by Dan Carver
“Had occurred to you at some point. I understand. You’re trying to phrase it in a manner that doesn’t make you sound like a complete lunatic.”
“Er…”
“And you’re wondering how I know. After all, it’s not the kind of thing you let slip in common conversation.”
“It had crossed my mind, Sir.”
“Well, it’s simple really. You see, you talk in your sleep. And I have a woman who writes it down.”
“But?”
“Like Calamari said, we’ve had unpleasant things implanted under your skin. We record your every utterance, Jupiter. Which is how we know about your little chats with Calamine.”
“Oh.” Is that the bottom falling out of my world or the world falling out of my bottom?
“Yes. Oh, indeed. But let’s not worry about Calamine for now. It suits my purpose to leave him at his liberty. But this killing God business…”
Well, if he’s expecting me to elaborate unprompted, he’ll be in for a very long wait. And it’s some time and an awful lot of awkward silence before he takes up the reins again:
“You’ve offloaded all responsibility for your actions on God and now you’re so busy plotting some childish form of revenge you’ve forgotten to engage with your day to day existence. You behave, not because you chose to, but because you’ve exhausted your anger screaming at the heavens.”
I suppose he’s half-right. The half-wrong bit he’ll learn about later. But why am I so prevalent in his thoughts?
He attempts a friendly tone when remarking:
“Certainly knocks the old Oedipus complex into a cocked hat, doesn’t it?! Killing God, I mean. There must be a name for it?”
“ ‘Deicide’, Sir.”
“I knew you’d know it. Rather discredits your ‘quietly ambitious’ pen portrait though. I’d say ‘vaulting psychotic’ might be a more accurate and to the point description.”
“I’m not mad, Sir.”
“Don’t worry, Jupiter, it wouldn’t matter to me if you were. I’m not here to judge you. In fact, I might be in a position to turn your fevered dreams into a reality. You see, I also harbour a dislike for The Almighty and whilst I won’t be rubberstamping intergalactic butterfly nets or deity-sized stunguns, I would be prepared to fund you – should you choose to crush religion here on Earth. I can’t say the money’s great, not when weighed against your immortal soul, but you might find it an enjoyable diversion.”
Well, I’m warming to the idea. My mind is awash with ideas.
“We could run a food-distribution project, a kind-of ‘The Lord doesn’t provide, the State does!’ thing?”
“Yes! Now you’re talking!” he says with a forced enthusiasm – before contributing his true thoughts. “Or something similar... only without the food distribution and featuring sex, perhaps?! You know: like deconsecrating the churches and turning them into bordellos.”
“I feel my solution has more theocratic legitimacy, Sir.”
“Yes. But mine’s more fun.”
Well, you can’t really argue with that. So I don’t. And whilst Malmot’s thinking about rolling around in baptismal pools filled with honey and prostitutes, I’m figuring the practicalities of my new commission.
“Would this be more of a desk-based job?” I ask. Malmot looks at me strangely.
There’s that moment in an earthquake, where the soil rears up like the ridges of the ocean and tears forward like a tidal wave. I like to think of it as a mass grave running down its prey. Imagine those same seismic motions occurring in my stomach. But is it tanks, tectonic plates or the fear of my guaranteed damnation that troubles my gastric tracts? Who knows? Well, God does, but it’s no longer in His interests to tell me.
Malmot takes me aside, his clammy claw on my shoulder. He’s not something you’d want in your personal space and now he’s wrapped round me like a cape.
“You know, Jupiter, as I look at you, I find myself changing my mind. I can’t help thinking you’d be wasted in some propaganda ministry, scribing ‘Ten Good Reasons to Hate Thy God’. I think the future has brighter things in store. You’re not entirely repellent. You have a contrary charisma, rather like a donkey. You owned a donkey, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Sir.” And I take a step back, fearing a lurching fumble. But Destiny has an even crueller fate waiting than a clumsy seduction attempt.
“But I wouldn’t say you look like one. No, you’re more like a weasel. Or, perhaps… Yes, thinking about it, there’s something vulpine about you, something of the fox.”
I could thank him for what I presume are meant to be compliments but I don’t want to encourage him. Whatever he’s getting at, he can get to without my assistance.
“I personally dislike your appearance,” he tells me, and I breath a heavy sigh of relief. “It’s that look of low cunning, like you’re about to tunnel into a chicken coop and scamper away with feathers in your teeth. But I know the general public and I know their preference for people of middling intelligence. Nobody likes a smart arse, after all. And the ladies – the ladies love a hint of danger. And you’ve got it, Jupiter, what with your care home upbringing, your long fingers and your major personality flaws. You’ve no conscience. You’ve killed. I don’t care what they say in polite company, women find that kind of thing sexy!”
“If it’s alright with you, Sir,” I try, “I’d rather not discuss the hanging.”
“Nonsense, Jupiter! It was your finest hour. If you hadn’t proved your worth back then… Well, you’ve served your initial purpose; we were going to have you destroyed. But we saw another side to you there and it set me thinking. And talking to you now, about smacking the smile from God’s smug face, I can see you’ve got a certain fire in your belly, and it occurs to me that we might extend your duties into the public arena.”
Now this is starting to sound ominous.
“Look down, Jupiter. Tell me what you see.”
“Tarmac, Sir.”
“Yes, Jupiter. Tarmac. We’re standing on a runway. Now why, you might ask, would we need a runway?”
“Aeroplanes, Sir.”
“Exactly! But we don’t have any aeroplanes, do we?”
“What about The Phoenix?”
“It exploded on takeoff. But just because we don’t have any aeroplanes now, it doesn’t mean we won’t have any in the near future. And this is where you come in again.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to.” He pauses, looking me up and down. “Ever done any acting?”
“I pass myself off as a decent human being every day.”
“Good answer! Now do me a favour will you: stand up straight, shoulders back and smile like you’re stifling wind.”
I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing, but I do it anyway.
“Now repeat after me: We must crush the jackal of upstart American imperialism beneath the boot heel of English military might!”
“We must crush the jackal of upstart American… Eh? What?” I’m halfway through the sentence before I realise what I’m saying and start to suspect where it’s going.
“Ha hah!” cries Malmot and claps.
“?” I ask with my eyebrows.
“!” he answers with his.
But there are very few nouns in the facial-movement dictionary so we resume verbal communication.
“You’ll be wondering where these aeroplanes are coming from,” he resumes. “Are you familiar with the CIA?”
“The Central Intelligence Agency?”
“The Central Interference Agency more like. You name it, they’ve fiddled with it. I don’t think there’s one part of South America they haven’t funded to overthrow another. And if we look to the Middle East, there’s the arming of the Mujahideen against the Soviets, shoring up the Northern Alliance to fight the Taliban and a couple of decades spent fucking around with Iraq and Iran… I could go on, but we’d be here till morning. I’ve long since stopped seeing the logic in it myself. I susp
ect they pull the names out of a big Uncle-Sam top hat and hold a sweepstake on the outcome.”
“Yes, but I still don’t see how this concerns me.”
“Very simple, my fine young friend. They’re going to fund me to topple you.”
Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually dead. They say we create our own Hells. And with my nasty little mind, well, what could be more unpleasant than the continuation of my own nasty little existence? And then I start wondering how I died and, when no suitable demise springs to mind, I’m forced to conclude that I’m still alive. Such is the case on this occasion.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to do anything particularly complex,” Malmot continues. “I don’t know how you handle responsibility, but I doubt it’s particularly well. No, your job will be to stand on balconies looking grimly determined and saluting.”
“And threatening American interests.”
“There may be an element of that. Yes.”
“And getting shot at, no doubt.”
“There’s probably a large element of that.”
“And what if I don’t fancy it?”
“Then we stick your head on Davenport’s corpse and you do it anyway.”
“Dead?”
“That was the impression I was trying to convey.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. Oh!”
“Then you have my full and wholehearted support,” I growl through gritted teeth.
“Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have the recapture of the capital to plan. I’d be grateful if you’d retire to your quarters and design yourself a uniform.”
“What kind?”
“Black, of course. And don’t forget the hat. I’m thinking ostrich feathers, that sort of thing.”
“But it’ll look ridiculous!”
“No, Jupiter, you’ll look ridiculous. That’s the whole point. The world needs to hate you, and it can start by hating your dress sense. I haven’t time to let your Inner Twat shine through.”
End.
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