And God Belched

by Rob Rosen

  It was now my turn to blink. “God, this is a strange planet.”

  Milo grinned. “It does seem a bit more so, as of late.”

  To which Craig added, “In any case, we’re now on a timer. The portal will close soon. The invasion is underway. Even if we get Tag in there—”

  “And out,” I interjected.

  Craig sighed. “Fine. And out of there. Even if we can accomplish both those things, how are we going to destroy that place?”

  Shrugs appeared atop all our shoulders.

  I looked at the watch, its lights flickering all the while, the glass top still missing. I hoped Tag was multitasking like crazy in there. And, while he was at it, figuring out a way to keep all of us alive, post-boom.

  § § § §

  An hour later, more or less, Tag shimmered back to life—again, more or less.

  “Well?” we asked, now officially bored, as Planet Six only broadcast news and educational programming, and their music was perhaps one notch above nails across a chalkboard. Clearly, Auto-Tune hadn’t been belched into existence on this side of things. Either that or Cureans were tone-deaf—or simply liked the sound of nails scratching across chalkboards. In which case, to each his own.

  Anyway, Tag replied, “I have a plan.”

  “Thank God,” I said.

  Tag nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “Thank God for the paste.”

  I tilted my head. “Huh?”

  Milo turned to me. “The paste is blessed, I believe he’s implying. It is, therefore, holy. And so, to thank God for it would be appropriate.”

  “Holy?” said Craig. “It doesn’t even have much taste. Or color. Unless grey is a color on this planet.”

  “It provides nourishment,” said Cher. “It keeps us alive.” She looked over at Craig. “Your people pray over your food, I believe. Grace, it is called.”

  Yeah, but not in our house. We only prayed during football season. Or at least Dad did. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Got it. And this plan of yours, Tag?”

  “The paste, it’s created by the government, but blessed by monks, men dedicated to God. Monks, therefore, have access to the paste factory. The factory then pumps the paste into the city.” He flashed an image onto the wall. It was a schematic. The government building was highlighted in red, as was the piping that went from the factory to said building. “If we, namely Britney, can break into their system, we will know exactly when the paste leaves the factory and when it is pumped into the government building. Justin Timberlake can then retrieve me.”

  Craig raised his hand in question. “Why can’t we simply give you to Justin Timberlake before he leaves for work?”

  Tag shook his head. “He is scanned before entering the building. If not before all this mess started, then certainly now.” He pointed to the watch. “I, I would be an anomaly. Inside, however, he could wear me without detection. In theory.”

  “In theory?” said my mom.

  Tag shrugged. “It is an assumption on my part.”

  “Probability?” said Craig.

  Tag briefly glowed. “Seventy-nine percent chance that the scan only occurs during entrance to the building.”

  We all shrugged. Considering what we were up against, a twenty-one percent chance of being found out was worth the risk. Though, to be fair, in terms of that part of the plan, it was Justin Timberlake and Tag who would most be in peril. Plus, J.T. still had to agree to retrieve our watch out of the glop.

  “So,” I said, “we need to find the factory, infiltrate the monks, and drop Tag into the paste at just the right time.”

  “Sounds easy enough,” said Milo.

  “It does?” said I, Mom, Dad, Craig, and even Tag, who was the last person I wanted to hear that from.

  Milo nodded. “Wall,” he said, “local monk blessing schedule.”

  And there it was, just like that.

  “Why is that public?” I asked.

  “Blessings are sacred,” replied Tag. “All sacred events are public knowledge. The monks’ schedule is, therefore, made public, should anyone want to attend such an event.”

  “Even in the paste factory?” Mom asked.

  Milo shook his head. “Well, no, because the factory is a government building. Still, one could stand outside the factory and ask for a blessing. A monk must bless anyone or anything that they are asked to bless. It is mandatory.”

  I understood. “On your planet, anything that is asked for is granted, blessings included.”

  The Cureans all nodded. “The government provides,” said Sonny. “We need for nothing.” He was frowning as he said it, as were they all.

  And that I understood as well. To need something, to strive for a goal, that propels life. If you’re given everything you want, there’s nothing to live for. Remove art, remove even the taste from food, and these people were no better than plants, alive but not living, growing but with no growth. Funny how they studied humans, and eventually grew bored with us. Pot, kettle, black, huh?

  “Wall,” I said, “show me a monk.” A monk appeared on the wall. He was wearing clothes similar to my own, though completely in black. Meaning, in seconds, my own clothes looked exactly like theirs; all I had to do was ask for it. “And there you are.”

  Milo smiled, then frowned. He pointed at the wall, at the monk. Or, to be exact, at his head. “Um, you forgot one thing, Randy.”

  I gulped. “You mean, he’s not naturally bald?”

  Milo’s frown sank further on his face. “Z chromosome, Randy. No baldness. We all have…” He shook his mane. He suddenly looked like a L’Oréal commercial. “Luxurious, long hair.”

  Craig laughed. “Wall, razor!” he shouted.

  The wall parted. Out came what looked like an electric razor. Or so I gathered. My gulp repeated. I turned, and Milo was suddenly wearing the same outfit I was. “Don’t worry; you won’t be infiltrating alone.”

  Again, I turned. Dad was also all in black. “I could use a haircut.”

  To which Sonny added, “Hot outside. A little less hair might feel nice.”

  I turned to Craig. “No fucking way, dude. No fucking way,” he said.

  Dad walked over and retrieved the razor. Or at least what looked like a razor. I mean, for all I knew, the wall provided a nuclear reactor. Ask and ye shall receive. Kapow! “You sure about that, son?”

  My little brother sighed. “Just joking, Dad.”

  “Uh-huh,” said my father. “Then you can go first.”

  Ten minutes later, the floor littered with hair, the room was filled with bald men dressed in matching black. We looked like the Alopecia Club for Mormons—sponsored by Rogaine. I looked at the schedule. The blessing of the paste was first thing in the morning.

  “I guess we wait now,” I said, before adding, “Wall, raise temperature two degrees. Suddenly, my head is cold.”

  § § § §

  We left just after the sun yawned its way to life, after Tag made a connection to Sonny’s watch, just like he’d also done to Cher’s, so that they would then be able to connect to J.T. once Tag was no longer in our possession. We walked in a solemn line down the street. Those in the city started work late, leaving our troupe free rein. Silence permeated the area around us, silence save for our marching footsteps.

  We followed Milo, who already knew the way. Tag was tucked into my front pocket, which felt as weird as it sounded. My heart was racing. It felt, after all, like we were being walked to the lion’s den—and dressed like monks, no less. Bald monks!

  We were soon riding on a sidewalk, the buildings growing shorter, squatter, until there was nothing but factories, until there was but one factory, the largest of all of them. It was all metal, no windows, a giant box of a factory that gleamed in the light of day.

  We walked up from the left. Like clockwork, the other monks walked up from the right. They stopped when they spotted us. We, however, continued, until, at last, we were standing in front of them. Milo spoke for the group.

  Loosely trans
lated, he said—or so I was told—something like, “Yo, dudes. Wassup with your monk selves? We’re from City Northeast Twelve. Your neighbors, yo. Our paste factory is on the fritz, so we thought, hey, let’s go bless some nearby paste, seeing as paste blessing is our favorite gig.”

  Um, yeah, like I said, loosely translated.

  In any case, also loosely translated, they replied, “Yo, fellow monk dudes, the more the merrier. Plenty of paste that needs to be blessed this fine morning.” Only, it was without the conviviality and more like a what the fuck do we care? See, these weren’t the jovial kind of monks. I guessed it was because they blessed paste for a living and had to cut off their beautiful tresses.

  Guards soon approached. They saw the monks, including us. They nodded and waved us though. In they went and in we went. They turned one way; we turned the other. My heart slowed down a bit. Phew. Place was so friggin’ huge, too, that there could’ve been five flocks of monks in there, and we never would’ve run into each other.

  There were vats everywhere, giant metal cylinders with enormous tubes flowing into them and out of them, and around these vats, raised high above the floor, was the narrow walkway we found ourselves on. Everything was sterile, white, like Mr. Clean’s version of heaven.

  “Now what?” I asked, just as the watch vibrated in my pocket. I took a peek. I smiled. “Tag says hi,” I whispered. “I think he misses us when he’s not a hologram.”

  The others frowned. “He’s a program,” said my Dad.

  I shook my head. “Programs don’t stop to say hi.” I stared down again. “Oh, and Britney broke into the system. Tag is sending the paste’s coordinates now.” I waited a few seconds. “He says that vat number four-two-eight delivers to the government building, or at least to the building’s coordinates, since the building, in theory, doesn’t exist. Cher’s already been in touch with Justin Timberlake, whose fine with our plan. So long as J.T. orders paste in exactly one hour and thirty-six seconds, and we drop Tag into the vat in exactly twenty-nine minutes, then, per Tag’s calculation, he should be picked up right on time and we’ll be in like Flynn.” Tag suddenly pulsed. “Sorry,” I said, staring down at the device, “and no, there’s no one in our posse named Flynn; it’s just an expression.”

  The others sighed as Milo led us to the correct vat. Dad looked over at me. “And what if we’re a few seconds late, or Justin Timberlake misses the pick-up? Then what happens to your friend?”

  Milo shrugged as we reached the vat, all of us gathering around it. “Tag will be fine. He has a homing device, so I can always find him, if need be. Or, if he’s found by someone else, he’ll be returned.”

  I looked at him nervously. “Are you sure?”

  He grinned, then reached over and stroked my cheek. “Cureans already have everything they need or want, Randy; why would they keep Tag when they can so easily purchase an identical one?”

  I supposed he had a point, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I loved Milo, but, truth be told, I loved Tag, too. Sure, not in the same way. I mean, I knew that Tag was just a fancy watch, and all, but he was my friend as well. Meaning, dropping him into the vat wasn’t going to be easy.

  I stared at the watch, at my friend. I smiled at the inanity of the idea. “You’ll be okay, Tag.”

  Tag’s lights blinked. “I do not fear, Randy; neither should you.”

  There was a valve near to where I was standing. Tag blinked some more, a concentrated beam of orange quickly shooting out and down. Seconds later, the valve popped open, a swirl of gray visible from within.

  My grin went lopsided. We then waited for the exact right second before I raised my hand, the watch dangling from my fingers. I looked to the others, who were all nodding my way. I gulped as I dropped the device into the vat. Poof, it was gone.

  Milo walked over and patted my shoulder. “He’ll be fine, Randy,” he said. “Justin Timberlake will be there to retrieve him. Tag will get the information we need to destroy the portal. Your world will be safe.”

  I stared into his mesmerizing orbs of blue, my belly doing somersaults all the while. “Yeah, but how can you be sure?”

  He shrugged. “With all the billions of people in your world, I found you. You found me as well. You jumped between universes to find me, in fact. You even rescued me from certain death. There are no calculable odds for all these things occurring.” He smiled and tousled my hair. “So yes, I’m certain that everything will be fine. How can it not be?”

  I again stared at the opening just beneath my hand, at the churning grey within. I shut the valve and turned back Milo’s way. My smiled joined his. “Well, when you put it that way.”

  Craig, as per usual, rolled his eyes. “Can we please get out of here now? It’s, one, probably not great karma impersonating a monk and, two, not such a swell idea to press our luck by hanging around jabbering.”

  “I’m not jabbering,” I replied.

  Craig sighed. “You say potato.”

  I stared at my naked wrist. Tag, I knew, would’ve been utterly confused by Craig’s comment. Thankfully, I was utterly confused enough for the both of us.

  § § § §

  I’d like to say we made it back without incident. Actually, I’d love to say that. Actually, I would’ve given anything to say such a thing. Sadly, such was not the case.

  “Halt!” said one of the guards. Or, you know, it sounded like something along those lines. I mean, he was screaming at us, and his hand was held up in a halt kind of way.

  “Run!” Sonny shouted.

  Which was easier said than done. Mostly because there were now three guards all screaming what sounded like halt, all with their hands held up in a halt kind of way. Plus, there were vats everywhere, and the walkway was narrow, and there were three guards shouting at us as they closed in, weapons raised.

  In other words, we halted, hands up in an I surrender kind of way. Or maybe make that don’t shoot, I surrender kind of way.

  I looked at Milo, eyes wide, sweat forming atop my forehead. “Are you still sure everything will be alright?”

  He shrugged. “Uh, not so much, no.”

  We were surrounded in mere moments. Oh sure, we outnumbered them, but they had the guns, so, you know.

  “Don’t shoot!” I shouted.

  They squinted our way. Milo translated. They aimed their weapons at our chests.

  “Translate better,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.

  “There’s no better way to say don’t shoot,” he whispered back. He frowned. “We’re wanted men. They must recognize us. Killing us would win them major points with the government.”

  “What about turning us in instead?” I tried.

  He looked at the guards and seemed to volley that idea around. They volleyed something back. Milo again looked my way. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, his frown was just about to his shoulders. “To clarify: we’re wanted dead or alive. Dead, they said, would be easier.”

  I gulped as that aforementioned sweat trickled down my brow and promptly stung my eyes. I thought to rub those aforementioned eyes, but my hands were still raised in a don’t shoot us kind of way. “Tell them that the government means to leave this universe and invade ours. They’ll be left here to die,” I said.

  Milo translated. They replied. Milo’s frown didn’t so much as move a muscle.

  “What did they say?” Craig asked from my opposite side.

  “They feel sorry for our universe, they said,” replied Milo as a hopeful expression briefly flowered across my face. “Still, they’re going to kill us, and pray that some Earthling food makes it back their way, post-invasion.” Yeah, that hopeful expression of mine grew weedy and promptly withered.

  Their weapons were cocked—the bad kind of cocked. I squeezed my eyes tight, tears streaming between the lids. Think of something, Randy, I thought to myself. Think of something!

  Ping! I thought of something. Miracle of miracles.

  I opened my eyes. I dropped my hands to my s
ides. I stood there, all arms-akimbo-like, and proclaimed, “I am the savior!” They hadn’t a clue what, to quote Craig, I was jabbering about. I waved my hand to Milo, and added, “Tell them. Tell them what I said.”

  He shrugged and dropped his hands, then also stood, all arms-akimbo-like, and apparently repeated what I’d said, only in Cureal.

  Time stood still during that brief moment when their collective synapses synapsed. Then, plink, plink, plink. Which was the sound of their weapons hitting the metal walkway. Then, boom, boom, boom. Which was the sound of my heart getting ready to explode.

  “I am the savior!” I repeated.

  “Oh brother,” said Craig.

  I grinned. “That would be me.” I turned to the others. “Seems they’ve heard about me.”

  Dad grinned. “Thank God.”

  Sonny nodded. “Yes, what he said.”

  Milo held his hands in what looked like a prayer, and then said some words that sounded like a prayer. I think he was indeed thanking God. Good idea, right?

  Craig then rolled his eyes, and repeated, “Oh brother.”

  I nodded as I turned to Milo. “Ask if they’ll let us go now.”

  He asked. The guards looked at one another, seemed to confer, then replied. FYI, I didn’t need a translation because, while they didn’t kill us, they also didn’t let us go.

  Which is why we found ourselves locked in a room not five minutes later.

  “What happened?” asked Craig, pointing my way. “I thought he was the savior. I thought they, yuck, venerated him.”

  Milo nodded. “They do. Which is why they didn’t kill him. Still, to let him go would’ve been illegal, the punishment: violent death.”

  “So, now what do we do?” asked Dad as he looked around. It was a short look, by the way. The room was small, all white, not even a stick of furniture. Then again, everything was all metal around those parts. In other words, no sticks of anything.

  “Chair,” I said. A chair sprung up from beneath me. I sat. “Water,” I said. A tray of water slid forth from the wall. I stood and retrieved it, then took a sip. “Gun,” I said. Nothing sprung or slid. I shrugged. “Well, I tried.” I looked around. “Any other ideas?”