinging the slingshot with slow rotations at his side.

Goliath stood flatfooted, head cocked.

David strode toward the giant.

"HEY UGLY!" David shouted.

Goliath's shoulders stiffened.

"YOU SUCK!"

Goliath's jaw dropped open, and the shock became rage. His head tilted back, his eyes shut tight, and his mouth opened wide, unleashing a roar that was louder, longer and bigger than anything Saul had heard come from an animal. Sword raised high, Goliath sprinted toward David.

"Uh-oh," Saul said to Jason and Justin, who were standing behind him. "I think we might have a problem here."

David's slingshot spun faster. David raised the whirling weapon high above his head, and stood his ground in a three-quarter stance to the charging monster.

At thirty yards, Goliath was at full stride, wild-eyed, roaring and foaming at the mouth. The tip of Goliath's sword was twenty feet above the ground at the highest arc of each gallop. Even though enraged, Goliath's run was graceful and agile, and with powerful legs longer than most women are tall, he was covering a lot of ground in very little time.

Faster rotations. The slingshot cut the air, creating a whooping sound like an owl gone mad.

Twenty yards. David bent his knees and prepared to fire.

Goliath roared again, insane with fury. How dare this puny child challenge him? It was an insult to his power, a rude offense to his lifelong dominance. Sword raised high, blood red brain blind with an instinct and a famished hunger for death, he closed in for the kill with singular, rabid dog intent: to cut the boy in half down the middle and hack the parts into smaller pieces while the Israelite army watched in horror, blood and bone and entrails spraying like a boy stomping a puddle of gore. Behold the terrible rage of the misunderstood, lonely, accidental assassin called Goliath and prepare to die hideously by his weary hand.

At ten yards, David released the stone and it sped toward the giant faster than any spear, faster than any arrow. David's arm and shoulder followed through as he stepped into the hurl.

It was over in less than a second. One shot only.

The rock, which was about the size of a robin, struck Goliath in the center of his forehead above the eyes, shattering his glabella and sending shock waves through the frontal lobe, causing instant loss of consciousness. His body, airborne in mid-stride at the moment of impact, went limp and he crashed to the ground face-first, sliding forward.

A loud, breathy gasp burst from both sides of the valley. Then, silence.

Goliath's slide stopped three feet from David's sandals.

Goliath didn't move.

David looked over his shoulder, up at the Israelite army, a faint grin on his face, then swiveled his head back to Goliath's body. He stooped, picked up the six-foot sword – it took both hands and David grunted under its weight – put the tip to Goliath's back and drove the blade into the liver. Blood gushed forth and began to pool under Goliath's massive body.

The Philistine army gasped again.

David pulled the sword out and lifted the bloody blade above his head with both arms, the blade cutting his right palm and making it bleed. He stood with the sword poised above Goliath's neck, and when he was satisfied with the position, he let the blade fall, allowing it to cut by using its massive weight and the force of gravity.

The blade fell on Goliath's neck and sliced deep into it, severing bone and muscle and spine.

David pulled the sword away, dropped it to the ground, and grabbed Goliath's hair. With one foot on Goliath's shoulder, he pulled hard and the head came away with a sound like a large weed being ripped from the earth, staggering David backward two steps.

He raised the head high, the bugged eyes staring at nothing, the mouth agape, blood flowing from the neck. He slowly turned, displaying the head for both armies to see.

Then David kicked the body in the stomach with a condescending, sideways motion of the leg.

Saul snapped out of his stupefied gaze.

"NOW! ATTAAAAAACK!"

And with the unified, primal scream of one hundred frustrated, demoralized soldiers suddenly freed from their humiliation, the Israelite army spilled into the valley like an avalanche. The running solders flowed past David and raced toward the Philistines, who remained immobilized from disbelief until the Israelite army began ascending the other side of the valley toward the Philistine rim. At that juncture, they scattered and ran like rats.

The Israelite army chased them for miles, slaughtering many, confiscating riches and supplies as they covered Philistine ground.

Meanwhile, David carried the head back to camp, where for the rest of the day he gently poked and nudged and rolled it around the camp grounds with the toe edge of his sandals, his hands in his pockets, whistling a familiar folk tune.

It had been a pretty good day.

A few days later, after Saul and his army had returned, the king said to Justin: "Okay, go get David. Time for he and I to settle up."

Justin roamed around and found David with ease. He only needed to look for the crowd.

"So then," David was saying as he sat on a boulder, Goliath's head on the ground beside him, "I ripped the bear's arms off!"

"How?" someone shouted.

"Why, with my teeth, of course," David said. "You see, a human's jaw muscles are very powerful, more powerful than any of the other muscles in the body. More powerful than the quadriceps. Strength is defined by the ability to exert force on an external object. For example, when you lift a baby lamb and drop it over a fence. And by that definition, the jaw muscle is the strongest. I can see from your faces that I'm not being clear. I'd have to diagram it out for you, and maybe sometime we can do that, but not today. My point is, if you really want to, say, snap an enemy in half, my first choice would be to bite it. That's me."

Heads nodded attentively.

"I chose to bite his arms off as opposed to simply ripping them off with my bare hands, which I could have done, but it didn't feel right on that particular day. Biting his arms off served to intimidate the nearby animals, thus establishing my dominance among them, and that probably prevented more senseless violence and saved the lives of sheep. You see, I'm actually a peaceful man. I'm still a shepherd at heart. I don't like to fight. I want to live in harmony with both my fellow man and nature. I want to play guitar, drink fine wine, and enjoy the company of a fine young lady, if possible."

David glanced at the group of young girls who were hanging on his words. David grinned.

"But if I have to kill something, I can do that, and I happen to think that the best way to do so is with the most horrible, grisly, atrocious manner possible. As a deterrent, if you will. Because I'm a man of principles. I'm a man of honor. I'm a man of action. But I'm also a man of peace."

"You're a man summoned," Justin said flatly from the crowd. "King Saul will see you now."

"Ah," David said, grabbing Goliath by the hair and rising to his feet. "I'm terribly sorry, but if you'll pardon me, we'll have to continue this conversation again another time. Everyone have a great day, so glad to talk with you."

He followed Justin through the crowd, the girls smiling and giggling and tagging along for a few steps.

"Are you quite finished?" Justin said under his breath as David caught up.

"What?" David said, Goliath's head swinging at his side.

"Never mind. Come with me."

As they approached Saul's tent, the many soldiers who were standing around greeted David loudly.

"YO, DAVID, my MAN! You GO, boy!"

"The HEAD soldier, yeah!"

"The GIANT SLAYER! Hey now, da GIANT SLAYER in da hood! Das what I'm talkin' 'bout!"

"Head's up! David's here! I mean...head's off..."

"Sling that rock, you bad man! OWWW!"

"That David, he be headed in the right direction! Gonna be king someday!"

Justin sighed, rounded a corner, and held the king's tent open for David.

David smiled at Justin and glided through. Justin rolled his eyes and returned to his position.

Saul's back was to David as he entered. Saul heard a sound that was something between a thud and a splut and turned around. David had put Goliath on Saul's favorite oak table.

David stood proudly and waited for Saul to speak.

Saul's shoulders slumped. "I just had that table cleaned. Do you have to carry that thing with you everywhere you go? It's beginning to smell."

David ignored him. "Is it time for my reward?"

Saul stepped to the table and stared at Goliath. There was a long pause.

"Is he staring at me?"

"He's dead, my king. How could he be staring at you?"

"No, really, his eyes are following me. Watch." Saul stepped to the left and right, watching Goliath's head as he danced. Saul's face was at once disgusted, fascinated and afraid. "There! See? Right there! He's watching me! I saw his eyes move! C'mere, look at this!"

"King," David said. "The reward?"

Saul sighed. "Yes, yes. Whatever."

He produced a large bag of gold coins and slammed them on the table beside the head.

"Knock yourself out."

David eagerly opened the bag and drove his hand in. The coins jangled like rain on a shield.

David stepped back and grinned as he looked at the bag.

"And no taxes, right?"

"No taxes," Saul said.

"Also," David said, "don't you think I deserve an officer's rank? I did kill their best soldier."

"I planned to do that, but you had to bring it up, didn't you?"

"Like Jason and Justin. I think I should at least be their rank. Or higher. Maybe over them."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, kid. One thing at a time."

"But –"

"I'll think about it!"

David was silent.

"There's also the matter of my daughter, Merab," Saul said, but David cut him off.

"King," he said. "She's not my type. Sorry."

"Yeah, I know," Saul said, dejected. "She's a nice girl, but – big boobs aren't everything, are they?"

The crowd outside chanted.

"Da-VID! Da-VID! Da-VID!"

"So," Saul said, a pained look on his face as the chanting continued, "you're such the rock star now, aren't you?"

"Hey," David said, "when you got the mojo, you got the mojo. And I sure know how to sling."

Saul studied the boy's face.

"Of course, it's because the Lord is with me," David added.

"Right," Saul whispered.

David smiled thinly, snatched the bag of coins and Goliath's head and turned away. Saul watched him step out of the tent as the cheer of the crowd swelled.

Saul was already plotting to kill him.
JOB

One day God was in his wood shop making a table. God's pretty good with a lathe, and he was turning a piece of oak for one of the legs. The high-speed spinning of the lathe filled the shop with a constant hissing and ringing sound punctuated by the buzzing of God's passes with the gouge tool. Wood chips spewed from the lathe like a stream of startled flying insects.

There was a loud knocking behind him. God flipped a power switch and the hissing died with a slowly descending whine. He turned and pushed up his goggles. Satan stood at the door of the shop, leaning against the wall, dapper in his three-piece suit, vest and tie, his characteristic toothpick dangling, and three personal guards behind him, standing straight, arms behind back, wearing sunglasses, earpieces, and grim faces. Satan was also wearing a bowler. A red rose decorated his lapel.

"Where ya been, Lucy?" God left his goggles atop his head and turned back to his lathe. The gib screws needed adjusting again, and he reached for his Phillips screwdriver absently. _Not tight enough,_ God thought. _It has to be perfect, dangit._

"Wandering around," Satan said. "Here and there. And how many times have I asked – politely, I might add – that you not call me Lucy?"

God grinned. "So, have you checked up on my man Job? Is he not amazing? A righteous individual if ever there was. And he's all about me."

"Right," Satan sneered. "Because you look out for him, don't you? Why wouldn't he kiss your ass? He's richer than shit. He's the biggest land-owner and rancher on the continent. And have you seen those daughters of his? Every single one of them is crazy hot, and coming from me, that's really saying something. What, exactly, does he have to complain about? He's got it all. Take it away and see if he doesn't turn on you."

"That won't happen."

Satan snorted a laugh. "Really. See, that's the irritating thing about you being God. You know everything, doncha? I've dealt with some know-it-alls in my two hundred million years but you take the biscuit, my friend. We go through this every time we hang out. Just once I wanna see you miss one. I'll bet this is it. Wipe out that livestock and snuff out those pretty children of his and see if he doesn't give you the finger. If not, lunch is on me."

"Oh great. Last time we went to that wretched place on the bank of the Red Sea, that one place you like so much. I hate lamb. It has the worst flavor. And the service? Horrible. Just horrible. How long did we wait for drinks? Twenty minutes? Thirty minutes? Ridiculous. Thanks but no. I oughta level that place with a whirlwind."

"Come on, you're God, You've been here since before time, you're infinite, remember? What's twenty minutes to you? Fine, you pick the place, how's that Mister Food Critic? How's that, Old High and Mighty? We can go anywhere you want. In fact, if you drive for once, we can go to any time you want. How about that great little café in German occupied Paris you like, when is it – 1943, yes? Or what's that one barbeque place in 1981 Overland Park Kansas? With the black guy manager who worked too much, never left the restaurant. Except to sleep. And sometimes he slept in his office. You know. Big fries. Big sandwiches. What was that place called..."

"Hayward's."

"That's it, Hayward's, we'll go there. You always have a thing for 20th century food."

"Yeah. Because it's better than that medieval slop you like."

"Hey. I'm Satan. I like meat, and I like it barely cooked, half rotten."

"I've noticed."

"Point is, we can go anywhere, but you're still gonna buy, because I'm right this time, he's gonna give you the finger. He's weak. He'll break. Just watch."

God sighed. He put down the screw driver. "You never let up, do you? All right. Go ahead. But don't touch him. Understand?"

"Finally," Satan sighed. "SOMEthing to DO around here. I am SO bored." He left, guards silently falling behind, while God fired up the lathe again. God began whistling "Carry On Wayward Son," a tune which wouldn't be written for another four thousand years, but which, of course, he already knew note-for-note.

The next day, Job was in his field tent, studying an ox tooth he had found a quarter-mile south. _Who the hell lost this?. It's not Edgar's, I fed him only two days ago, his teeth are fine. It's not Steve's, either, he's only two years old, he wouldn't be losing teeth like this, 'sides, he's had that stomach bug for the last two weeks, won't eat, prolly have to put 'im down. This tooth is fresh. Looks like a molar. Dang, this is a big bastard. Hmm. Maybe it's not from my herd. Whoa – this isn't a human tooth, is it? Who's that one servant I just hired? Josiah? Joseph? Jodiddly? Something or other. That one with the big jaw. Got an underbite like a goat. Jaw's as big as my son's head. And wow, does that man eat. Loves nuts, too. Maybe it's his tooth. Maybe –_

"Job! Job!" A messenger burst into the tent, wild-eyed and breathless. "The oxen were plowing and the donkeys grazing and those Sabean sons of bitches attacked out of nowhere! They made off with all the livestock and killed all of your servants! I barely made it out of there! I'm the only one left alive!"

Job stared at the servant with a confused face. As he opened his mouth to speak, another messenger ran into the tent and stood with the first. "Job! Fire came out of the sky and fried the crap out of all the sheep! The servants, too! I'm the only one who got away, and that's only because I was in a cave takin' a piss!"

Job's gaze flitted between the two men, his mouth working but not speaking. Then, a third messenger swatted the tent door aside and strode in.

"Job. I have very bad news. Your sons and daughters were partying at the oldest one's house, and a tornado wiped them out. All of them. The house fell in on them. I'm very sorry, sir. They're all dead."

The third messenger looked at the other two.

"Hey. What are you guys doing here?"

Job covered his face for a moment, and then abruptly stood. He grabbed a knife from a nearby table and staggered out of the tent. The messengers followed and stood side-by-side at the tent opening, watching Job. He wailed a long, single cry as he staggered ten steps. Then he dropped to his knees. He gathered his hair above his head and with a single slash of the knife, cut it off and threw it to the side. He ripped his robe with his fists, again and again, tearing and ripping and flinging pieces of fabric until his was nearly naked, then collapsed again to all fours, sobbing and clutching at the dirt. He crawled forward a few feet and lowered his head to the ground.

The messengers stared and waited.

Job straightened up, but remained on his knees, his head titled back to the sky. After a moment, he spoke, barely loud enough for the messengers to hear: "Naked I came into this world, and naked is how I'll probably leave. God gave me everything I have: my riches, my children – my way of life. Now God has taken all of it from me. But God is still God, and God be praised."

The messengers glanced each one at the other, and shuffled away without another word.

Having glued together the boards for the top of the table he was building, and having cut it into a perfect round shape, God leaned over the nearly finished table with an orbital sander, pressing the surface with the sander and moving it in slow, deliberate circles. A cloud of fine sawdust billowed from where he stood. The sander was humming and hissing loudly.

Another knocking sound behind him. God shut off the sander, and after it whined down, the sawdust was instantly sucked into an invisible hole in the floor at God's feet.

Satan and his posse once again stood at the door. His guards looked the same as before, stoic and expressionless, dressed in black; but Satan was wearing jeans and a T-shirt from the Abba farewell tour. He fiddled with his toothpick and stared at the floor, his other hand in his pocket. God smiled as he ran his hand over the smooth tabletop and squatted to examine it at surface level.

"Lucy, Lucy. You never learn, do you."

Satan exhaled. "I cannot get it across to you how much I hate it when you call me Lucy."

"You persuaded me to allow Job's life to be destroyed for no reason. Are you happy now? That was a good man you just wiped out. Very nice work. I gotta hand it to ya."

Satan stared into nothing. God stood up straight.

"Ho-kay! As soon as I get myself cleaned up we'll get out of here." God began shutting off the lights. "I've decided we're going to hit the Four Seasons, 1968. A golden age for that restaurant. You should be happy with my choice, you like New York. Let me get out of these coveralls..."

"Wait," Satan said.

"Wait, what. You owe me a meal."

"Wait. You wouldn't let me touch Job himself."

"Yeah. So?"

"Well now. That's. The problem. Isn't it."

"Oh, great. Here we go. So much for a great meal..." God began turning the lights on again.

"Look, a man will do anything to save his own ass. Even you know that, Big Guy. Let me drop the hammer and he WILL curse you. I'm telling you. I know I'm right about this. But we have to hit him harder. He has to really suffer. Let's make him sick. Then you'll see."

God sighed.

"Double or nothing," Satan said.

"Whatever," God said. "How about this: not only do I pick the time and the place, I get to pick the human form you take when we go."

"Oh, come on."

"Nope. That's the deal."

"No way!" Satan said, raising his voice as the ranting ensued. After hearing a few sentences, God held up his hand and made a duck's bill shape with his four fingers and thumb, opening and closing it while Satan babbled. His head mockingly rolled from side to side as he kept his back to the Prince of Darkness.

"You'll have me going in as some overweight, sixty-something woman realtor with too much makeup, bad perfume, ridiculous bright clothing and one of those idiotic red hair perms that make my head look like a fiber optic lamp! And I'll have a loud, irritating voice that cuts diamond! Or like that one time, when we played golf at Pebble Beach and I had to assume the form of Charles Manson! You, of course, got to be George Hamilton, but I had to be CHUCK. And I still can't figure out how you got us on the course in the first place! Pebble Beach? OH WAIT. I FORGOT. YOU'RE GOD. Geez. Manson, of all people. Don't think I've forgotten that little trip. Everyone was staring at me. I HATE TO BE STARED AT. You did that just to be a bastard. Y'know, this is the thing I can't take, every single human who has ever lived is convinced that I'm The Big Bad Guy when I'd never, ever do something like to anyone. Murder and adultery, fine. Hurricanes and earthquakes, fine. Wars and rumors of wars, okay. All that stuff is my job. But it's always you, my friend, always you causing embarrassment and humiliation, because you are so convinced you're right about that character-building crap. Anything that doesn't kill you, bleah, bleah, bleah, bleah. Well, no thanks. Not today. No. Just...no. NO."

God turned, can of varnish in one hand, flathead screwdriver in the other, and looked at Satan blankly.

"NO!"

"Are you quite finished?"

Satan shuffled his feet. "Yeah, I guess."

"So then we're done with Job, aren't we? And that means I win. Again. He lost everything, he didn't curse me, end of story, I win. I win I win I win. So let's go, can we please? Four Seasons, I said. Ready?"

Satan scowled and stared at the far wall.

"What?" God said. "Let's go."

Satan's hands became fists. He shut his eyes tight.

"Okay, fine. Double or nothing, and you pick the time, you pick the place, you pick the incarnation vessels. I hate it when you get to do that. Why, why, why do I put up with this crap from you."

God turned back to his storage shelves and chuckled. He browsed for a paint brush. "I get to approve the disease you're gonna use, too."

"OH NOW SERIOUSLY."

"Nope. None of this paralyzed from the neck down nonsense of yours, it has to be reasonable."

"All right. I can do that. Parkinson's."

"Nope. Takes too long. Don't have all day here."

"Brain cancer."

"Nope. Might affect his cognition. No bet if you do that."

"ALS."

"No, no, and no. Lucy, please." God leaned on the work bench, arms straight, elbows locked, his back to Satan. "Come on, bud. This whole thing has to be reasonable. Now look, I really want to work to this table. I'm tired of going around and around with you. Aren't you erupting Vesuvius this afternoon? I thought you were booked."

"No, that's Saturday."

"Well, whatever. Hurry up, I'm busy here. I'm God, remember? Got a full schedule. Make up your mind. If it's not my terms, and those terms are reasonable terms, then I win this silly bet right now and let's go to Manhattan. I've got a hankering for filet mignon with that lovely bacon wrapped asparagus. Otherwise, scoot. I'm done."

Heavy sigh.

"Black leperosy."

God stood straight again.

"Hmm. With the boils and what not?"

"Exactly. Hurts like hell, pardon the pun. Big-ass angry blisters head to toe, they ooze and bleed. Skin itches and burns and eventually sloughs off. Repulsive and hideously disfiguring. And it smells lovely. But it doesn't kill. Perfect-o."

God shook his head and picked out a horsehair brush. He ran his fingers over the bristles. "You truly are a sick bastard, you do realize that, don't you?"

Satan grinned but said nothing.

"Green light. But do not. Kill him."

"Yes yes yes, Old High and Mighty," Satan mumbled as he turned to leave. He continued to mutter as he walked the corridor toward the exit, voice fading, guards dutifully in tow. "No killing, Mister God, sir. No death, Big Kahuna Guy. No dying. No death. No death. No dying. No corpses. No zombies. No means no. Which part do I not understand, the N or the O. No this. No that. No speeding. No smoking. No texting. No dice. No short people. No shirt, no shoes, no service..."

Sheila was in her tent, in her bed, staring into space. She could tell that dawn had arrived, and she didn't care. She didn't care whether any future day had arrived. She wanted to die.

All of her children, gone. Vanished. As she lay in her tent, Sheila thought of her friend, Delilah, who lived in the southern part of Uz and was married to another rancher of less stature than Job. Delilah had lost a child last spring, the youngest of seven, stomped and gored by an angry bull. Delilah blamed herself, and nothing Sheila said could console Delilah. At their last meeting, Delilah had mentioned how she wanted to hang herself from a tree, but couldn't bear to leave her remaining six children behind. She was a prisoner of her own grief. As she considered her friend, Sheila wondered: what's holding me back?

She was angry that Job had failed to build the oldest son's house with the strength to withstand a puny desert wind. That thought had dominated her sleepless night, and she was tired of holding her tongue any longer.

She whirled in the bed to rage at her husband, to unleash her fury at him at last, and saw that he was gone.

Angrier still that Job lacked the decency to remain in bed long enough to hear the diatribe he deserved for his incompetence and the catastrophic, crushing result, she snatched her robe and exploded from the tent, eyes narrow and darting. Where the hell is he?

He was sitting in the midst of the ashes of their home, which had also been destroyed, reduced to black rubble by a fire from the sky while they had been in the field checking on cattle. She saw from a distance that he was naked, but something was – different. And he was doing something odd. To himself.

She stomped toward him, forming her thoughts. It was his fault the sheep had been lost. His fault the servants had been killed, servants they had paid dearly to acquire. His fault for failing to broker an agreement with the Sabeans which would have prevented the raid in the first place. And most of all, his fault that their children would no longer dine with them, laugh with them, or provide them with grandchildren. His fault they were dead. She would tell him, she would educate him of his guilt, and she had no fear of the consequences. What did it matter anymore?

As she approached, she saw that he had changed. Upon getting within twenty feet of him, she stopped and recoiled a step.

Job's skin was swollen and discolored. Some of it was angry red and full of hideous boils; some of it was black and rotten. His entire body had been affected: his legs, his arms, his chest. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, were sunken in his swollen, scarlet face and were focused on the sharp piece of broken clay pot he gripped in his right hand. His breath was short and choppy. His hands trembled. While Sheila watched, her husband did something to his arm that made her turn her head away. Job suppressed a scream with a muffled whimpering sound.

"What is WRONG WITH YOU?" she screamed.

"Sheila!" Job said, startled. "Go back in the tent! Get back!"

She stared at him wide-eyed and repulsed. After a moment, she screamed again.

"WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?"

"I – I don't know," Job said. He began to sob. "I'm sick, I'm – I don't know. My skin is on fire. I'm – I guess I'm sick. Get away from me, Sheila. Just go. Leave now."

Sheila stared, her eyes large and her teeth visible.

Finally: "Haven't you had enough? Your riches gone. Your servants gone. Your children dead. And as soon as this conversation is over, I'm gone. Do you not see the uselessness of your worship now? Your devotion to this – this – GOD you so believe in? Curse him now! If there is a God, ask him to kill you! CURSE GOD AND DIE! Give him THE FINGER and GET IT OVER WITH!"

Job stopped sobbing and tried to catch his breath. His mangled face turned to stone upon hearing the words. He transferred the piece of broken clay to his other hand and prepared for impromptu surgery on his leg. When he spoke, his voice was flat.

"You talk like an idiot, woman. God gave us what we had, he can take it away if he wants."

"You're right. I guess that does make sense. So, add me to the list."

She returned to the tent and came back out with a large bag, the strap over her shoulder and across her chest. She saddled the nearby camel (Job's last), and forced it into a trot, away from Job. As she did, she passed Job's friends, Eli, Bill and Zoe, who had arrived and were standing nearby. They had witnessed the entire exchange, and they stared at Job with faces of aghast equal to Sheila's of a few moments prior.

Sheila sneered at them as she rode past. "Good luck with your friend, the loser."

The three ignored her. They stared at Job while he did another unspeakable thing to himself. Then they ripped their robes, threw dust in the air and wailed. Finally, they walked to the ashes of the home and sat on the ground with Job. Job barely noticed them. He babbled nonsense in his deepening delirium, and shortly thereafter he collapsed and lost consciousness for few hours.

They sat with him for week without speaking. They gave him water and food during the times that he was lucid; but they said nothing, because they could see that his suffering was very great.

It was, in fact, beyond words.

On the seventh day, Job rose from a long period of sleeping. He stood up and stared at the sky for a long time through squinting eyes. His wounds, though still visible, seemed less angry; however, there would be permanent scarring. His fever appeared to be gone, and he was wobbly, but standing without assistance. His three friends, who remained seated on the ground and were eating lamb from the fire they had made, waited for Job to throw up again, but he did not.

In addition to the three friends, a crowd of people from all over Uz had gathered during the course of the week. Having heard about Job's catastrophe, some of them had traveled many miles to help keep vigil with the most successful businessman in the land of Uz, a man who had helped them with his charity and good will; but upon arriving, they a kept their distance, because they feared Job's illness.

At last Job spoke. The crowd became still.

"Wish I'd never been born."

The three friends glanced each one at the other.

"Curse that day."

The friends looked at the ground.

"Why didn't I die at birth? Why am I here? Why did all of this happen to me? My whole life is jacked up. It's worthless now. I should be dead. Why doesn't God kill me and be done? I have nothing. Nothing. "

Then Eli said: "Um – Job – can I ask you something without making you mad?"

Job stared at him.

"I mean, hey, it's the question everyone wants to know the answer to, and somebody has to ask you, so I figured it might as well be me..."

More staring.

Eli cleared his throat nervously. "It's just that – well – what did you do?"

Job's eyes narrowed.

"I'm just sayin'. God doesn't do this to someone for no reason. You must've done something. If mean – I were you, I guess I'd be telling God, thanks for the spankin', big guy, I'm sure I deserved it, then maybe he'd have mercy on you and give you back all that you've lost, because, well, you had to have done something to have all this happen. He must be really pissed at you. Doncha think?"

Job's left arm trembled.

"So," Eli pressed, "what was it? What did you do?"

"Nothing, ELI. I did nothing. How can you even ASK me that? Don't you KNOW me? How long have we been friends, anyway? I didn't do ANYTHING. I oughta kick your scraggly ass for even TALKING, you – you – "

"You've got to be kidding," Bill said, and Job snapped his fiery gaze toward him. "Seriously, dude. Nothing? You didn't do anything? When somebody screws up, God kicks his butt. That's the deal, that's the way it works. And you've got yourself a good old fashioned whuppin' on your hands here, my friend. Are you actually telling us you're completely innocent after what has happened to you? Come on. Wha'd you do, man?"

"NOTHING! Look, God might hate me now, but trust me, I hate me worse. I want to DIE. I've done everything I've ever been asked to do my whole life. Everything. I've been righteous and you KNOW IT."

"Dang," Zoe said. "What a crock. I wish God was here right now, he'd set you straight, buddy. You don't know what you're talking about. Everything happens for a reason, Job. You have to be lying. You're hiding something."

"So, all of you have turned on me, is that it?" Job's voice was softer. "I'm a laughingstock stock now, eh? Look at you. You people aren't better than me. I've been a righteous, blameless man. Y'know, I appreciate you sitting with me all week, but I think the three of you should shut up now. In fact, maybe you should leave. All of a man's days are full of trouble. But this? This is ridiculous. I don't deserve this. And you can't speak for God about it. So I suggest you stop talking. I'd like you to leave now."

"But Job," Eli said, "does not the cow see the snake and wink?"

"Huh?" Job said.

"Yeah, Job," Bill said. "does not the vulture know when the sky becomes cloudy to partly cloudy?"

"And does God take the bus when he could take a cab?" Zoe added.

Job stared, his jaw limp.

"Huh?"

"Just think about it," Eli continued. "God prefers paper to plastic."

"Exactly," Zoe said. "The God of the heavens rejoices in the song of Grand Funk Railroad, but despises the noise of REO Speedwagon and Journey."

"He who calls upon God for mercy in the hour of sorrow must have a valid receipt within 90 days of purchase," Bill added.

"SHUT UP!" Job shrieked. "SHUT UP, just SHUT UP, all of you! What the hell are you TALKING ABOUT?"

The three friends shrugged. "It just seems to us you're missing the point," Bill said.

"WHAT point? Stop taking MUSHROOMS when you hang out with me! You dropped some mushrooms while I was sleeping didn't you?"

They looked away from Job, eyes moving in sockets to the far left and right.

"No..."

"Don't lie, you boys be smokin' WEED all this last week while I've been sick."

"We don't know what you're talking about."

"Never mind," Job said. "Get this through your head: I'm righteous. I've done everything expected of me. God has no right to destroy me like this. He needs to get down here and give me some damn answers, okay? I want to lodge a complaint with the management. I want an explanation. Else he needs to just FINISH THE JOB and take me OUT."

The friends lowered their heads. There was a long pause.

"Well," Eli muttered, "a wise man knows that God blessed Mary Ann in greater measure than Ginger, and that the Professor speaks wisdom from the –"

"SHUT UUUUUUP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"

Another brief pause.

"We're just sayin'," Bill mumbled, "big wheel keep on turnin'."

"Yeh," Zoe said. "Proud Mary been on burnin'."

"Rollin'," Bill said.

"Rollin'," Eli said.

Then, all three in rich, baritone voices: "Rollin' on the rih-vuuhhh..."

"AUUUGHH!" Job kicked some ash into a small cloud and put his hands atop his head. "AUGH. AUGH. AUGH! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!"
A sound floated from the crowd. A skinny teenager with long hair and hollow eyes began making strange rhythmic noises with his mouth. The sounds were in a straight 4/4 bar, unusual for the culture. There was a low crunch on the first beat (something between a belch and "UH!), followed by a higher pitched triplet of white noise bursts, two more sounds that resembled an old man clearing phlegm from his throat, and then a half-beat rest. He emerged from the crowd dancing, swaying his body with the rhythm, and doing something strange with his arms and hands. His elbows were out from his sides, upper arms parallel with the ground, forearms and forefingers pointing down and making odd, alternating stabbing motions. He looked like a scarecrow come to life but afflicted with a neurological disorder. He also seemed to be having a problem with his neck. Bill wondered whether the boy was having a seizure.

While Job and his friends watched, mouths agape, the boy began singing. Sort of.

"Heeeyyy! Yo-ooo! Heeeyyy! Yo-ooo!  
My name is Lou and I'm here to say  
You brothers been talkin' and talkin' all day  
I'm sick and tired of listenin' to you  
So shut up now cuz here come The Lou!"

The crowd began clapping. They joined in for the chorus.

"Heeeyy! Yo-oooo! Heeeyy! Yo-oooo!

The Lou got da skills and The Lou is bold  
But yo sorry asses is just plain old  
You oughta be righteous and you oughta be wise  
Since you is neither, Lou cut ya down to size!

Only a young man would know the deal  
If God reach down and bust ass fo' real  
You might be old but you ain't no saint  
Yo dumb ass deserve it – what's yo complaint?"

Job's friends added their own percussive sounds. Bill beat two rocks together. Eli made a rhythmic "shhssh" sound with his mouth. Zoe farted with his hand in his armpit. Job stood flatfooted, shoulders slumped and his arms hanging limp at his sides. He eyes were wide and blinked frequently.

"Heeeyyy! Yo-oooo! Heeeeyyy! Yo-oooo!

God is righteous, God is good  
But God be pissed and he up in da hood  
He beatin' you up and he knockin' you down  
Life be a circus and you be da clown

We know you was richer than the richest dude  
But you and yo friends gots a attitude  
Yo friends say you done things dat you shouldn't a-done  
But now you up in God's face wit yo disrespectin' tongue!

Heeey! Yo-ooooo! Heeeyyy! Yo-oooo!

So listen to The Lou, listen what I say  
God be whuppin' someone every day  
The wicked get justice and God never mess up  
So come on now, Job, it be time you fess up!

Listen to The Lou, I got da youth on my side  
I listened to y'all and I honestly tried  
But y'all wear me out, and now my ass is poop-ed  
Cuz you crazy old men ain't nuthin' but stupid!

Heeey! Yo-ooooo! Heeeyyy! Yo-oooo!..."

As Lou continued to dance and "sing" to the great amusement of the crowd – the crowd who had had a somewhat depressing week – God watched it happen on a small black and white television that sat on his wood shop workbench. His arms were crossed and his eyebrows were furrowed. His mouth was a flat line.

There was a knock at the shop door, again. God didn't move.

"Hey there, Old High and Mighty, how ya doin'?" Satan said from the doorway. "Looks like you win, huh? Heh. Yup. Ya got me again, didn't ya? You win. That's why you make the big bucks, right? Job didn't crack, just like you said. You were right. I mean, he's freakin' out and all, he doesn't get it, but he hasn't cursed you like I thought he would. Mister Know-It-All Me, huh? Heh-heh."

God said nothing. Satan shuffled his feet.

"So. Uh. You ready? To go? I am. And I, uh – I was hoping that, uhh. Well. I was hopin' you'd go easy on me with that human form thing. Eh? Maybe? I mean. Hey. Do I have to be something embarrassing? Think we could work something out on that one?"

God still didn't move. He stared at the TV. Lou continued dancing.

Satan's face grew puzzled.

"What IS it with you and the twentieth century gadgets, anyway?" Satan said. "Can't you just watch that stuff with your God Eye or something?"

God's arm slowly, deliberately extended toward Satan, hand flat, palm down.

Satan was quiet.

God leaned closer to the TV, staring more intently. Satan watched while a camel appeared out of the crowd and bit Lou on the ass. Startled, Lou stopped dancing and whirled around to find the camel's face within inches of his own. The camel spit on him. The crowd laughed, and their loud bellowing filled television's tiny speaker. Lou fell and the camel kicked him. Lou struggled to get away, and each time he got to his feet, the camel would kick him down again, all the while spitting. Many people in the crowd were dropping to their knees with laughter.

Satan eyed God cautiously.

Finally, Lou ran away, the crowd following for a few steps, laughing. The camel strained against its owner's reins and snorted, unable to give chase.

Job stepped from the ashes and waved his arms, which were bleeding again.

"Everyone shutup! Shutup!" The crowd became quiet. "I am so tired of this worthless babble! Lou was right about one thing: this is a circus. Do you hear me? It's a circus!"

The crowd drew back from Job a step. He glared at them.

"What's wrong with you people? It might be a circus, but you act as if it's a trial! Am I in court? Well listen: I am not guilty! I have done nothing wrong! It is God who is wrong! Wrong to do this to me. Wrong. WRONG!"

The crowd stared. Job's three friends rose to their feet.

Job stood in the middle of the crowd and looked up at the sky.

"DO YOU HEAR ME, GOD?" Job screamed. "ARE YOU LISTENING? Who ARE these MORONS you've sent to CONSOLE me? Why are you DOING THIS? I don't deserve what you're doing to me! I've been RIGHTEOUS! So WHY? I demand to know!"

God stood up straight, his head drawing back from the screen. His frown grew deeper. His gaze never left the television as he reached for a rag from his workbench. He wiped his hands slowly, absently. Satan stood at the door of the shop and watched, not saying anything, his curious gaze moving from God to the TV and back again.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT!" Job screamed, his head titled back, disfigured face to the sky, bloody hands balled into fists. "YOU OWE ME AN ANSWER! I'VE DONE EVERYTHING YOU"VE ASKED ME TO DO! CAN YOU HEAR ME? What's the ANSWER? What have I DONE? WHY? GIVE ME MY ANSWER! WHY?"

The final "why" was a long, primal scream, Job's eyes closed tight. Out of breath at last, he stumbled and spun around erratically, crying "why" again and again, each one a loud, high-pitched wail. The three friends and the crowd stared, their faces sad, their mouths shut.

God emitted a long and low sighing sound. He tossed the rag on the workbench. He walked past Satan without looking at him and stepped through the door.

"Hey, where are you going?" Satan asked, turning to face God as he passed. "We have a dinner date, I'm buying."

"Be right back," God said as he entered the corridor.

"The 1968 Four Seasons, dinner's on me! Remember? Then I thought we'd shoot over to Vegas and check out Frank and Dean and the guys! How 'bout that? C'mon, let's go!"

No answer.

"Hey!"

"Stay put," God muttered as he disappeared from sight. "Won't take but a minute..."

At last, Job stopped screaming at the sky. He collapsed to his knees, consumed by a wracking coughing fit. Eli, Bill and Zoe rushed to his side while the crowd, still fearful of his disease, drew back.

The coughing became a lurching motion with deep, wind-sucking breaths.

"Job, take it easy," Bill said.

"Watch out," Zoe said, "he's gonna blow."

And Job did throw up. The crowd stepped back again.

There was a pause while Job's friends stayed with him, hands on his shoulders and head as he remained on his knees and swayed. His eyes were blank, his arms limp, his breath choppy. Eli gave him some water.

Then, a voice from the crowd: "Look!"

Sounds of panic.

Job and his friends looked up and to the west.

A sandstorm was coming, and it was coming fast. A large cloud, angry and dark, filled the horizon like a billowy mountain range. Lightning flashed within the cloud, and a few jagged strikes could be seen snaking across the forward part of the storm. It grew quickly, the wall of ugly brown becoming larger as the seconds passed, the mountain range rising taller and wiping out the blue sky as it approached.

A crack of thunder snapped the crowd out of their state of awe and they scattered, each one finding a camel. Belongings were snatched off the ground and thrown into bags. The camels could sense the danger and were difficult to mount. Two of the camels ran away, leaving their owners to shout as they vainly ran to catch up.

Within a minute, everyone from the crowd was either riding or running to the east. Job's friends stared at the storm transfixed. Job, however, eyed the oncoming storm with droll resignation.

"Just go," Job said.

"No," Eli said, "we're staying with you. We've been through sandstorms before."

"Not like this one," Job muttered. His friends looked at him.

"What does THAT mean?" Zoe asked, his face worried. Job didn't answer. "Job! What did that mean?"

Then something within Job snapped. He took a dozen strides toward the cloud.

"NOW we're getting' somewhere! That's RIGHT! COME ON! ANSWER TIME! LET'S GO!"

Job stomped toward the storm, laughing hysterically and waving his arms above his head. The front edge of the cloud was now less than a mile away. The blue sky was almost gone from sight.

"YEEEAHHHH!" Job wailed. "COME ON! LET'S GO! YEEEE-HAAWW! GIVE ME MY ANSWER!"

The friends ran to him.

"Job, shut up!" Bill hollered over the sound of the thunder. "Stop!"

"You're going to make it worse!" Eli yelled.

"WHOO-HOOOOO! YEEAAHHH! LET'S GO! LET'S GO LET'S GO LET'S GO! HOOO-EEEEEE!"

The cloud engulfed them. The wind staggered them. Job's friends covered their faces as the sand stung them like a million angry wasps. Lightning flashed on all sides. Job's celebratory mood at once dissipated. He thought to himself: _Hmm. On the other hand..._

Then, the sand stopped pelting them. The wind changed and became a mild breeze. They lowered their arms from their eyes and looked around. They were standing in a tight circle of calm. They looked up and saw a long tunnel that led to the blue sky above. The sand circled around then like a brown hurricane.

They were in a freakish sandstorm eye of nothing, inside a tube of blurry, flying sand.

Their heads spun on their necks. Job said: "Maybe I've gone about this the wrong way...."

A voice spoke. The voice was huge, like a thousand voices in unison, stacked and layered but out of sync just enough to reveal the many variations within. The words had a strange enunciation and tone the men had never heard before, deep and sonorous but grating and harsh like a falcon's screech. The voice filled the air within the eye so completely that it seemed to come from all sides of them, from the entire storm, a voice from which there could be no escape, and so loud and penetrating it was that it drove them to their knees.

The voice said: "WHO ARE YOU TO QUESTION ME?"

"I'm sorry!" Job cried out. "I'm a worm!"

"WHO. ARE YOU. TO QUESTION. ME?"

"Nobody! Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot here, I was wrong all along, I'm an idiot! And I'm sorry!"

"I ASK THE QUESTIONS. NOT YOU."

"Yes! Of course! You're right! I shouldn't have questioned anything! I'm worthless and I despise myself! Believe me, I really, really despise myself right now..."

"SILENCE. I WILL ASK YOU QUESTIONS NOW, AND YOU WILL ANSWER."

"Yes! Fine! Anything you want to know, just –"

"WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I LAID THE FOUNDATIONS OF THE EARTH?"

"Where – huh? What?"

"WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I HUNG THE STARS IN THE SKY? WHEN I ERECTED THE WALLS OF THE OCEANS?"

"I – nowhere, I was – look, I said I'm not worthy, I'm SORRY, I was –"

"SHUT UP! WHO ARE YOU TO QUESTION OR CORRECT ME?"

"An idiot! Plain and simple, ID-EEE-OTT, that's me, dumber than a bag of ball peen hammers, and I –"

"SHUT UP! CAN YOU DO CALCULUS EQUATIONS IN YOUR HEAD?"

"I – what?"

"COULD YOU DRIVE ACROSS THE DALLAS-FORT WORTH METROPLEX DURING RUSH HOUR WITHOUT GETTING LOST OR PISSING YOUR PANTS OR HAVING A WRECK?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"CAN YOU JUGGLE SIX POMEGRANATES BLINDFOLDED? COULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP FROM THE GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE AND NOT DIE? COULD YOU GET A DATE WITH CHERYL TIEGS IF YOU WANTED TO?"

"I don't – I don't understand, what do you mean can I –"

"SHUT UP! HAVE YOU EVER GONE NOODLING FOR CATFISH? COULD YOU HANDLE A FULLY MODIFIED ELECTRA GLIDE CLASSIC HARLEY WITHOUT LAYING IT DOWN LIKE A GIRL? CAN YOU PREPARE BEEF WELLINGTON WITHOUT IT COMING OUT TOUGH AS AN ARMY BOOT?"

Job looked around, puzzled.

"ANSWER ME! I'M ASKING THE QUESTIONS NOW, NOT YOU! WHERE'S YOUR TAT? A MAN WHO IS MAN ENOUGH TO QUESTION THE MAN HAS A TATTOO LIKE A MAN. LIKE OF A DRAGON OR A TARANTULA OR A SKULL'S HEAD OR SOMETHING. SHOW ME YOUR TATTOO! WHERE IS IT?"

Overwhelmed and bewildered, Job began to cry.

"I was wrong to question you! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I beg your mercy...please, God, please..."

There was a pause. The sandstorm whirled about them, the narrow tunnel eye snaking and twisting to the sky.

"WELL. OKAY."

Job's friends, who had been covering their heads, slowly lowered their arms.

"BUT THESE FRIENDS OF YOURS REALLY GET ON MY NERVES. EACH OF THEM OWE YOU SEVEN BULLS AND SEVEN RAMS BECAUSE THEY LIED ABOUT ME. YOU'LL PRAY FOR THEM THAT I DON'T SMITE THEM WITH SOMETHING WORSE THAN WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU, AND I'LL LISTEN, FORTUNATELY FOR THEM."

"Yes, Lord, yes. As you command. Everything as you say."

"GOOD. NOW QUIT WHINING!"

And the storm lifted. Within ten seconds the sand was completely gone.

So were Job's wounds. He was healed.

Job and his friends stood there for a long time, looking at the sky.

"You should eat, "God said as the waiter gracefully refilled the water glasses and glided away in silence.

"No," Satan said from across the table, glaring but not moving.

"Come on, now. Don't be a sore loser. It's good."

"No."

"Are you sure? What about your salad? Mine's nearly perfect. Lovely fresh spinach, crisp and chilled. The feta cheese and house dressing are wonderful."

"No."

"Oh well. Suit yourself."

God continued eating.

"Ahh, these Americans," he said. "They sure can make some incredible food. I just love coming down here to eat. It amazes me every time, the things my children can do."

"Everyone is staring at me," Satan muttered.

"Oh, now, don't be silly," God said around a mouthful of meat. "Why would they be staring at you?"

"Because I'm an eight-year-old boy and because I look ridiculous in this little suit. What am I, four feet tall? I feel stupid. And you, you look like a 1986 Sean Connery. Aren't you handsome."

God smiled and cut another piece of meat. "Yes. I do like this look."

"What a charade."

"So then. You're not having any fun."

"No."

"And you don't want to go to Vegas after dinner and hear Frank after all, do you."

"No."

"How about some wine? I'll buy."

"No."

"Lucy, Lucy..."

"Stop calling me Lucy. What was the deal with that sandstorm thing? Why do you have to make a crazy big entrance like that? Always so dramatic. It's pointless grandstanding."

"No, it isn't," God said as he forked his salad. "I have an image to maintain here."

"Well, this cute LITTLE BOY thing you cooked up for me isn't doing MY image any good. I hate it."

"Oh, please. No one knows The Prince of Darkness is in the restaurant, any more than they know I'm in the restaurant. And besides, you're still sinister. What's the matter? You have a kind of evil look about you right now. If I were human, I'd be scared of you. You remind me of that boy in The Omen. So dark and brooding you are. Remember that one? Gregory Peck. Lee Remick. Love that movie. Hilarious."

"It's not a comedy, Old High and Mighty, it's a drama with a plot that includes elements of the supernatural, and I do NOT LOOK LIKE THE BOY!"

"Keep your voice down. Yes you do."

"Look, I want to talk about Job."

"What about him?"

"He got his cattle back, his wife back, more kids and they're more beautiful than the ones he had before..."

"Yes," God said before taking a sip of water. "So?"

"And that's it? That's just it? Everything is hunky-dory now?"

"What's your point?"

"I don't like the way this whole thing got handled. You're concerned about your image? It doesn't seem like it to me. Don't you think our little bet got out of hand? He lost all of his children, don't you get it? But you still bitched him out. Doesn't he mourn the losses of his firstborns, even now? Does the fact that he's rich again change that at all? Doesn't he still have pain every day of his life?"

"Maybe," God said thoughtfully as he took another bite of steak.

"I'm the one who's going to look bad when this gets written about. When it was you who lied to him."

"Oh really now. How do you figure?"

"You didn't tell him the truth. We had a bet that he wouldn't crack, and that's why all the badness happened to him. Why couldn't you let him in on it? That's what I would have done, but noooo, you have to get all huffy and rowdy and chew him out in front of his friends for having the nerve to ask questions. I think you came down a little too hard. Even by my standards."

"That information was on a need to know basis, and he didn't need to know. You're just pouting because you're a little boy this time out. It was either that or a short, fat, bald man of about 55, and this suits me better. So quit complaining."

"Well," Satan sniffed, "you didn't need to grind his ass so hard for simply wanting to know why he almost got annihilated. Now watch. This story is going to get blown out of proportion, and I'm going to be the bad guy. Again. That's how it always works."

There was a pause. God cut his potato skin into smaller pieces and didn't speak.

"You really busted his chops. You had ME feeling sorry for him."

"Listen," God said, "the whole thing was your idea in the first place."

He stopped eating, lowered his fork and knife, leaned forward slightly, and stared into Satan's little boy eyes.

"And it just so happens," he said, voice low and menacing, "that I don't like to be questioned."

Satan stared at him. God stared back.

God stared until Satan lowered his gaze. He looked at his plate and the food that was getting cold.

God resumed eating. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. The soft piano music played in the background.

Finally, God said: "Don't you want to try your steak?"

"No."

"Oh come on. It's good."

"Not hungry."

"But you like this place."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Big baby."

"No."

"Oh, take a taste. Come on."

"No."

God sighed and stabbed his last piece of filet mignon.

"Suit yourself."
THE PRAYER OF THE STRONG MAN

Dear God:

I'm in a real jam here.

I used to be a strong guy. I was practically Superman. I'm sure you've heard of him, that one dude with the "S" on his blue suit. Or wait. He's not for another four thousand years. Never mind. Anyway, the stuff I used to do. Back in the day, used to be I could really whup some ass. I was a mighty, mighty warrior. And I must have killed – hell, I don't even know, it was so many. Ever since that day I got attacked by a lion and ripped him apart with my bare hands (that's a true story), I've known I had a gift.

And I've always been a bit of a prankster, too. I like riddles and jokes. It's a lot of fun to punk people. I'm sure you can relate, because, after all, you're God and stuff, so you get to punk people all the livelong day. Wow. That has to be great. Man, I wish I could do that. The jokes I'd pull if I were God. Like, hurricanes and tornadoes and earthquakes and plagues of frogs and – oh, wait. You already do that. Okay, well, I'm just sayin', that's what I'd do too. Like you're already doin'. See.

Anyway. Years ago, I married this woman, this Philistine woman, and that was my first mistake. One day I went to see her, and her Dad went nuts on me. He stopped me from going in to her tent. We had had this big argument over one of my riddles, which I thought was a scream, but which made him think that I hated his daughter. He took it all wrong. I won't bore you with the details. How he got his goofy idea I couldn't tell you, but the bottom line is that he wouldn't let me see her. And get this: he gave her away to one of my associates. Can you believe it? Then, he had the gall to say "here, take her younger sister instead, she's hotter anyway, so shutup." What a dick, am I right? More like a pimp than a dad.

I was pissed. His stunt was exactly like everything else I had been dealing with from those damn Philistines – so I got even with all of them, not just him. Here's what I did. I started catching foxes. They're pretty easy to snag when you get the hang of it. I caught about three hundred of 'em. I tied their tails together in pairs, then tied torches to their asses and let 'em go wild in the crops. Burned all their crops down. I thought it was pretty slick, and hilarious too. Can't you just see those crazy foxes with their tails tied together, on fire, scratchin' and scrabblin' and runnin' around rampant, settin' everything ablaze? I mean, was that cool or what? Showed them Philistine morons a thing or two. Namely: don't jack with me, because I'm crazy.

But then they got mad too. Very mad.

So mad that they burned my wife and her dad to death.

That was a little extreme, don't you think?

I mean hey. I did burn their crops, but I didn't burn any people, now did I? Did I burn people? No. And I burned their crops in the most clever way, what with those torched foxes and their tails tied together and all. Seriously, that was a riot, don't you think? Where's my credit for being funny?

But this much I know: you can't burn a guy's wife to death. It's, well, rude. So – I slaughtered them. Lots of them. I don't remember most of it, I was in such a blind rage, everything is a blur. Let's just say that I singlehandedly unleashed a bloodbath, how's that. Wha'd they expect from me? Like I said, I'm crazy.

So then, these guys from Judah started hassling me because I had slaughtered so many Philistines. They be all freakin' because they thought the Phillies were the rulers of them (not) and how we were going to be in big trouble and so on. At that point I had the Philistines and everybody from Judah on my case, too. Those knuckleheads from Judah captured me and tied me up for the Philistines, holding me prisoner, which was really amusing. I let 'em. I thought it was funny. I didn't do anything about it, until the Philistines actually showed up that is, which is when I pretty much lost it, man. I snapped. Busted out of the rope they had on me and started to crack skulls with a donkey bone I found nearby. Must've killed – oh I dunno, a few hundred. Maybe several hundred. Okay, it was a thousand, what's the big deal, anyway? Dang.

Sigh. Anyway. I was The Man after that day, have no doubt. I was the boss. But – that's been twenty years, God. It was a very long time ago. And you know what I've learned? People remember stuff. It's bad to burn bridges.

Fast forward to now. Not too long ago I made my biggest mistake: I fell for another woman. I've got a thing about women. They're my weakness. Delilah is her name. Holy crap is she hot. I meant, wow is she hot, 'scuse me. Anyway, these Philistine bastards came crawling around, sneaking around, and started twisting her about my secret power. They got her to spy for them. They wanted to know what my Kryptonite is – I mean, y'know, my weakness. And she agreed to help them.

She'd harass me. How can I tie you up so you can't escape, she'd ask. And she'd flutter those big eyes at me and push her boobs together and get in my space and breathe heavy and – well, you get the idea.

At first I thought she was just being kinky, see, her wanting to tie me up, so I'd simply lie. I'd say stuff off the top of my head. I wasn't going to give up my secret, now, was I? I told her: tie me up with seven fresh bowstrings, that'll work. And I'd let her tie me up like that. As soon as I was tied up, instead of the freaky sex I thought I was going to get, she'd wig out and yell that the Philistines were coming. That was weird. But I'd bust out of my bonds like I always do, ready for a fight. And the Philistines wouldn't show up. There were no Philistines. What the hell? Nutty woman.

That was only the beginning. She wouldn't let up. Kept asking. So I kept lying to her. New ropes never used. And she'd tie me up with new ropes. Then freak out. HERE THEY COME, DUDE! Snap. But no Phillies. She'd get mad. Complain I was making a fool out of her. Next I said it was seven braids from my head. I let her tie me up a third time, still hoping to get laid, still hoping for the freaky-deeky. But here we'd go: WATCH OUT WATCH OUT HERE COME THE PHILISTINES WATCH OUT! Snap. Another false alarm. Geez. It was getting to be so tired.

Finally, she pulled out the trump card. The You Don't Really Love Me trump card. Ouch. Said I was making a fool of her, I didn't love her, and that if I really did love her, I'd tell her the secret. And she'd cry and bawl for hours. She would not. Shut. Up.

She wore me down, God. Like a moron, I spilled my guts. I told her the truth: it's all about getting a haircut.

The very same night, while I was sleeping, her and the razor went to work.

She betrayed me, she ratted me out. She took the best part of me. I don't even know why she did it.

So now here I am. I'm the temple circus monkey for these Philistine scumbags, my eyes gouged out, my strength gone, and I'm performing tricks for thousands of laughing, taunting Philistine trash. This is no life. I'm going insane. It's more than I can take.

I've positioned myself next to the primary, weight-bearing pillars of this madhouse for my prayer to you, because I wanted to be ready. Ready in case you granted my prayer. It's a simple request, actually. Before all of this horrible stuff happened to me, I could have pushed these huge pillars over like they were toys.

And that's exactly what I want to do right now.

I'm asking for the strength to do that.

Please, God. Just one more time. Make me strong again and I'll bring this place down and snuff every single solitary soul in the building. I know that includes me, but – there's nothing left for me anymore. I want revenge. I can kill more people in one motion, right now, right here, today, than I ever killed up to now. Let me end this. I'm finished either way. Please. My strength is gone. My eyes are gone. My dignity is gone. I'm here, but I'm not here. I'm alive but I'm dead. And I'll never trust anyone as long as I live, especially a woman. So what do I have to live for? Please, just this once, God. That's all I ask. One more time, make these muscles my instruments of doom, like they were before I messed everything up.

Thanks.

Samson
SOMETHING OF A REVELATION

Okay okay okay so I'm like. Uh. John and stuff and. Well. I mean. I'm John, that's who I am, and uh. Uhhhhhh. I just got back from the Island of Patmos and dude – they have got the best weed ever. I mean their weed is so. Smokin'. Good. You will be trippin' for days on that shit man. Days. Weeks. Whooooo! Good stuff, man. Primo. Or. It sort of is good. Wait. I'll explain...

So I'm chilllin' on the beach there last weekend, right, havin' a doob with what feels like the most. Excellent. Chess. In the world. Okay? I'm serious, it's like the best Jimmy I've ever had, and this big voice comes outa nowhere and says to me "Doooood! I'm about to show you some freaky visuals, and I need you to write it all down. Make a book out of it. Ya got me? Sit up straight and start writin', Stonehenge. F'real. Need ya to do this for me."

And so I was like: "Uhhhhh.....okay."

That's when I saw these seven beings, like, glowin' Homies and stuff, playin' trumpets, and every time one blew a horn, somethin' bad would go down. Real bad. Like. Stuff getting' burned up, and oceans turnin' to blood. A big-ass asteroid fell and poisoned everything, and the sun went totally black (which is really bad, cuz that means they'll have to finish all those repairs to I-70 in the dark) and a whole buncha other bad stuff, dude. Whole bunch. People gettin' gassed and poisoned and burned alive and – well – pretty much the end of the world, man. I'm sayin', it was the worst stuff you can imagine, what stuff that is, that stuff that happened. Stuff.

Then this big-ass eagle flew over and talked. It gave us the finger and said, "HEY MAN – SUCKS TO BE YOU DON'T IT?" And I said, "Whut?" Was like. Weird. And he said: "Yeah. Just WAIT 'til ya see what's next, dumbass! You are so not rockin'. Your butt is up the existential crick. BOY." But I was, like, still tokin' on muh blunt, y'see, an' I sez to myself: "Damn, dude, you need to chill, ain't worth it, y'know?"

But he was right, that eagle. There was more. A lot more. And bad.

A comet hit the earth and opened this pit, man. Big-ass deep pit in the earth, dawg. And locusts the size of Buicks come flyin' out! But they wasn't like locusts, dude, they was like. Like. Mutant locusts, they had scorp tails that be stingin' people and they had human faces and they was flyin' and stingin' and stingin' and flyin'...is that jacked up or whut? They all looked like Richard Nixon, they was ugly locusts, but with hair like Farrah Fawcett! By then I was really trippin'! Didn't know if it was awesome or like The Worst Thing Ever to Happen in the History of the Human Race! I kinda had a feeling it was the latter, but for some reason it was kinda cool at the same time. Like that sick entertainment you get from watchin' a disaster movie 'n shit. Anyway, the locusts was like stingin' everybody and makin' 'em sick but not dead, only enough so's they wanted to be dead, and that's when I was like: whoa. Can't get no worse than this, Homey. I know we hit bottom here.

But it did get worse. Way worse.

A whole buncha F-15 fighter jets and Black Hawk attack helicopters come out the sky and just be killin' everybody. I mean by the thousands. Fifty caliber machine guns be like BUPUPUPUPUPUPUP! And missiles be like FFFFZZZZZZZFOOOM! zzzzzzzzzzzzzFOOOM! And I was like – DUDE. What. The hell kinda SHIT. Did I SMOKE? Damn! Then this big-ass transformer dude appeared, up out of the earth of course, and was makin' everybody get a tat on they forehead. It was a number, like, three numbers, three digits, and everybody had to have the tat or else get killed.

Then more glowing – uh – dudes – started makin' more bad stuff happen. Plagues where you get the worst zits ever, everywhere on your body, and the oceans turnin' to blood (whut else would it be?) and more sores, and more blood, and earthquakes and hail and thunder and lightnin' and – DUDE! Frogs! More frogs than I have ever seen jumpin' everywhere! Was like. Frogville! Frog City! Froggerama, dude! Whole planet got froggerated! Froggerized. It was a frog kinda world, y'know? I'm sayin': everything went frog wild.

Anyways dawg. New York city got nuked. I mean nuked off the earth. Which was really bad, but all the glowin' beings and everybody kept yellin' "Yeah, uh-huh! That's right! That's what you get!" Which, hey, y'know, I'm thinkin', maybe it's just me, goin' out on a limb here, but dang, that seemed kinda rude. To me anyways. Or. Kinda. Not mellow. Not mellow at all. Nope. That was definitely not mellow.

Finally, a guy on a white horse and big-ass ugly dragon dude had a fight, and the dragon dude lost huge and got thrown into a fire pit. After that, it was NON-STOP PARTYTIME. That's when everyone busted out the greenery, and the jams, and they be dancin' on the ceiling all night long, you see what I'm sayin'? Twenty-four seven rave. So. Wuz kinda. Like. A happy ending 'n shit. I guess.

Dang, though. Sure was a bitch in the beginning, dude.

You woulda had to see it. Er. I mean. Hallucinate it, see. Like I did. You can't really get the flava by me tellin' you 'bout it.

Anyways, so that's my book. If you take a vacation to Patmos, get some of that excellent local cannibus and get yourself baked, cuz...

...well. Or not. I mean. I dunno. You can if you want to. It's your trip, y'know? And. Like. Hey. Your trip could be bad. Or it could be great. You might have the best buzz of your days, man, you could get utterly Chochy McGeed in the best way possible, or – you could be, like, emotionally scarred for life because of the visions you had while you was tokin' the crazy green badger they got on that rock. And then you'd need years of therapy 'n shit. Chance you take, eh? You could be messed up in the head like me. Hell, I ain't even sure the dude who told me to write the book was real, even he coulda been a fig newton of my imagination, I was so ripped. But I wrote it down anywho, didn't I? I have no idea what the hell any of it means. Maybe someday some trippy dude will figure it out, y'know? Like – decode the messages of it and all the symbolism 'n shit so that mankind will have The Answer to Life 'n stuff, yeh, that'd be cool. 'Course, that dude would hafta be really smart, see. Real smart. Like. Genuis smart. Way smarter than me. Somebody I can't keep up with, that's fer sure. Cuz I don't have the first damn clue what the hell this stuff means. Can't finger it out. I mean – I guess what I'm sayin' is...

...it makes me feel sorta like. Left behind.

Y'know?

A TOWERING CONFUSION  
(based loosely on Genesis 11:1-8)

Satan stood at the doorway of God's woodshop and waited. God ripped the walnut into a dozen pieces, each one an inch wide. His weathered hands guided the wood with such steady precision, one could almost say the cuts were, well, perfect.

At last he killed the power to the engine and lifted his goggles to a position atop his gray head. As the whine of the blade descended, he gathered the planks that had fallen to the floor.

"What's this gonna be?" Satan asked with deadpan as he leaned against the door frame.

God didn't look at him. "Chopping block."

"Oh, now, isn't THAT a frightening concept. God's Chopping Block. Great."

"To make salads and such, dumbass."

"Sure. Yeah, that's it, to make salads. So you can cut lettuce and green onion and red bell pepper – and the hands off sinners when they piss you off."

"Have you not the most fertile imagination, my dear Lucy? Indeed."

"Deny it if you want to. But you have to admit it sounds scary just to hear it spoken like that: GOD'S CHOPPING BLOCK. Am I right? God's Chopping Block. The Chopping Block of GOD. Even I'm scared of this deal."

"Please. "

"And besides. Why can't you just appear a salad with your God power? What do you need a chopping block for?"

"I'm not going to simply materialize a salad, it's not the same."

"Oh. It's not the same."

"No, Lucy, it isn't. Food is always much more satisfying when you prepare it yourself, and prepare it properly. A nicely chopped salad, with not only the items you mentioned, but a small fennel bulb, thinly sliced, and Greek olives, garbanzo beans or chickpeas – that's my version of heaven, especially with a properly grilled sirloin. A bit of wine. A block of cheese. The good things of existence. Not that you'd understand any of that. Always the dark interpretation you have. Always the crooked angle. No one is going to lose their fingers. Relax."

"If you say so. But stop calling me Lucy."

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah, I'm ready. Where are we going?"

"I thought we'd sit on the hill over the tower. It's almost finished, you know, and it's quite a sight. I've packed a very nice lunch, a lovely cold crab salad I made, roasted rack of lamb, and some of those great potato chips out of twenty-first century United States. You know the ones? My goodness, they're so addictive. I'm on my third bag this week."

"Sounds good. My lamb is practically raw, yes?"

"Yes, Lucy, almost raw. I think it was on the fire less than a minute. You'll like it."

"Thank you. And STOP CALLING ME THAT."

"Shall we?" God mumbled as he stepped past Satan while carrying an Igloo Playmate, the food and wine inside it.

On the hill, the two sat on the grassy slope and admired the tower.

"So tall," Satan muttered. "Dang."

God nodded.

"What is that," Satan said around a mouthful of crab salad, "three hundred?"

"Not quite," God said, preparing to take a sip of wine, "it's two hundred ninety-seven feet."

"Wow. I mean. Wow. How'd they do that?"

God shook his head and tore off a piece of fresh baked bread. "They've gotten to where they can do all sorts of things. That tower is sky-high, and it's built to last. They've got the brick-making down to a science. And look at that city they built around it. It's all quite impressive."

"That it is," Satan said.

"They're very capable. Which is why I have to do something."

Satan's leg of lamb, which Satan was raising to bite, stopped moving and hovered in mid-air.

"What something?"

"Scatter 'em."

"Scatter them..."

"That's right," God said, nodding as he crunched a potato chip.

"What for?" Satan asked, a slight grimace of incredulity on his face.

"Wha'd I just say, Lucy? They're too capable."

"Too capable of what, boss? Of what?"

"Of anything," God said, the impatience in his voice growing. "Look at that tower. If they can do that, what's next?"

Satan stared blankly. "A second tower? Twin towers?"

"They're getting to be too much," God said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.

"What," Satan said, "exactly, are you planning to do? Scatter them in what way?"

"Well," God said, digging in the Playmate for more crab salad, "they all speak the same language. That's what enables them to do such amazing things right now. They're all on the same page."

"And...."

"And, so, I'll confuse their language."

"You'll. Confuse. The language. You'll. Huh?"

"See?" God said, grinning. "It'd work really well on you, wouldn't it? I'll just hex 'em so they can't understand each other. I'll make up other languages. I'll have some of 'em speak English, some German, some Mandarin, some Italian, Swahili, Dutch, Japanese, Korean, Shona, Kimatuumbi, Kipsigis, Sesotho, Bukusu— "

"Okay! I get it! Yes! I get it. But – what for? That's what I'm asking you. Why?"

"To confuse them."

"Yes, Old High and Mighty, yes, dammit, I get that part, but to confuse them for what purpose? To what end?"

"To confuse them. For the purpose of confusing them."

Satan dug his eye sockets with balled fists. "Why do you do this to me...every time...dammit..."

"Look," God said, turning on the ground toward Satan, leg of lamb put aside, wine glass on the ground, fully focused on his eternal adversary, "do you realize what they might be able to do if I don't confuse them right now? Think of all the stuff they might try to get away with eventually."

Satan stared. "Gee. I dunno. Fight cancer? Go to the moon? American Idol?"

"I don't know why I waste my time explaining anything to you, you don't understand." God returned to his lunch.

"I guess I don't. But I'll have lots of fun with your plan, believe me. If they can't talk to each other, if they can't understand one another, if they splinter into hundreds of groups each one alienated from the other, it'll be so much easier to get them to do the fun stuff, which is to fight. And that's where I come in. Heh. Cool. For starters."

"Uh-huh."

"I mean, the possibilities are endless. All the misunderstanding that'll lead to hatred and violence and poverty and war and killing and maiming and fistfighting and ass-whuppin' and torture chambers and planes flying into skyscrapers and the nightmarish mayhem and endless terror and—"

"I GET. The picture, Lucy. You'll have a lot of fun, won't you. Knock yourself out."

"Not to mention what it'll do to the worship aspect. If they're all talking different languages, different religions are an obvious side-effect. There'll be hundreds of goofy-assed religions, and I'll definitely have to get a piece of that action. Geez, I can hardly wait. Cults. Sects. Most of 'em for the purpose of tax evasion, that's how I'd play it anyway. But before long, nobody will have a clue how to get to you, they'll be so distracted from all of the cultures and flavors and choices and differences and – whew! What a great opportunity! I'm excited. And watch, I bet they'll call it DIVERSITY someday. Eh? Or some bullshit like that. They'll try to spin it as good how different they all are, instead of focusing on how they're all the same, how they all breathe the same air and how they all love their children. Unfortunately for them, that little truth won't solve anything, because by the time someone smart enough articulates such a forehead-slapping perspective, it'll be too late. The planet will be drenched in division and confusion and conflict and war. Everybody will hate everybody."

God sipped his wine, staring at the tower idly.

"By then," Satan babbled on, "only the people who are the brightest and most enlightened, only those who don't have all that alienation and fear and hate within them, those will be the only ones who will be able to search and find...out...uh...who...uhh...who the hell....."

A crow called out from high overhead. The breeze on the hill increased slightly.

The sky seemed impossibly blue.

"...you...are..."

God smiled.

About the author...

Fred Potter works for the United States Government and lives in Overland Park, Kansas with his two cats, Spanks and Ellie. In addition to writing fiction, he enjoys composing and recording progressive rock music in his home studio.

Connect with Fred on Facebook at /fred.potter.37.

Other titles by Fred Potter...

The Adventures of Jabber and Mumble  
A Classified Christmas  
The Road to Knowwhere

