Dear God! You’re Busted
‘bio-molecular warhead (operations manual)’
Breaking News: God has been found. He’s here, in WordPress City, throwing parties under the alias Big G, and he is ‘Lord of his own little kingdom.’
God has several clubs and a massive line-up of performing acts; deejays, rappers, singers, poets, dancers, recitalists, and garbage workers of the strangest sort – they don’t take the garbage out, they bring it to you. The Clubs? The big three are called ‘Community, Life, Inspiration,’ and sometimes they do a massive jam, I think on Sundays, at the ‘Culture Category 6,‘ a humongous split-level tenant-share, but I suspect they plan a hostile takeover.
God’s clubbers are fanatically devout; they gift their children membership, one of those ‘take it no chance to leave it’ life long subscriptions, modelled after the ‘eat your vegetables’ principle. When I visited the Inspiration, I asked a kid, ‘does God ever show up?’ The lad says, “I’ve never seen him, here or anywhere else, ever, but he sends people to collect money. They say he needs it to make himself visible.” I says to the kid, “it’s past your bed-time; why don’t you leave?” He replies, “why don’t you try?” Which I found kinda weird coming from a 10yr old in a club for adults dancing and jumping and rolling around on the floor speaking weird languages that no human-being or advanced computer would understand. By now, I was dying from thirst, and the munchies were coming on due to a hit of weed I had earlier, but the only thing they served was a 2cl shot of cheap red wine with a pinch of magic bread; it symbolises the body of G-Zez, God’s only son and heir (also invisible), and supposedly quenches your thirst and stills your hunger forever more. I ordered ten, barkeeper looks at me funny, says I can only have one, but he needs to see a salvation I.D, which I didn’t have, so I slipped him a 10er, which he kept, but gave me nothing. Bollocks. Clever lot.
I dallied through the room looking for a hot chick to hit on, but in spite of feeling randy(I could see it in their eyes), they weren’t even open to a bit of petting, something about ‘G-Zez is the only lover I need.‘ Undeterred, I finally found one, a little redhead who seemed rather bored with the whole thing. I asked her to go outside with me for a shot of whisky and a small puff from my joint, things I kept in the car, but she warned me that would be difficult. I says to her, “that’s what the kid said.” She dared me anyway, so I took her hand, when suddenly a bouncer shows up waving a book with the word ‘babble‘ written on it(I believe that’s what it said); he waves it in her face angrily and rambles on about devils and gasoline, which made her all obedient and afraid, so she sat down again, wouldn’t even raise her head after that. No action, no drink, I’m leaving.
I’m headed for the door, but the little kid from before shows up and says, “you’ll never make it out alive.” The little snot is daring me, is he! I’ll show him and these pack of bores. With the door almost in sight, I was tackled by a team of men and women, led by Tim Tebow, clawing and holding me everywhere while speaking in that incomprehensible tongue, a load of gibberish, a pile of pants, definitely nothing that Apple’s Siri would understand, let alone a God. Panicked, and completely surounded by babblers, I was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and heaved into the air by Tebow. “You can check in any time you like, but you just can’t leave – orders from G-Zez,” he babbles at me. Really! We’ll see.
I fought my way out, a man fighting for his life, with 20 of them glued to my legs like an egg on a dry frying pan, made it to my car – man, I really needed a drink. ‘That was weird,’ I thought, but I was still thirsty, not for whisky but something exotic, like a ‘Sex On The Beach,’ so I drove over to the ‘Culture Category 6,’ which wasn’t far way. There was a whole heap of them over there, like vultures on a carcass. I took a shot uh whisky and got out, intending to go inside, when I noticed a bouncer from ‘Inspiration’ talking to these bouncers, waving babble books and grumbling at the sky while pointing at me. That scared the BG-Zez out of me even though none was in me to begin with, so I decided to drive off, but my car wouldn’t start any more, and I got a funny feeling, like I should get out and run. I did, and just in time; the bloody car exploded; someone had filled it up with Hellfire Gasoline while I was inside trying to leave the Community Club. Hellfire Gasoline is what murderers and robbers and rapists use to power their cars, and I’m not one of them, but later I found out that as long as you don’t want to stay in any of their clubs, they fill your tank with Hellfire Gasoline. How mean is that! Hellfire Gasoline makes a big explosion, scares the living daylights out of you, but if you examine it closely, you discover that it’s nothing more than a Cool-Aid, Tang and Ribena mix with delusion lemons, plus a secret ingredient only they know(faith?). The clubbers are so terrified of it that they give all their money and total obedience to Big G and G-Zez. Wait, it gets even worse.
I’m just a guy trying to live my life, you know, have a good time, then die, and I just couldn’t figure out how they were enjoying themselves, I mean, every song was about God, asking him to come back from ‘somewhere’ and take them with him, but it seems he never does, he only sends people to collect money, and ‘condition coaches‘ to train the kids, and I’m thinking, ‘all that conditioning, but they play no sports.’ Weird. Anyway, I returned to my ship ‘The Paradox’ to mind my own business and leave them to theirs, you know, do my thing with my people; party in the Short Stories club, hang at 5*Restaurant Europe and the Literature Bar, or chill at the ‘Writing, Arts & Blogging‘ Barbeque,’ but they started showing up there too, not in force like at Community, Life and Inspiration, but they tried to make their presence felt. Good for them I thought, a change of pace. No Sir. They brought their own drinks, mixing cocktails with recipes from the thousand year old babble book, and chanting, they say to make the drink powerful so I can finally savour the taste of happiness and freedom that only Big G and his son can provide. Okay, I’ll go along with it for a while, I thought, just to get them off my back, but then they wanted my money, a 10% cut. Next, they took my condoms, my weed, my heavy metal music, my science books, and a whole lot of other stuff. So I asked them, “yo! How am I supposed to enjoy being in this club if there’s nothing to enjoy – hold on! This is my ship, my house, I call the shots here.” They ignored me, started singing a Alleiuah song with no bassline, clapping hands and laying on hand, telling me the devil has to leave. What devil? I thought. And I kept on asking, but they continued singing and shaking and mumbling gibberish, asking some ghost to possess me so I’d finally be filled with a spirit, which would give me the power to understand. I didn’t understand a Goddam thing.
Desperate for relief, I offered them 15% and two children under 8; they were happy with that. The condition coach(this one), decked out in Red & White flowing robes and matching cap, rolled up in a limo and took the children away, giving them hugs, kisses and affectionate fondles everywhere, with sweets, toys, crayons and colourful stories from the thousand year old babble book that sketches the tales of sheep herders before they knew people existed beyond the next hill; and the mass slaughter of those people after Big G told them to take that hill.
Well, to make a long story short, they kept on bothering me, day and night, throwing loud, boring parties in every corner of the galaxy where I showed up. The ship’s crew received insults and threats, and there were countless sabotage attempts, one of them even planted a bomb in Quark’s Emporium(comments section). Then they made laws and stuff, trying to close down all the other clubs and force everyone to go to theirs. I’m not having that, I says. I filed a petition with the Galactic High Council, telling them I have the right to party like it’s 1999, but the Council says maybe you do, but they have the money and Hellfire Gasoline. I says to the Council that Hellfire Gasoline is a party drink for painted clowns at children’s parties and psycho wards, and them says to me, “that don’t matter none. You have no rights, unless you can create Hellfire Gasoline of your own!” Where in hell am I supposed to find Hellfire Gasoline if not from those lun…what are they called? Whatever. So I went home, and waiting in my mailbox was an offer of membership in a Middle East Mega-Club, with a guarantee of real Hellfire Gasoline that was more powerful than Big G & G-Zez’s Gasoline, and a bonus of hot chicks if I died while trying to shut the other clubs down. Crazy shit, I know. Don’t worry, we’ve increased power to the shields.