Now, God is the antithesis of a good guy. What hero messes around with another man’s wife and impregnates her, and then sends her back to her husband? Not only that, but the husband must find a place to have the kid and raise him. Wouldn’t it make sense for God to at least give them a house, or child support?
Then, the Almighty lets his kid be crucified. Why? Not because of anything the kid did, but because of God’s prediction of the sins people would do in the future. I guess God forgot about having the Devil around to torture folks for that exact purpose. I can see the Devil watching and thinking, Hey, remember me? Remember what I’m here for? You can let the kid live. Oops, guess not.
But, somehow, God’s made into a hero and is worshiped by all Christians. Sounds like an Alfred Hitchcock movie, doesn’t it? But, enough on that. My take on this whole thing is probably why I keep ending up back in Hell.
One of my previous owners, the illustrious Frederick P. Tyler, prided himself on being a religious man. He was raised in a Christian home and never forgot the values of that upbringing. He was one of the few in business to incorporate his religious belief system into his daily tasks, instead of using the common methods of backstabbing and office butt kissing.
Frederick prospered during the early days of computer companies. In fact, he had even been named Managing Director of a small corporation. He prospered, went in debt on an extravagant home and expensive cars, and tithed more than generously to his church. Things couldn’t have been better.
At least, that was his life before the company was bought out by a huge competitor. Of course, Frederick lost his job and was sent packing. Bill collectors did their jobs well, and soon he had lost his home, cars, and pride. We were out on the street. You know, the rags to riches story in reverse.
Having no other choice, Frederick approached the preacher and asked for the church’s help. A special collection was held to help him. At the end, a check for $13.82 was presented him. Faith in God and his fellow church members didn’t dwindle, it vanished completely.
One of the members of the congregation let us live in an old shed he had beside his home. It wasn’t much, but it did have a wood burning stove to keep us warm. I had mice to eat, but my owner had to beg for his food. I tried offering him a mouse or two I’d caught, but he didn’t seem interested.
Frustration of his plight grew. I watched him, a particular cold Sunday morning, cry out in desperation, “Devil, hear my words. Oh, Satan you bastard, if you’ll make me wealthy again you can have my soul. I want vengeance on those who have snubbed their noses during my time of need. Hear me, Devil, I’m yours if you’ll appease my yearning for revenge!”
I thought the flue had stuck on the stove pipe. Smoke filled the room and the familiar smell of sulfur hit my nostrils. The sounds of maniacal laughter and tortured screams—needing some sincere volume adjusting—accompanied the entrance of an old friend, the honorable Judge Clifford Richford.
Seeing me, a smile crossed the judge’s face and his warm hand lay upon my back as he had done several times in the past. I always liked this guy, even if he had sentenced hundreds of innocent people to be hanged back in the 1800’s. He had charisma!
“Mr. Tyler, I presume,” he announced, returning his attention to my owner. “My master sends his regrets that he is unable to attend your internment but guarantees he will be available later to welcome you. I am his servant, Judge Clifford Richford, and well acquainted with the process to ensure all terms of the agreement will meet with your satisfaction. I understand that revenge upon a specific congregation is your request. Is that correct?”
My owner’s mouth hung open for almost a minute after the judge had spoken. The pressure brought about by this silence was an old trick perfected by the judge and used by politicians and salespersons for over a century. Ask a question and allow silence to pressure an answer. The first person to speak is the loser. The judge was the master, planting a smile on his face and standing quiet.
Finally, my owner closed his mouth and spoke, “Yes, I want revenge on the hypocrites of the church congregation that preach brotherhood and goodwill but refuse me both.”
“Excellent,” whispered the judge. “We have come up with a wonderful plan. If to your liking, would you execute it without remorse?”
“I’m listening. Tell me about it.”
Planting himself down upon one of the larger fire logs, the judge outlined the entire scheme. Asking closed ended questions in a manner that only allowed “Yes” as a response, he quickly closed the deal.
I watched as the judge pricked Frederick’s index finger and acquired his blood signature upon the contract. I could have warned my owner that he needed to read the whole contract before signing, but the judge had already read my thoughts and recommended that I reconsider. Knowing I’d probably be back in Hell awaiting my next life, I decided my silence would be the best thing.
“Yes, yes, that’s truly excellent,” the judge commented as he stuck the contract inside his coat pocket. “Now, go to sleep tonight. When you awaken tomorrow, your life will be forever changed. I will be looking forward to seeing you in the future. Until then, enjoy your new life!”
And, with that, the judge walked over, gave me a final pet, and disappeared.
My owner did as he’d been told. A log on the fire, lights turned out, and off to bed he went. Sleep carried him away within seconds. I lay by the stove, listening to the wood crackle in the flames, questioning what it would take to have a normal master. Things always started good, but never ended that way.
A rapping at the door woke Frederick and myself the next morning, Loud and merciless, it continued until my owner arose and answered it.
“Frederick, sorry to wake you but I have an opportunity I hope you’ll be interested in taking,” rattled out the preacher of my owner’s church. “My beloved secretary passed away late last night, and I am in dire need of a person that has accounting and communication skills. It doesn’t pay much, but it would get you out of this shed and into a small home owned by the church. Your rent would be free, and you’d have money to eat and clothe yourself. I’d love to have you in the position. Please, tell me “Yes” so I can tell the deacons the position has been filled.”
Affirming he’d take the job, he was informed the church would put him up in a hotel for a week while the previous secretary’s personal items were gathered and removed by her family. He’d also get a month’s salary as a sign on benefit to help him get situated. It took us all of fifteen minutes to gather up our things and get to the hotel. They didn’t like having me there but finally agreed at the insistence of my owner and the preacher.
For me, it was a long week. My owner spent his days working at the church and I slept most of the time. Being a fairly clean place to stay, it was free of mice, which meant canned food for me every night. It’s not bad stuff, but the fun of the chase, the crunching of bones, and the taste of fresh blood was missing. Besides, regardless of what the label says, it all tastes like chicken.
At the end of the week, we moved into the previous secretary’s house. As luck would have it, she must have been a cat lover. Conveniently, there was a cat entrance by the backyard door. I could come and go as I pleased, catch a mouse or bird when I wanted, and lounge in the sun during the day. I must say, it was a nice change from the old shed.
Frederick attended every Sunday church service and Wednesday night prayer meetings. He’d come to the house afterward, laughing about those that had denied him and how they once again accepted his attendance. I learned his contract with the Devil gave him untold knowledge of the Bible and that he could quote any passage without error.
Amazed at this ability, the preacher asked him to assist with the writing of Sunday sermons. Before long, Frederick was writing them on his own. Word of his talent spread. In times of the preacher’s absence, Frederick was asked to perform the services for the congregation. When cancer caused the premature death of the preacher, Frederick was unanimously chosen as the ch
urch’s new minister—an honor as he was void of any formal teachings.
All was going according to plan.
We moved into preacher’s residence. It was huge. It took forever to cover my daily curiosity walk through the house. Frederick, having been secretary, convinced the elders to allow him to keep that position as well as minister, and retain the salaries of both. The church purchased him a new car to visit the bedridden and provided a clothing allowance to look presentable when welcoming new attendees.
As the congregation multiplied, he began to receive a large percentage of the offerings. They went in deep debt for a larger building and filled it with all the modern lecture devices to make his sermons more entertaining. As Frederick’s bank account grew, he had no qualms of taking the church further and further into debt.
Late getting home one evening, he grabbed me up and swung me around while proclaiming, “I did it. Old Mrs. Kendall will be the first to fall. Her husband refused to give me a job or give me a penny when I was down. He’d be turning over in his grave if he knew I just had his wife sign over her estate to the church when she dies. Little does she know that’s going to happen soon. I’ll see to it.”
Two weeks later, while making his rounds, Frederick returned to the Widow Kendall’s house. With no answer at the front door, he went around to the back and found the door smashed open. Calling the police, they entered and found her naked body rotting away in the bathtub. Hiding his smile with a white handkerchief, Frederick officiated at the funeral.
Accidents began happening to the older members of the congregation. A deacon was found run over by his tractor, another fell off a ladder in his store and crashed into a glass display case—his carotid artery severed on the jagged edges. One member was crushed as a stack of lumber fell upon him at the sawmill. All accidents, but suspicious in nature.
Children of the original members found their lives in jeopardy as well. Two were found drowned in a river they’d never swam in before. Another was trampled by a spooked horse while practicing in a field behind the church. And a young boy died of multiple snake bites while fishing. He’d been found with a can of baby copperheads, one attached to the hook of his cane pole. He must have thought they were worms. (Where do you think the urban legend started, anyway?)
Only the children of Jeremy Fulk were spared. Jeremy was a poor man that had gone without lunch for a week by contributing his last ten dollars to Frederick’s special offering.
Fifteen years passed quickly. I had never lived so long in one life, but I was getting old and knew my life was coming to an end. I’d grown too slow to catch mince, canned food had lost its attraction, and all I did was sleep in the sun.
At the end of a particularly warm December day, I woke to the smell of smoke and sulfur. Memories of a good friend brought a smile to my face. Opening my eyes, I spied Judge Richford sitting on the other end of the couch. Reaching over, he began rubbing the underside of my neck. My purrs were automatic.
“So, Gabriela, you’ve had a pretty good life, haven’t you?”
“Not too shoddy this time. It was a little rough at the start, but things got better after Frederick signed up with you.”
“You do realize you’re going back to Hell, don’t you? Keeping quiet about the contract was a major sin and put you in league with the Devil. You won’t have to wait long to be reborn, though. We appreciate your help and will move you to the front of the line.”
I dreaded the trip back. Never being a fan of hot weather, Hell was not my idea of a vacation paradise. I didn’t mind lying in the sun, but I was an air conditioning girl at heart. Plus, the food they served was too spicy and always gave me gas. That never made those behind me in line very happy.
I was curious as to why the judge was here. Surely, he didn’t come back just for me. I was going to ask but procrastinated. I saw no hurry to rush my exit.
His soft petting had almost put me back to sleep when my owner walked in the house. “Let’s pack up girl. Time to go. I just took the last of the church’s money. We need to be long gone when the bank finds all the loans they made won’t be paid back. They’ll confiscate the building and turn it into a shopping plaza. This is the moment I’ve waited on for years!”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” the judge spoke out as Frederick entered the living room. “It’s nice that you’re satisfied that we completed our part of the contract. Now, it’s time for you to complete yours.”
I’ve never seen my owner move so fast. He was out the door before the judge stopped rubbing my neck. Judge Richford and I returned nods, and I blacked out. You guessed it, I woke up at the head of the line back in Hell. He was indeed a man of his word.
* * * * *
As Gabriela rose and stretched, I stopped her. “Hey, as lame as that story was, don’t you dare leave without finishing. What happened to your owner?”
“Oh, Frederick? He was in an auto accident only minutes after he’d left the house. Seems he found a snake in his car that distracted his attention and ran into a tractor. The impact sent his car into the river where he crashed through the windshield and bled to death as the water filled his lungs. Or, maybe he drowned before bleeding to death. Try to run out on a contract with the Devil and he’ll make you suffer, that’s for sure. A contract is a contract, especially when it’s signed in front of a judge. There is one thing I can tell you. If you screw around with God and his churches, he’s not gonna save you from the Devil. Frederick is in Hell listening to his sermons over and over for eternity. Can you imagine, listening to the same old thing forever? Sure you want to take a chance and miss services today?”
They weren’t as bad as I thought they’d be.
Part Two
Hello, Gabriela here. There is no real Part One or Part Two, so don’t go looking for the Part One page. It’s not there.
I thought you could use a break, you know, like the “Intermissions” Hollywood used to put in the middle of those long, boring movies. You know they did that for the older members of the audience? Folks like your grandparents that couldn’t hold their pee. They didn’t want them to miss any of the boredom. (They also didn’t want them to forget to zip back up and freak out the rest of the audience with uncovered body parts.)
Anyway, go take a bathroom break if you need and come right back. Some of these upcoming stories might be something you can relate to, especially if you’re reading this on your phone or computer, or if you’re stuck with a grandparent that never remembers your name.
“So, what’s next?”
“I’m growing tired talking about myself. Last time I was in Hell, I heard a few good stories, ones that had to do with people in today’s world, instead of long ago. Want to hear them?”
“Are they scary?”
“Yes and no,” she said, winking as she continued. “I find that reality can be as scary as big bad monsters at times. I also find that I don’t have to be freaked out to be scared. You know, like the old television shows that held you in suspense and you accepted their strangeness in the end, wondering why it messed with your mind.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t you share a few with me and my readers and we’ll give you our opinion later?”
It was all she needed to start talking.
REMEMBER
Paralyzing pain locked her arms, making it impossible to fight back as the blade skirted across the top of her rib, sinking deep into a lung. She inhaled, hearing the oxygen escape through the wound as the blade was pulled free. She wanted to scream, but there wasn’t time. Again, the blade entered her body, this time by her heart, missing it by the smallest of distances. Finding strength, she tried to fend off the next attack. The cold steel sliced through her hand, cutting muscles and tendons as it was torn upward, only to be thrust into her stomach.
She knew she was dying. In seconds, life would be over. Falling to her knees, she leaned forward, praying to a deaf god. No miracle was he sending. A final swing and the blade
entered from the back, traveling through the body to sink into the backside of heart. In seconds the pain departed—so had her soul.
This had been easy, too easy. The girl had been quick to trust, so anxious to believe her benefactor was caring, gentle, and good. Now, her decapitated head was tossed into a standard green garbage bag, joined within the hour by her arms and legs. Placing the torso in another, the bags were positioned on a metal dolly and rolled passed the refrigerator and down the stairs to the basement. They would still be there in the morning, when a shallow grave would be dug, and the body parts buried.
* * * * *
Assisted Care Facility is the proper title used these days for a nursing home. Sounds more official so you can be charged more. Fifty years ago, they were supported by tax money and called county homes. The name has changed over the decades, but their purpose is the same—they’re a place old people are sent to die.
A court declared I have Alzheimer's and Dementia. No doctors were ever consulted, but the state agency that railroaded me testified there had been examinations. They attest I have difficulty remembering things and am incapable of living on my own. That’s a load of bullshit.
I remember many things, but like most people, where I last laid my car keys might not be one of them. Occasionally, I have to get my neighbor to call my cell phone so that I can find it. I do the same for my neighbor. And, “Yes”, I once left a pot of water boiling. I'd decided I wanted a cup of instant coffee and put the water on. A television program started, and I got wrapped up in it, completely forgetting about the water. My wife, God rest her soul, once did that with hot grease and returned to find it blazing. In other words, “Shit happens! It doesn’t mean you have Alzheimer's. It means you’re normal!”
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