Just to See Hell

by Chandler Morrison

  “Wipe away your mournful tears, my children,” the bearded man said as he came upon the gathered group. “This young man is not lost, for Death shall not claim him this day.”

  The priest had stopped reading, and all eyes were now fixed on this unwelcome newcomer, whom several of the group had concluded must be a stray vagrant with a booze-addled brain and an inexcusable lack of respect for this exclusively private ceremony.

  “Behold, all of you,” the man continued, “I stand before you as the Earthly body of your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, risen once more to lead the faithful to the Promised Land. Observe now as I return life unto young Lawrence Lazlo, taken so tragically before his time.”

  Angry whisperings among the crowd had begun to circulate, with a number of the male mourners conferring with each other in regards to the potential (and forceful, inevitably) removal of the surprise guest, for lack of a better term.

  The man claiming to be Christ came forth and stood before the dark rectangle of the new grave, holding his holey hands out and looking slightly upward into the stormy gray clouds. A splintered bolt of white-blue lightning streaked across the sky and brightly illuminated Christ’s face, wet with rain and flushed from the damp cold.

  “Lawrence Lazlo,” Jesus began, “son of Harold Lazlo and Juliet Beecher-Lazlo, may you now RISE from your wooden tomb and beset these mourners with the purest joy at your return. I command this in the name of God the Father, ruler of Heaven and Earth!”

  Everyone was dead silent, eyes shifting from the robed man to the coffin and then back to the man. The coffin remained sealed tightly shut, unmoved, with no signs of restored life from within.

  Jesus looked down into the grave at the still and silent coffin, a flicker of nervous doubt flashing across his bearded face. He cleared his throat and raised his hands higher over his head, exclaiming loudly, “LAWRENCE LAZLO, I COMMAND THEE TO COME DOWN FROM THE HEAVENS AND RETURN TO YOUR EARTHLY BODY, IN THE NAME OF THE LORD!”

  Nothing.

  Jesus, now looking most uncomfortable and perhaps even somewhat embarrassed, cleared his throat again and was about to commence another increasingly futile command when two men…Larry’s father and uncle, both of them tall and of not inconsiderable weight…seized him by the arms and dragged him away from the black circle of distraught mourners. Before he could utter a word in his defense, his stomach and face were blasted with a flurry of hard fists as the two men struck at him again and again, until he was knocked off his feet and sent tumbling backward, rolling down the steep muddy hill. His head caught the blunt edge of a large rock towards the bottom of the hill, sending a flash of searing white pain into his skull before the world around him went ever grayer and he shut his eyes and let numbed unconsciousness claim him, no longer feeling the rain on his face as he lay there bruised and bleeding in the soft, slushy wet grass.

  Atop the hill, still unnoticed by the others, the pale man smiled darkly.

  When Jesus awoke, the rainclouds had parted and given way to a clear blue sky with bright, early-afternoon sunshine that beat pleasantly down upon him and warmed his bloodied face. He sat up, his head throbbing and spinning, and looked around dazedly. The morning’s events flooded back to him in a rush of pained and confused images, and he was filled with renewed dismay at his failed attempt at a miraculous display of holy prowess.

  It’s been a while, he told himself silently as he got shakily to his feet, his sandals slipping slightly in the mostly-dried mud. I’m just rusty, that’s all. Resurrection is probably too big a task with which to begin. I’ll start off with something smaller and then go from there. Nothing to worry about.

  Once out of the mud, he got to his knees and said a quick prayer to his father, asking for strength, and then got back up and looked around, trying to decide where to go next. To his left lay dreary and downtrodden Jubilee Street, but he knew all too well what sin dwelt there, and he figured that it wasn’t the best place to begin his search for devout followers to be ushered into the Promised Land before the initiation of Rapture, so he headed off in the other direction towards the town square.

  He received raised-eyebrow sideways glances from passersby, but other than that he was paid little attention. He was aware that his appearance left something to be desired…mud-caked robes, bruised face smeared with dried blood, hands and feet pierced with gaping holes…but no matter, for soon all would be witness to his divine might, and the faithful would flock to him, and praise him and fall to their knees to kiss his muddy feet.

  After passing the town municipal center and the neighboring fire department, Jesus spotted something that was perfectly suited to his current needs…a large stone fountain, with crystal clear water shooting high into the air and falling back down into a wide round basin filled with the glittering coins of the wishful. A few mothers stood scattered around it with their children, smilingly tossing pennies into the shimmering water.

  Jesus smiled, for he knew this would be an easy task.

  He came forward and stood upon the edge of the fountain, raising his arms over his head proclaiming, “Hear ye good people of Millhaven, I am your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, returned to Earth to gather those who rightfully claim me.”

  The mothers nervously pulled their children away from the fountain, regarding Jesus with apprehensive expressions. Groups of pedestrians stopped to watch this surely-crazed man, keeping safe distance lest he be a dangerous escapee from the somewhat nearby Anson Asylum.

  “Observe, all of you, and quake with wonder as I use my heavenly powers to turn this water into wine!” Jesus cried, and then promptly stepped down into the fountain’s basin, almost slipping on the carpet of coins. He fell to his knees, plunged his holed hands into the water, and shouted to the sky, “O Lord, Heavenly Father full of glory, give unto me the power to turn this water to wine!”

  A hushed silence came over the onlookers as…

  Nothing happened.

  Jesus stood up, frowning, and waved his hands over the water. “Obey my command, O water, and turn thyself to wine!”

  Still nothing. The observers began to walk away, casting anxious glances back at what they perceived to be no more than a raving lunatic, likely under the influence of powerful hallucinogens.

  “SUBMIT TO MY HEAVENLY MIGHT!” Jesus bellowed, kicking and splashing angrily about in the water as any remaining stragglers hurried away. The water remained unchanged.

  Defeated, Jesus sat down miserably in the water and buried his face in his wet hands. “My God,” he whimpered quietly, “why hast thou forsaken me?”

  He walked off aimlessly down the sidewalk, ignoring gawking glances from the perplexed drivers of the cars that trundled along the poorly-maintained road. Now sopping wet in addition to his prior-attained attributes of unkempt disarray, he looked more like a homeless wretch than ever.

  He kept his head down, deep in thought, pondering what could possibly be the problem. His head throbbed painfully with frustrated concentration, and his every step was punctuated by the sickly squishing noise of his feet pressing into his soaked sandals. The sun was beginning to set on the purple dusk horizon over Jubilee Street, thus offering little warmth with which to dry his dripping robes. His long wet hair felt cold against his neck, and it was beginning to take on somewhat of a frizzy quality as the moisture slowly evaporated from the knotted tangles of the mane that had been luscious and sleek just that morning.

  As he trudged sullenly forward, head hanging low, he nearly bumped into an old man and stepped aside just in time to narrowly avoid a collision. The man walked with a slow, hunched gait, with a long white cane waving back and forth in front of him like some cautionary metronome. His liver-spotted skull was capped with a crown of slicked-back platinum hair, his face grizzled with patchy white stubble. Perched over his eyes was a pair of enormous black sunglasses that caught the sly glint of the setting sun upon their lenses and reflected it back at Jesus’ wounded face.

  “Watch where yer goin, kid,” the old man
grunted. “Just ’cause I can’t see you don’t mean I don’t know you just about ran me down there.”

  Jesus did not at first reply, for he was silently thanking God for what he was sure was a sign from the Heavens; certainly this man had been placed in his path so that he could restore his sight and thereby prove his holiness. After all, it was quite perfect, wasn’t it? Making the blind man see? It was so classic it bordered on cliché, but Jesus knew all of beggars and their inability to choose, so he said to the blind man, “Hear me, blind man, for I am your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and I shall now bestow unto you the gift of restored sight!”

  The blind man regarded him with a long, drooping frown. “You tryin to be fuckin funny, punk? You think it’s funny to make fun of old blind men?”

  Jesus raised his hands and inclined his head towards the sky, ignoring the man’s accusatory inquiry. “Father,” he said in his mightiest voice, “I ask that you give me the power to grant this man sight, so that he may once again behold the beauty that is life and all of the tangible gifts you have so graciously set upon this world!” He waited a moment, and when he was reasonably confident that he had the power which he had requested, he pointed his fingertips at the blind man and cried, “Blind man, I command thee to SEE!”

  The old man stood there, face darkening and frown lengthening, and then a low, guttural growl emitted from his pale lips. With speed and deftness surprising for a man of his advanced age, he thrust his cane forward and jabbed it into Christ’s stomach, causing him to double over and blurt out a coughing, gasping moan. Without giving him time to recover, the man then swung the cane in a whistling arc that struck Jesus on the side of his face, hard enough to break the skin and draw blood. Almost as if in continuance of the same motion, the cane curved downward and cracked against Jesus’ leg, sending him down to his knees. He clapped a hand to his bleeding face, blood running through the hole in his palm, and then the blind man delivered a final blow to his rib cage. Jesus felt something in his chest crack, and he collapsed onto his side, wheezing and weeping.

  “That oughta teach you a little respect, you sick prick,” the old man said venomously before spitting a great green glob of phlegmy mucus onto Christ’s blood-and-mud-spattered face. “Just ’cause I can’t see don’t mean I don’t know how to whup some ignorant little punk’s ass. Now go fuck yerself, kid.” He stood a moment longer over his defeated victim, and then he turned and continued along his way, cane swinging innocently back and forth in front of him as if its violent secondary purpose had been completely forgotten.

  Jesus rolled over onto his back and looked up at the ever-darkening sky. “My Lord,” he said, “I have failed you.”

  There then came the sudden sound of slow, leisurely footsteps drawing near, and a long and lanky shadow fell over him. A voice, presumably belonging to the owner of the aforementioned footsteps and shadow, said in a sticky smooth tone, “That, my friend, is where you are mistaken. You have failed no one. On the contrary, God has failed you.”

  Jesus propped himself up on his elbow and squinted up at the figure above him. He was lean and handsome, with stylishly tousled dark hair and a pale, elegant face rendered slightly rugged by stubbly facial hair. His eyes were a molten black, just a shade or two lighter than his pinprick pupils, and the teeth revealed in his snarky, shark-like grin were bright and sparkling, aligned in rows so perfect that even the best of oral surgeons couldn’t possibly hope to replicate. His trim figure was adorned with the most extravagant of attire; his long legs were clad in torn Dusault jeans, his feet in shining pointed cowboy boots, and he wore a pinstriped Armani sport jacket over a white silk shirt that Jesus guessed was either Gucci or Versace.

  “What do you mean?” Christ asked hoarsely, still lying on the ground. “My heavenly Father could never fail me. It is He who…”

  “Save it,” the man said, rolling his eyes and procuring a pack of Dunhill cigarettes from his jacket. He lit one and then offered the pack to Jesus, who shook his head in refusal as he gathered himself to his feet. “Your pops fucked you, dude. Period, end of story.”

  Jesus started to retort, but the pale stranger held up a manicured hand to silence him. “Listen, J.C., this really is a conversation for which you should be sitting down.” No sooner had he said this than a sleek black Rolls Royce stretch limousine pull up to the curb. The man opened the rear door and gestured for Jesus to enter into its plush leather interior.

  Jesus stared stolidly at the man, biting the inside of his cheek. “I know you,” he said, making no motion to get into the vehicle. “I’ve seen you somewhere, though not in the form you now present yourself.”

  The man just smiled.

  Jesus gasped. “Lucifer,” he breathed, taking a step back.

  Smile widening, the dark man said, “Yes, yes, as heads is tails you may call me such, but only because I’m in need of some…restraint. Just please, I must request that you not say it too loudly in the company others, because we really don’t want to incite a panic.”

  “I shall go nowhere with you, serpent, so fear not how I refer to you.”

  The devil dragged from his Dunhill and cocked his head. “I have answers to your questions,” he said.

  “You have only lies.”

  Wispy tendrils of smoke curled from Lucifer’s nostrils as his smile remained unchanged upon his pale face. “Oh, come off it, old sport. All that biblical bullshit is old news, so you can drop the holier-than-thou attitude. This is the twenty-first century, man…haven’t you heard that we’re all equal?” He sniggered condescendingly.

  “I want no part in your temptations and treachery.”

  Lucifer sighed and his face grew serious and somber. “Listen,” he said, “have you talked to God today? Or, rather, has He talked to you?”

  Jesus did not reply.

  “Yes, I thought not. I offer you neither temptation nor treachery, just merely a bit of friendly conversation, seeing as how your dear old dad is obviously too busy to give you even that. You have my word that I won’t pull any of the stunts that I did when you were doing your silly little soul-searching shindig out in the desert however many years ago. Just talk, I promise. Man to man. Like I said…you have questions, I have answers.”

  “Your assurances mean even less than the putrid air upon which you deliver them from your wretched snake tongue, Satan. Your so-called promises bring only death and damnation, of which I have no interest.”

  “Cut that shit out, seriously. I’m really not that bad. What it comes down to is that you have two options…one, you can keep splashing around in fountains yelling at the sky and getting the shit beat out of you by blind old men, or two, you can come with me for a brief ride and I’ll explain everything to you. If, when I am finished providing you with the answers you seek, you still wish to go about your merry way, you will receive no protest from me.”

  Jesus was not accustomed to temptation, so when he did indeed begin to feel tempted by Satan’s offer, he was scarcely even privy to it. He was scared and confused, downtrodden by his mysterious failures, so he wasn’t quite in his optimal frame of mind. He was certain that his father would give him holy hell for such a grievous transgression as agreeing to get into a limousine with the devil, but at the same time, what else was there to do? He’d tried all day to carry out his father’s wishes, yet was yielded only with humiliation. Jesus was used to having all of God’s power at his very fingertips; now, all he felt was the soul-crushing fragility of his decidedly human self.

  “You’ve already made up your mind,” the devil said, dropping his cigarette to the sidewalk and crushing it beneath the scuffed heel of his boot. “You can stand here all night juggling with moralistic doubts, but we both know that they’re really just formalities and that you have internally accepted my invitation. Now you’re just looking for some sort of justification before you verbalize it.”

  “Father will be so disappointed in me.”

  Lucifer cackled rudely. “What are you, eight? You af
raid you’re gonna miss curfew? Worried you might get grounded, or something? Puh-leeze, get your shit together and grow the fuck up.”

  Jesus looked past Lucifer at the inside of the limo, sighing and gathering himself to his feet. “I shall grant you ten minutes, beast. Tell me what you claim you can tell me, shed light upon my peculiar predicament, and then allow me to take my leave.”

  “As you wish, your holiness. Ten minutes is all I require.”

  With reluctance, Jesus clambered into the car, and the devil followed suit.

  “Drink?” Lucifer offered, lighting another cigarette and filling a tumbler with Jim Beam (Devil’s Cut, further proving cliché to be alive and well) as the car surged smoothly forward.

  Jesus, seated across from him, shook his head, and said haughtily, “I do not imbibe liquor.”

  Satan shrugged and replied, “Suit yourself, though the offer stands, because I suspect you may change your mind after you hear what I have to say.”

  “Speak, devil, and make haste. I haven’t time for your repeated attempts at temptation.”

  “Actually, you have nothing but time,” said the devil, his eerie black eyes twinkling in the scant light of the dark interior of the limousine.

  “You don’t; you have ten minutes, do not forget.”

  Satan rolled his black eyes. “Listen, the long and short of it is this…you have been stripped of your powers. You are as equipped to perform miracles as the dirtiest sinner in Sodom ever was. You are, I’m sad to say, human, and nothing more.”

  Jesus’ face flushed with anger. “And what wickedness of yours is responsible for this?”

  The devil let forth another devious cackle. “Oh, how misguided you are. I have taken nothing from you. The party responsible for your powerlessness is none other than your beloved father.”