Authors: S. G. Browne
Tags: #Humorous, #Romance, #General, #Contemporary, #Fiction
Fated (27 page)
I watch Sara a moment longer, then head back to my office and sit down at my computer, where I sort through some files dating back to just before the turn of the first century in Galilee, making more comparisons. The more comparisons I find, the more it makes perfect sense.
Sara’s effect on other humans.
Jerry’s e-mail.
Destiny’s suggestions that I not get involved with Sara.
Which would also explain why Destiny hasn’t said anything to Jerry. She’d have to tell him about Sara, about who she is, about why she’s so important, and Jerry can’t know about her until it’s time.
That’s just my luck. Out of more than six and a half billion humans on the planet, I’ve fallen in love with the one woman destined to carry the savior of the human race.
My girlfriend.
The Virgin Sara.
CHAPTER 38
Coming to the
realization that the mortal woman you’ve fallen in love with is destined to become fertilized by God tends to have an adverse effect on your ability to focus when you’re having sex.
realization that the mortal woman you’ve fallen in love with is destined to become fertilized by God tends to have an adverse effect on your ability to focus when you’re having sex.
“Fabio?” says Sara, lying naked on the bed beneath me. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I say, looking down at her. “Why?”
“Because your clothes are still on.”
Call me old-fashioned, but I’m feeling a little uncomfortable taking off my clothes. I know I shouldn’t feel guilty about the idea of initiating sex with Sara, but I can’t help myself. It’s kind of like cheating with your best friend’s girlfriend, only your best friend is the all-powerful creator of the universe.
Sara, on the other hand, doesn’t suffer from any sexual dilemmas and rolls me over, then unzips me and slides my pants and boxers off before she climbs on top of me. I close my eyes and try to enjoy the moment, but my mind keeps wandering to thoughts of Mary and Joseph and little baby Joshua looking at me and shaking his head in disappointment.
Of course, I don’t have any definitive proof that Sara is actually the mother of the next Messiah. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier for me to think about what this means if I’m right. It’s bad enough to think I’m having sex with the future vessel for the Messiah. But I haven’t been able to get rid of the image of Jerry in a black smoking jacket and matching satin bikini briefs, grooving to Barry White singing “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe.”
While Sara continues to ride my man suit, I try to distract myself from thoughts of Mary and Messiahs and Barry White by focusing on Sara and her naked body. But it’s kind of hard to stay focused because I keep imagining Sara filled with the glory of Jerry.
Apparently, Sara notices I’m distracted and glances down at me. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
I nod and smile. “I’m perfect.”
Sara continues to move her hips up and down, watching me. It’s enough to make me tell her the truth, but that would be a bad idea. I mean, come on. If you thought someone was supposed to bear the next Messiah, would you want to be the one to tell them?
“What was Cleopatra like?” asks Sara.
“What?” I say.
“In bed,” says Sara. “Was she any good?”
This is another one of those times when telling the truth is a bad idea.
“Not as good as you,” I say.
Sara smiles, then closes her eyes, increasing her rhythm. “Pretend I’m Cleopatra.”
This isn’t the first time Sara has asked me to imagine she was one of the other mortal women I’ve slept with—Nefertiti, Catherine the Great, Marilyn Monroe. I indulge her because it makes her happy. But it’s bad enough I’ve broken the rules about revealing my identity to Sara. Now I’m role-playing kinky sex with the future mother of the Messiah.
I wonder how this is going to look on my résumé.
CHAPTER 39
In Rockford, Illinois
, there’s an old shopping mall that’s been converted into a church. A religious Christian center, actually. All denominations welcome.
, there’s an old shopping mall that’s been converted into a church. A religious Christian center, actually. All denominations welcome.
Methodists. Mormons. Lutherans.
Baptists. Protestants. Catholics.
Out in front of the church mall, an electronic marquee proclaims:
CHURCH WHEN YOU WANT IT—SEVEN DAYS A WEEK!
The mall used to be home to more than a dozen stores—including a travel agency, a chocolate shop, a Mexican restaurant, and a JCPenney. Now it’s home to more than two hundred thousand square feet of religion.
A mall of faith.
Consumerism as spirituality.
When you walk in through the front doors, you’re greeted not by the smell of Cinnabons or pretzels but by several tables of doughnuts and stainless-steel coffee dispensers. You walk past what used to be a Swiss Colony and a Baskin-Robbins and a Stride Rite and instead you find the Ichthus Christian Book Store, the Garden of Eden Gifts, and the Jesus Christ Superstore.
Here you can buy books and Bibles, crucifixes and crosses, pictures and plaques.
Rosaries, statuaries, and nativities.
Music CDs, posters, and bumper stickers.
You can purchase John the Baptist bobble-head dolls, Moses water fountains, Jesus and Mary key chains.
Guardian angel visor clips, a set of the Twelve Apostles corn-on-the-cob holders, and a complete line of biblical action figures.
Moses. Abraham. Noah.
Judas. Paul. John the Baptist.
Cain and Abel. Samson and Delilah. David and Goliath.
Most of the action figures come from the Old Testament, which makes sense when you think about it. All of the best action and bloodshed took place back before Jerry became a kinder, gentler deity. I mean, what churchgoing preadolescent boy really wants to play the Last Supper or Forty Days in the Desert when he can play Exterminate the Canaanites or the Ten Plagues of Egypt?
My personal favorites are the God Almighty Action Figure with the Hallowed Cloak of Invulnerability and Kingdom Come Kalashnikov AK-47 Assault Rifle. Or the Deluxe Jesus Fighting Action Figure that comes with ninja-Messiah throwing nails and a Death Killer-Cross pump-action shotgun.
Once you make it past the gauntlet of stores peddling religious paraphernalia, you hit the church mall’s courtyard, which used to be filled with fountains and benches and potted plants but is now home to a quartet of fifty-inch flat-screen monitors televising the current sermon being shown in the main auditorium. And all along the halls leading from the mall entrance to what used to be Bergners department store, where consumers once wandered carrying bags filled with shoes and clothes and home accessories, now wander consumers with bags full of Jesus sandals and Shroud of Turin sundresses and Adam and Eve bath towels.
The funny thing is, other than the mass-produced religious symbols being peddled in the stores, there are no crosses or iconic paintings or religious images anywhere else in the church mall.
Finally, when you reach the main auditorium, the converted Bergners department store, you find a cavernous room filled with metal folding chairs with vinyl seats, less than two dozen of them filled, while an evangelist in street clothes stands onstage next to an overhead projector and an eight-foot tall projection screen as he explains a flowchart from God to Jesus.
Most of the not-quite two dozen worshipers are spread out through the first five rows. No one is sitting next to anyone else. The congregation consists of five adulterers, four alcoholics, three unfulfilled housewives, two high-school dropouts, two premature ejaculators, one pedophile, one shoplifter, one crystal meth dealer, and one megalomaniac.
I sit down next to the megalomaniac, who has selected a chair in the back row and is eating a bag of fresh figs while watching the presentation. He’s wearing a white wool overcoat. On the floor next to him are two shopping bags filled with souvenirs and gifts.
“Doing a little Christmas shopping?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Just a few things for the girls in the office,” says Jerry, popping another fig into his mouth before offering me the bag.
“No, thanks,” I say.
I don’t have much of an appetite. Not surprising, considering Jerry texted me on my cell phone this morning and told me he wanted to see me. Now.
I’m wondering why he asked me to meet him here instead of in his office.
If he wants to discipline me, his office is much more private than this. And much more intimidating. Jerry’s not much for making scenes in public or drawing attention to himself.
On the stage, the evangelist is saying that the path to God is through Jesus.
“This guy’s horrible,” says Jerry. “I have half a mind to smite him on principle.”
Apparently, Jerry isn’t in a benevolent mood.
“So,” I say, forcing a smile that feels as contrived as a Hollywood sequel, “what did you want to see me about?”
“Now, what would I want to see you about?” says Jerry, popping in another fig. I hate it when he plays coy. “Well, for starters, how about this?”
On the eight-foot tall projection screen appears an image of me. Grainy. Taken with a cell phone. In a shopping mall in California. It’s up there for a good ten to fifteen seconds, but none of the humans notice. It’s one of Jerry’s talents. I still don’t know how he does it.
On the stage, the evangelist is saying God works in mysterious ways.
“Then there’s also this,” says Jerry.
The next image on the screen is of Cliff Brooks. This must be the “before” picture, since he’s smiling and the lower half of his body hasn’t been devoured by greyhounds.
“And this,” he says.
Cliff Brooks’s smiling face is gone, his image replaced by a picture of George and Carla Baer. Only they’re not smiling.
They’re both dead. Asphyxiated. Strangled. Hanged from the ceiling by leather restraints while wearing matching red rubber ball gags.
“And this.”
The next image on the screen is of Nicolas Jansen wearing his monk’s robe, impaled facedown upon a six-foot decorative cross.
On the stage, the evangelist is saying Jesus died for our sins.
“You’ve made a big mess of things, Fabio,” says Jerry, as several more images of dead humans I tried to help appear in a slide show of mistakes. “Interfering with humans. Path disruption. Multiple premature human fatalities. Not to mention unauthorized public dematerialization and impersonating me.”
The last image is of Cliff Brooks, the “after” picture, his face no longer smiling, his stomach torn open as several starving greyhounds eviscerate him.
I stare at the projection screen, numb, barely aware of my man suit. All of these humans I thought I’d helped, all of these lives I thought I’d improved, all of them dead and ended.
Violently.
Spectacularly.
Ironically.
Before I realize what’s happening, tears are running down my cheeks.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I say, pointing to the projection screen, where the image of the disemboweled Cliff Brooks has been replaced by the Virgin Mary holding her newborn child.
Chalk it up to bad timing.
“I don’t care what you intended to do,” says Jerry. “All I care about are the results. More than half a dozen humans are dead because of your actions. More than three dozen people saw you vanish before their eyes. And more than two hundred million humans saw your image on CNN before we could alter it. Do you realize we have to perform another memory purge because of you?”
Standard procedure for a memory purge is to adjust the truth first, presenting a modified version of events so people believe something other than what actually happened. Not really any different from what governments do on a daily basis. And it’s amazing what can happen when twenty-four-hour news channels pound the general public with misinformation.
Humans tend to believe anything if they see and hear it enough.
So Jerry enlists the aid of Deception and Creativity, who alter the truth. In this case my image, which will end up looking like someone famous. Usually dead. Often mythical. The current default image for a preventive memory purge is Elvis, but we’re going to have to come up with a new one eventually. The man’s been dead for more than thirty years. But then, humans are gullible creatures.
“I warned you there would be consequences if you continued to interfere, Fabio,” says Jerry. “So as of now, you’re suspended without powers, pending a complete investigation.”
“All of my powers?” I ask.
“All of them.”
So no molecular transporting. No cloak of invisibility. No reading fates. I might as well be human, except I can’t die and I have an awesome man suit. Which explains why Jerry wanted to meet me here instead of his office. It’s kind of tough to get back to Earth when you have to take public transportation.
“Who’s doing the investigation?” I ask.
“Integrity and Trust,” says Jerry. “In the meantime, while the investigation is ongoing, Chance will take over your duties.”
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