The Case Against God by C. Sean McGee

The Case Against God CopyrightÂŠ Cian Sean McGee CSM Publishing Araraquara, SĂŁo Paulo, Brazil 2018 First Edition All rights reserved. No part of this bok may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, scanning or digital information storage and retrieval without permission from the author

ISBN-13: 978-1729759059 ISBN-10: 172975905X

Cover Design: C. Sean McGee Interior layout: C. Sean McGee

the case against god

the prophet “You’re the best. You can do anything. You can be anyone. Just do it. Don’t quit. Never say never. Say always. Say yes. Say now. Say I’m in. You’re unstoppable. You’re a star in the sky. The world is your oyster. It’s a sea out there. There’s plenty of fish in the sea. Have a break, have a kit-kat. Think different. Snap-crackle-pop. Be someone. You are someone. You’re special. You’re you. And there’s only one you. Tony Robbins believes in you. I believe in you.” Why didn’t he feel it, though? Why did it feel as if he were inspiring a cripple to climb a set of stairs? If any of it were true, would he have to declare it? Would he have to be so convincing? If he was all those things, wouldn’t it be apparent? The truth was, he could barely stomach his own reflection; now more than ever before. Whether it was his bitch tits or his yellow crooked teeth, it was clear that he had let himself go. He looked flaccid; like a mound of o jelly in the mould of a man. His stomach hung over his waist, covering his tiny genitals while his arms and legs were like bones picked from the meat of a fish with nary a scrap of muscle between them. His hair was ragged and balding; his eyes were narrow and uneven, and his beard looked like patches of weeds growing from beneath cinder blocks. He looked fetid and disgusting; exactly how he felt inside. Once he had on his uniform, though, he was a different man altogether. It was amazing what a few stripes on a man’s shoulders and some golden pins on his pudgy breast could do. Gone was his common persona. So too was any hint of him having a slack spine or a questionable character. It was like he had been doused in moral integrity. For the most part, he looked reverent, imperious, and predatory. And it was all down to those stripes and pins. He didn’t wear the whole uniform, only the jacket. The shirt and pants he left folded by the toilet in the corner. His fat gut still hung over his tiny penis while his flabby buttocks 4

dropped out from below the lapels of his prestigious green jacket. It didn’t matter, though, not with all those stripes and pins. “I am God,” he said, narrowing his eyes even further and furrowing his freckled brow. His ﬂat shapeless lips vanished entirely as he grimaced at his own vile reﬂection. “And all shall come unto me.” Then he hunched over the sink, resting his fat disgusting belly on the edge, and as he stared into those stripes and pins, he masturbated with repugnant vigour; snorting like a pig and screaming as he did, “Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.” And when he ejaculated, he immediately looked at himself with shame and disgust. Then he took off the jacket; curled up into a ball beneath a warm shower; and cried.

the bureaucracy “Take a ticket.” “A ticket? I’ve been waiting a day and a half. I thought this was the line to be attended.” The line behind him stretched for miles; hundreds of thousands of souls, all ﬁddling about and twitching nervously in a vain attempt to keep still and inconspicuous. Forever the neurotic, Gene turned and smiled at the person behind him, shrugging as if to say, “What can you do?” “You were mistaken, son. This is the line to wait and be seated. Take a ticket and take a seat.” As bleak as the line looked, the waiting room was a sight far more severe. Hundreds of thousands of souls piled onto tens of thousands of seats, stacked upon each other like old newspapers. “I’m not like them.” The Old Lady smiled. “No soul ever is,” she said. “Take a ticket.” The thought of waiting any longer tweaked at his nerves. “I have an appointment,” he said. “I work for…” “With whom?” said The Old Lady. She said it in such a way that it seemed as if she didn’t matter what he said. “Do you mean who I have an appointment with or who I work for?” Gene was never good at following directions; probably why he became a writer. “For whom,” said The Old Lady with annoying precision. “For whom do I work? Syntax. You stray from proper grammar, you stray from God himself. Now, with whom do you have an appointment?” She spoke as if her life had been a montage of miserable encounters, and, by the looks of the waiting room, she might very 6

well have. Her accent was thick and merry, but that’s not to say that she didn’t sound as mean as a pit bull. “I’m here to see God,” said Gene. “And you are?” “Gene.” “Last name?” “Just Gene. It has it there on my document.” The Old Lady didn’t even bat an eyelid. “Will this take long?” said Gene, leaning over the counter. The Old Lady was rummaging through a sheet of paper as long as the line he stood in. “One second, son,” she said. “Systems are a little slow at the moment.” There wasn’t a system in sight, just a heck of a lot of paper and a muddled looking old lady with a magnifying glass ﬂush against her face. Tediously, The Old Lady went through every name on the list, calling each one out, one by one. “Don’t you have a computer or something a little faster?” “God is a stickler for tradition,” she said from underneath a mound of paper. “No, we still work off of scrolls. Let me see here. Gene, is it?” “If you check my documentation I’m sure you’ll ﬁnd everything you need. My employers called a week ago to set up the interview.” “That’s wonderful, sonny, but if a bell hath been tolled then a name hath been scrolled. Now, I don’t see you in the presently departed. Have you recently died? It doesn’t look like we have an open case against you. Let me check the backlogs and outstanding warrants; sometimes names get added to the wrong scrolls.” “I’m not dead, no.” “Oh, well that would explain it. Do you have an open case against you? Have you repented and atoned for your sins? Just to know, before we assign you a defense attorney for your celestial judgment.” “Actually I’m not here for me, per se; hence the transit visa.” 7

“I have to say I’m a little confused. So you say you’re not recently departed, then?” “That’s right, mam.” “And you haven’t an open case against you?” “What’s an open case?” “This is the Sentencing Court. Everyone has an open case. Everyone gets judged.” “Well, I’m not dead so…” “So no open case then?” “No, mam.” “Well if you’re not here for judgement then what in the name of God are you here for?” “God.” “God?” “Yes, mam.” “Well does he know you’re coming? Jaysus what am I saying, of course, he does. He’s omniscient and all that. But then why aren’t you on any scroll?” She looked as if she were unwrapping an onion, expecting to ﬁnd an orange each time. “Mam, I’m not here in the name of God. I’m a writer for Rolling Stone. I’m here to interview God.” “Rolling Stone?” “Yes, mam.” “The one on Earth?” “Yes, mam.” “Well, what do you want with God? Shouldn’t you be sorting out your troubles down there?” “That’s exactly why I am here.” “I don’t follow.” “The people of Earth have opened a class action suit against God.” “They have now? Can they do that?” “They can, and yes mam, they have.” “Well is it serious, you know?” 8

“People are calling for his impeachment.” “They are, are they? How many people?” “All of them,” said Gene. It was at that point that The Old Lady finally turned her attention to the ruckus that had been building in the back of the line for some time, and was now surging forward like a tidal wave of dissent and unrest. The line was divided into two halves. There were those that cursed the name of God and there were those that swore by it. They hurled a slew of insults at one another, quite often coming to blows. One side called for God’s dismissal while the other called for God to smite and scourge the non-believers. One side preached humanity while other stood staunchly on their patriotic and moral pillar. “There is no justice in your name,” shouted one side. “If all is forgiven then who is to blame?” The other responded with taunts of fire and eternal damnation. By the time the wave swept to the front of the line, the rhetoric from both sides had gone from poignant to repugnant. Points of disagreement made way for vile slurs and gestures of vulgarity and degradation; no side had a clear conscience. Amidst the spitting, screams, and abuse, it was almost impossible to distinguish one point from another. There was little to be learned just by listening alone. The Old Lady pressed a button and uniformed thugs with batons and shields quickly dispersed to attack the crowd from all sides. They beat down on the backs of women and children as if they were stamping out campfires. They did not discriminate in the manner that they policed; knowing too well that one can beat twenty children in the time it takes to beat a single man. And for the uniformed thugs, quantity was a measure of quality. “Just to be clear,” said Gene. “I’m here on official business. I have no dog in this fight.” Gene was no stranger to civil discord. Be it his drunk and 9

and opinionated father growing up, or the psychopaths he put himself around for the sake of bettering his craft. Violence was, to Gene, as sunny days were to a painter. He didn’t revel in it, but he didn’t shy away from it either. In the face of it, though, he remained calm and content. “So you say you’re here from….” “Rolling Stone, mam.” The Old Lady spoke low into a rotary phone, rolling her eyes. “That’s right,” she said. “He’s a reporter.” “Writer,” said Gene, correcting her. “And I also write haiku’s; so poet too.” “He says he does Haiku. And he works for a paper.” “Magazine.” “Pardon me…a magazine. Rolling Rock. Well, he might know him. You’ll have to ask yourself.” Then she cupped the phone once more. “He wants to know if you know Kanye West,” said The Old Lady looking muddled. Gene shook his head. “Well that’s a shame,” said The Old Lady, hanging up the phone. “Take this,” she said, passing Gene a lanyard. “Keep it on at all times and don’t stray from the marked route.” Gene placed the lanyard over his neck and walked through a door that said, ‘Staff Only’.

the best practices This wasn’t the first time Gene had been ushered down a poorly lit corridor reeking of cat piss and centuries-old carrion. His career had been built upon the backbone of merciless and unforgiving psychopaths; interviewing dictator after dictator in search for meaning – for some thread of humanity that he could pick at and unravel. But just because he was seasoned, it didn’t mean he wasn’t weathered. He walked with the same reservations and bundles of nerves as he had every other time. Inevitably, one of these encounters would be his last; it was only a matter of time. And it was hard to shake that thought, especially as he stepped out onto a steel bridge that overlooked the most populous part of Heaven, some hundred feet below. “Would you like a tour of the facility?” said The Host. “Yes,” said Gene. He said so in his most droll and unaffected tone possible as if nothing she could show him would titillate or offend his senses. He did this because he knew if he cracked a smile or even twitched a nerve, there was a good chance she would feed him to a hungry crocodile; it was just a feeling he had – about everyone. “What do you know about fishing?” she asked. “Very little,” said Gene. “Please, inform me.” In fact, Gene knew a great deal more than he let on. His placid ignorance was, if anything, the fluorescent lure for The Host’s brittle ego to bite down upon. So he let her tell him things that he already knew, nodding along in apparent delight as her sense of self-importance swelled to magnificent proportion. Patience wasn’t a virtue, it was goddamn discipline. “I cannot reiterate enough, the importance of succulence. That’s why here at Heavenly Bait; we pride ourselves on providing our clients with only the highest quality worms for their fishing needs.” 11

That he didn’t see coming. “And competition?” he said, going with the flow as it seemed. “It’s a highly competitive market but we hold our own. Like I said, we’re known for our excellence in product.” “So everything below us is…” “Worms. That’s right. Inside the tiniest particle of human consciousness is an even tinier wriggling worm. Cute little things they are, all wrapped up in eleven dimensions. But I don’t want to bore you on the physics of worm farming.” “It’s no bore,” said Gene, having to shout over the roar of feeding worms. And for the first time, it wasn’t a lie. “So what makes one worm different from the other?” he said. “What makes you better than your competition? What is your differential?” “Each worm wriggles its own way. This, in turn, sets off a kind of ripple in consciousness; a kind of wave. On the macro end, this determines the kind of algorithm that a human will follow and how they will feed, which will, in turn, affect the quality of the worm itself. You’ve seen Earth. It’s a shit mess. That’s our differential. We invest heavily in new technologies.” “By feed you mean….” “Information. The eyes and ears are the mouth of the unconscious mind. Climate change and midget porn, it’s the same thing. As long as the human’s thoughts are gorging on one or the other, the end result is a more succulent worm. That’s one thing we are recognized for in fact, the creative context of our pornography and ideological rhetoric - that and customer service. Our post sale is second to none.” Gene peered over the railing. “That’s the general population,” said The Host. “As you can see, they are able to express themselves and they are glad there is no more death.” It was a horrible sight; all those souls writhing about like clumps of filthy worms. There were billions of them, slithering in 12

and out of slimy knots. It looked, he supposed, just how a worm farm should; but not how he had imagined Heaven being. “They get excited at mealtime,” she said. “What’s on the menu?” said Gene, almost afraid to ask. The Host stopped for a second and spat over the railing. “Hope,” she said. Then a siren sounded and part of the ﬂoor opened up, exposing a mountainous pile of moist dung. The stench, both musky and sweet, almost stripped Gene of all of his senses. Within seconds, there was pandemonium below as the souls all wriggled about, slithering over one another to get to the mound of steaming feces. “Like kids in a candy store,” said The Host. “But this is just one part of the process. The worms you see here are all grouped according to succulence. This group, for example, we expect to sell above market value. It’s part of our new line. Sweeter, stickier, and juicer.” “What did you do differently in production?” asked Gene. “We increased morality portions and juxtaposed against antiGod sentiment. We call them The New Atheists. Honestly, we didn’t think it would work out. It was a gamble, but it paid off. That’s what the worm farm business is all about; being bold and daring, and just having a go.” It was true, they did look succulent. Their bodies were swollen with righteous pride. “Basically after the worms have been picked and sorted as you see below, we bag and tag according to weight and odour. So from here, we go to logistics,” said The Host. Gene took one last look down below just to see if there was anyone he knew. “After you,” said The Host, leading Gene into a steel cage. At this point, after what he had seen, this cage could be leading anywhere. “We’re in the process of going all digital,” said The Host, pointing to the one packing supervisor carrying what looked like 13

an old Casio calculator in his hands. “The machine counts for him. It’s been a wonder for production. As I told you, we are investing heavily in new technologies.” Below them, billions of worms were brought in by conveyor belts in coloured buckets. “From here they are loaded as freight and shipped to the customer.” The production was gargantuan but it was primitive in every regard. Gene had seen this technology moored in textbooks and history papers. It was the type of image that inspired the phrase, “Look how far we’ve come.” Yet he was, in Heaven of all places, seeing that same technology touted as a revolution. Looking down at the workers, though, they had no idea. In their minds, this was the better way. And who were they to assume any wiser? It was clear, though that the profits from this enterprise were not being put to proper use. “Bucket colours denominate logistic routes. Those green buckets you see below you are inter-galactic, whereas the yellow buckets on the other side are inter-dimensional. It’s important to properly code. As Tony Robbins says, ‘If you can’t you must, if you must, you can.’ It sums up everything, really.” It was then that he noticed. It wasn’t obvious like teenage rebellion; it was subtle; like a mother’s drinking or racism in old ladies. Each of the workers had an emblem pinned on the lapels of their coats. It was hard to see at first but it wasn’t until Gene noticed the same emblem worn around the neck of The Host that a pattern emerged. Now that he had seen it, he wondered how he could have ever overlooked it in the first place. That chiseled face; that mountainous smile; those gargantuan white teeth. They all wore tiny Tony Robbins’. “Tony Robbins means a lot to you,” said Gene, avoiding mockery or flattery. The Host gave an odd look; one that was worrying for Gene. “I’m not saying that to offend. It’s genuine interest.” “You don’t worship Tony Robbins?” 14

He might as well have told her that he didn’t have a digestive tract. “It’s not that,” said Gene, deflecting. “I’m a storyteller. I’m more interested in you. I want to hear your story – your passion. I have to be naïve in my questioning. It inspires the best in you,” he said, seeing The Host’s expression redden with bashful pride. “And might I say,” he continued. “I’ve met a lot of hosts in my time, but none as symbolic as you; and not just in your professionalism, but more so in how you are the embodiment of what you think and believe. Tony Robbins would be proud.” The Host blushed. “Tony Robbins saves,” she said. “What are those brown buckets,” said Gene. Next to a giant freezer was a giant brown crate that was split at the bottom with half-chewed worms spilling out on the floor. “Returns,” said The Host. “But we try to minimalize waste.” There were maybe ten thousand crates and a trillion worms. “It’s a tough marketplace and a big part of competing is offering sound returns policies to our customers. The downside of this is the overhead but we offset this by improving the efficiency in production and by reintroducing the product into less stringent marketplaces. There’s always a market. It’s like Tony Robbins says, ‘When you are grateful, fear disappears and abundance appears.’ So the worms we don’t sell on the dimensional or inter-galactic markets are sold in bait shops back on Earth. These are usually deformed or retarded in some manner. It’s also part of our Green Office recycling scheme.” “It has a circle of life element to it.” “As Tony Robbins said, ‘Awesome is not an adjective; it’s a state of mind’. Now,” said The Host, clicking her fingers sharply. “One would not want to keep The Superlative One waiting, lest boredom turn his generosity fickle.” Then she stormed off towards a waiting elevator at the end of the platform. “So, what’s he like?” asked Gene. “Amazing,” said The Host. “Did you know he invented the 15

Earth?” She sounded gobsmacked as she said it as if it were the first time she was hearing it. “What do you like?” she asked. “Music,” said Gene. “And whiskey and cat videos I suppose.” “Invented all of them. What else? Surely there must be more things you adore.” “There is but…” “Guess who invented them?” “God?” The Host smiled like a doting grandmother. “The one and only,” she said. “What about the things I don’t like? I mean, what about ticks for example?” The Host grabbed Gene’s genitals, then squeezed and twisted until he felt the pain stabbing at the back of his eyeballs. Her strength was immense yet she barely strained a single muscle. Though she surged with wrath and violence, her eyes were as calm as a trickling stream. “You’d do good to curtail that wicked tongue,” she said, letting Gene fall to the floor. “You are a guest here in Heaven; do not make me have to remind you.” Everything about her demeanour spoke of torture and suffering. Gene had seen that look a thousand times before, and he’d seen just as many men question it. “You will refer to God as The Superlative One,” she said, sounding kind and placid once more. Then, as they waited for the elevator, she went quiet again; this was most concerning of all. The screams of the tortured and their needless begging for mercy were calming if anything. They were like the popping sounds of gunfire and mortar shells. In the wake of violence, one always knew where violence was. It was the quiet, though, where one could never quite be sure. “And when you speak, you shall refrain from looking at, about, or into his eyes.” 16

None of this was new. Nothing she could say could rattle his quiet nerves. He nodded away as they walked along the platform but in truth, he had this speech a thousand times before; the most galling of all as a young boy in the arms of his father. “What does he look like?” As he said that, he imagined a face as worn and jagged as a quarry. “I have not seen him,” said The Host. “None have. You will be the ﬁrst.” She sounded like a petulant child, giving up her spot at the table. “There shall be no recording devices of any kind and no record whatsoever of this conversation.” “I will have to quote, God in the article.” “And it will be hearsay,” said The Host. “I understand.” It didn’t matter either way. This interview was for him and him alone. Those who had taken one side or the other would not be swayed by what he or God had to say. The truth was subjective, and neither side knew how to behave when properly informed. Words were merely cherries to brew in a poisonous stew. “What will you write about?” she asked, as the doors slowly closed. Gone was any sense of conspiracy from her voice. “I don’t know,” said Gene. “What is your angle?” “I don’t have one; I just write.” “Do you know how it will end?” It was hard to tell if she was talking about the story or the interview. “No,” he said. “I never do.” “Isn’t that reckless, to go about something so pervasive without a plan.” “I see better in the dark.” “Will you write about me?” 17

“I might,” said Gene. The Host smiled. “Can I ask you a question?” said Gene, appealing to the honesty that only existed in the hearts of psychopaths. “When this interview is done, what are my chances of getting out alive?” He didn’t sound scared; not one bit. The Host smiled. It wasn’t a humorous or congenial smile; it was more one of common courtesy. “Slim,” she said. And then, as if waking from a dream, the elevator doors opened on the cusp of her last word. “After you.”

the ruse It was just as he had imagined – opulent, stately, and savage. The whole room – from the floor to the ceiling - shimmered in diamonds and gold; even the grout in the tiles looked as if it could wipe away half the world’s debt. Everything was jewel encrusted, from the tablecloths and cutlery to the ice that piled inside golden goblets, spoiling perfectly good whiskey. A common man might have been perturbed by such extravagance. They might have felt uneasy and inadequate in light of such preposterous wealth. Even a royal or a diplomat might have been nervous and jittery with delight. But not Gene, though. For whatever reason, he had never been too fond of glittering things. There was not a speck of the room that was innocuous or plain. Everything looked like it had been handpicked from the height of human privilege. And though it was opulent and stately, it was excessive in every regard. There was no form. There was no specific detail. There was just extravagance. It looked, at best, like a poorly assembled collage of first place trophies but without any hint of effort or merit whatsoever. As for the savagery; that was in the comfort. Most of the furniture had been shaped and sculpted out of the bones of revolutionaries. There were tables made from the backbones of dinosaurs; footstools from the skulls of panda bears; and on the kitchen bench was a serving tray filled with cigarettes and Ritalin, made out of Rosa Parks’ left hand. The tanned leather seats were a mixture of beast and man, sewn crudely as if to make that distinction perfectly clear. There were candles in every corner of the room that stuck out of small towers of skulls – infant skulls, the kind from miscarried babies. And as savage as it was, Gene had seen worse. In fact, if anything, this all looked like a cheap rendition of all the terrible things that man was capable of. It looked cruel and inhumane, yes, 19

but unlike the savagery, Gene had born witness to, this all lacked a certain subtlety that one could find in the home of a true psychopath. There was no nuance. There was no character. It looked, if anything, like the bedroom of a pubescent boy, desperate to shock or offend as a means to fit in; as a way to matter and belong. “Please make yourself comfortable,” said The Host. Gene looked around the room. Everything from the curtains through to the throw pillows looked as if they were designed to stab and disembowel – even the air felt like it could give you AIDS. How the hell was he supposed to get comfortable in a place like this? “The Superlative One should be with you shortly.” And then she was gone. As quickly as she spoke, so too did she leave – and with her, the only way out. The elevator doors closed behind her and then vanished altogether. A quick wave of panic set in but it subsided just as fast. Fear was no good in situations like this. Fear was what lead Gene to these kinds of predicaments. It was curiosity and naïve wonder, though, which had always got him out. And so Gene walked around, turning over this and rummaging through that; trying to gather as much as he could from the crumbs and remains of God’s spoils to prepare himself for whatever kind of maniac this myth was bound to be. The first thing he did notice as he walked around the room was a pile of cocaine and a punnet of spoiled grapes laid out on a coffee table. Beside that was a pile of books and magazines; the majority of which were romance novels and crosswords – nothing at all that hinted towards any inkling of genius. There were torn pieces of paper scattered all over the floor. Some of them had been sticky taped together so that the naked models had tractor parts instead of limbs and exaggerated frowns drawn onto their faces. This too was not any clue to his psychopathy; a bored teen would have done the same. The answers that Gene wanted would not be found strewn about so recklessly; the truth never was. There was nothing then, for him to do, but wait. 20

the sheep in wolf s skin And after waiting for an uncomfortable amount of time, finally, God made his entrance. “Howdy, you must be Gene. I’m God. It sure is nice to meet ya.” To say Gene was surprised was an understatement. He had stupidity slapped all over his face. Dumbfounded was one way to describe it. It was the same look folks had when they stared up from their phone and saw the tree coming straight at their windscreen. The God he was expecting was a far cry from the one that was staring right at him. With a world of such detailed sophistication – from the physics through to the biology and art – he had always imaged God as a tyrant of finesse and precision; one whose hair was cut like the edge of a knife, and whose chiseled face was literally chiseled – such were his stony features. He imagined a God that was dressed like the chamber of a gun; whose posture reeked of aristocracy as much as they did stolen valour and conceited pride. This God hadn’t even tried. “It’s the boots isn’t it?” It was a bit of everything; the boots, the hair, and the doeeyed expression. It was the clothes too. They would have suited a man ten times his girth, and even still they would have been loose. He looked as if he should have been hocking recliners and cheap electronics instead of overseeing the existence of mankind. “Didn’t notice a thing,” said Gene, wisely. God stared at himself and sighed disappointingly. “I don’t normally have visitors,” he said. There was an awkward silence that seemed to drag on for an eternity. Usually, dictators were full of flare and self-worth. Usually, everything they had to say was a declaration. It didn’t matter their size or stature – whether they were broad shouldered or grotesquely obese – they all spoke as if they were the one and true idol; of 21

which all men wanted to be, and all women wanted to fuck. God, though, just seemed incapable - of anything really. “I haven’t done an interview before,” he said. “Is it hard?” Was this a ruse, or was he really an idiot? “I’m just not really supposed to answer any questions if I don’t know what they mean.” Behind the bar, at the far end of the room, stood two men dressed in tailored suits, listening to the entire conversation. They did their best to look casual and inconspicuous but there was no hiding the fact that they were lawyers. “It’s fine,” said Gene. “This is just a conversation. I’m not recording anything.” The lawyers slithered and scuttled their way across the room; one perching itself from a light fixture while the other burrowed beneath a camouflage of bread crumbs and candy wrappers. God was just as skittish, unable to keep still even for a second, choosing to battle his nerves by stuffing his face with chocolate wafers and dried apricots. “Why do you hate women?” asked Gene. God almost choked on his wafers. “Who said that? I didn’t say that? Did I say that? I don’t hate women. Who said I hate women? I don’t hate women. Do I?” Each question was put to each of the legal advisors watching on. Neither of them responded, though; at least not as far as Gene could tell. Already it was clear that this interview, and maybe even God himself, was a farce. “It’s not just the holy texts,” said Gene. “It just seems, across the board, women, and children get a pretty raw deal.” “Yeah?” He sounded genuinely uniformed. “Rape, for example,” said Gene. “Why is that a thing?” “I don’t really know about those types of questions,” said God, begging for a lifeline from either of his advisers. “I’m not so much hands-on, really, I mean just here and there, but I didn’t know rape was a thing.” 22

“Have you read the holy texts?” “All of them?” “Well, any of them.” “I read The Secret,” said God. “Sometimes I like to pretend that it’s true. It’s fun.” “The Vedas?” “No.” “The Quran?” “Never heard of it.” “The Sutras?” “Like the sex book?” “The Torah? The New Testament?” “I don’t know any of those books. Should I?” “You’re quoted in most of them.” “Are they good?” “They’ve stood the test of time,” said Gene. “But are they long, though? I don’t like long books or small words.” “Well, yeah, they’re long but…” “I don’t really like to read; except self-help of course. Do you know Tony Robbins? He’s amazing. He’s the reason I take charge of myself and be the best me I can be. I’d love to be just like him.” “But you’re God.” “I know.” He made it sound like a disability. “Why would you want to be somebody else?” “Have you seen his television show? He knows so much. I’d give anything to meet him.” “But you’re omniscient, right?” “Yes and no.” “What do you mean?” “It’s tricky.” “You either are or you aren’t.” “I’m not.” “But everyone thinks that you are.” 23

“Yeah.” “And you didn’t correct them?” “It made me look cool so I just let them think it. It’s not a lie.” “It’s kind of is, though, isn’t it? Omitting the truth is as good as any lie.” “Did somebody really say I hate women?” “Sorry?” “I’m not gay,” said God. “I don’t care what anyone says, I’m not. And I can prove it.” “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Nobody said you’re gay.” “Well, I’m not.” He made the meanest face he could muster. “I hate fags,” he said. “I know,” said Gene. “We’ve all seen the signs.” “Do you like my room? I pretty much spend most of my time here.” “I was going to get to that? Did you decorate it yourself ?” asked Gene, picking up a candlestick made out of fingers and toes. “You have a distinct flair.” “Nah, most of the stuff was here when I moved in. It’s pretty cool, though, isn’t it? If everything here was alive, it’d eat you in a second. Animals are so stupid.” “It’s not all animals, though, right? There are some human trophies here too.” “I’m not really into collecting. I get bored really quick. Plus there’s never really anyone to show it too. It can get kind of lonely sometimes. But it’s not all bad, though, you know? The television is great. I can see everything that happens on Earth; anything at any time - car chases, explosions and fireworks, and I can even see when people are taking a shower. Do you wanna see?” “No,” said Gene. “What about family? Do you have any siblings?” He almost dared not ask. 24

“Do you have a father?” Again, God turned to his advisors with a worried look. “I don’t really look at people when they’re naked,” he said. “I probably spend most of my time helping people out. Do you wanna know how? I have a radio. Do you wanna see it?” “Sure,” said Gene, paternally. God took an old brown transistor radio from beneath a stack of pornography and sat it on his lap. It looked like some relic from the First World War. “I can hear everybody pray when they ask for things. People sure do ask for a lot of things,” he said, shaking his head. “Who do you listen to the most? The sick? The inﬁrmed? The Oppressed? The Dispossessed? The Refugees?” “At the moment I listen to a lot of hip-hop. I like Kanye West; he’s my favourite rapper. And Vanilla Ice too. The Grammys are awesome. I probably help out most there and then a bunch of times at The Super Bowl, but I don’t really know how sport goes so usually I just pick any side to win. The same with war. I never knew there were so many types of games called football, did you?” “What do you know about the movement?” asked Gene. “What have you heard?” Enough was enough; it was time to get to the point. “What movement?” “Hashtag Impeach God.” “Impeach God? Can they do that? Wait… why? I thought they loved me or at least feared me. What happened?” “You know about Me Too, right?” “Yeah…kind of…why?” Again he looked to his advisors. “Certain events have come to light.” “What events? Me? What did I do? I didn’t do anything.” “Well, that’s just it really. At least for one accusation against you. You’re sure you haven’t heard anything at all? This really is all anyone is talking about at the moment. Hell, you have protests at the stairway to Heaven.” 25

“What accusation?” The snake hanging from the light hissed. “There are two, specifically. One relates to allegations of sexual assault, while the other is a little more complex; there is a class action suit in progress at the moment in regards to your role in the organized systemic abuse and rape of young boys and girls – primarily through The Scouts and The Catholic Church, but other organizations and denominations are coming forward day by day and pronouncing their involvement. It’s the biggest shakedown on the abuse of women and children since the dawn of time; I’m honestly stumped that you are unaware.” The snake slithered down from the fixture and curled around God’s neck. “Say nothing,” it hissed. “Deny everything.” “They said I did that? I didn’t do anything. I mean literally, I can’t do anything. The stupid directors run everything.” “Shut up, you fool,” hissed the snake again. “I’m innocent, I promise. I didn’t do anything.” “How do explain Mary?” “Who?” “The Immaculate Conception. This is what started it all. You raped a woman in her sleep.” “No, I didn’t. I’ve never left this room. That’s a lie.” “What about Jesus?” “Who?” said God. “Your son.” “I don’t have a son,” said God. “I’m not even allowed a Chia Pet.” The snake and the cockroach turned into lawyers once more. “This interview is over,” they said in unison. “Really?” said Gene. “Cause I’ve got a thousand more questions. Like first of all, who the fuck are you? Why is God being tailed by lawyers? What the fuck is going on here?” One of the lawyers opened a door that led to what looked like a bar in Sao Paulo. He said nothing, though. He merely stood 26

there with one arm pointing through the open door. “So what? This is where you kill me?” The end was inevitable. But unlike most folks, Gene knew that his would be more painful and damn scarier than anyone could ever imagine. His end would the culmination of all the sickening things he had witnessed. His end would require dozens of mops and buckets to soak up the blood. “I’m not afraid to die,” he said. “This is what I do for a living. I expose weak, servile, pieces of shit like you. You think you scare me? I’ve seen far worse than you.” “I know,” said a man on the other side of the door. “I’ve met your father.” His face was barely visible, hidden behind a ﬁlthy bottle of scotch. “I don’t have a father,” said Gene, angrily. He had never been riled before, not while he was sober. Everything about this was wrong. He was certain, at the very least, that he was going to lose a couple of toes and at least one of his thumbs. In an adjoining room, God was having his head and his eyebrows shaved. He wept quietly at ﬁrst, but by the end, he was screaming like a lost child. “What the hell are they doing?” His worry wasn’t about God; it was whether the same or worse would be done to him. “You want to tell a story, don’t you?” Of course, he did. “Then come in and have a drink.”

the mad scotsman He definitely wasn’t in Heaven anymore. Gone was the stench of sterile vats and rubber gloves; gone too was the burning sensation on his tongue from all the aerosols and disinfectant. Instead, the air was rife with a cocktail of sweat, semen, and pepperoni. It was as hard to see as it was to breathe. Smoke billowed out from beneath a stage full of bare-breasted women and from the ends of the cigarettes of men who showered them with taunts of sexual gratification. The strippers’ vacant expressions were invisible amidst the haze, so too were the leering eyes of the men who salivated over them; only the silhouettes of nipple rings and dollar bills marked one person from another. “Sit down, Gene. You’re making everyone nervous.” The strippers all agreed, shaking their glittery fists. “Where are we?” asked Gene, taking a seat. His every move was cordoned with caution. In the dark like this, he might as well have been wading in the deep blue sea. He had no idea what was around him. For all he knew, a giant squid or an army of killer crabs were biding their time in the cloud of smoke, waiting to scuttle up and bite off his head. And the man in front of him was no less concerning. The look in his eyes was just as profound and hard to decipher. “We’re in a titty bar in Sao Paulo; I thought that was obvious.” “You’re not God.” “No, I am not.” His next question he didn’t want to ask. “Who are you?” “What’s your drink?” “I don’t drink,” said Gene. “Not while I’m working.” “You’re not working; not yet anyway.” 28

“Why am I here then?” “Existence proceeds essence, young man. You’ll ﬁnd out in the end. For now, though, we drink. So, what’ll it be?” “Whiskey,” said Gene. “With an e.” The man smiled. “I’m a scotch man myself,” he said. “But let’s not drown ourselves in semantics. Do you smoke?” The man pulled out a satchel with three cigars. Gene took one. His nerves were still acute. They were nerves of steel, yes, but even still had a melting point. “Turn your chair around.” “Why?” said Gene. “I cannot see your face?” “It’s very rude to show your back to a lady who is trying to show you her private parts; rude and disrespectful. Now turn your chair around and say you’re sorry.” Gene quickly did as the man said, though none of the strippers seemed to care. “So what did you think?” asked the man. Gene stared onto the stage and as quickly as he could, he made some crass judgement about the naked women in some effort to not be ousted as a fraud or a saboteur. “It’s hard to say,” he said, plying the undecided card. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the tassels on their nipples and instead was drawn to their drained expressions in search of the mother, sister, or daughter within. But sitting on the fence would leave him split in two and buried on one side or the other. So he had to be cool. “They all have their merit,” he said. “I was talking about, God, Gene. What did you think of God?” The man puffed on his cigar as if the smoke were killing everyone but him. “Be honest now,” he said. “I didn’t invite you here for your merits.” “Why was I invited here?” “Because you’re a satirical asshole,” said the man, taking 29

another big puff on his cigar. “And that’s just what religion needs right now.” “So, if you invited me, then who are you?” “First things first, what did you think of God?” “Can I be honest?” “I expect nothing but.” “He came across as a creepy perve.” The man laughed heartily. “Yeah, that’s been the conjecture on this end for some time now. You can lead a horse to water,” said the man, spewing a plume of smoke into the air. “But I’ll be damned if I know how to make it stop jacking off in the pond.” He laughed so hard he almost toppled over. “Here’s where that whole ‘as above, so below’ jive comes into question. Now I’ll be the first to admit – I’d be a second-rate Chief Operations Officer if I didn’t – but our product is shit. You probably got that whole factory tour sales to pitch about market trends and quality assurance, right?” Gene nodded. “It’s all horseshit. Our product is bad and it’s been bad for quite some time. In fact, the only reason our post-sale is so good is because it has to be, and that’s because our product is terrible – it’s always been. And believe you me; we’ve tried changing our recipe a thousand times. It’s the thing with Gods. Humanity is like this stew that God is cooking. Now it takes a long time to brew that stew and sometimes, often way down the line, you don’t find out until it’s too late that God has just been cumming in it the whole time. And now we have a product that nobody wants. The worst worms in the multiverse. In this day and age, that shouldn’t be the case. It’s just downright embarrassing.” “I mean, why is rape even a thing?” “We’re just as dismayed and even disgusted too. It’s been a rough two thousand years. It’s only now, though that we were able to see how troubled God really was. And the fault there lies solely in our own failure to properly monitor our own internal processes.” 30

“You know the whole world is calling for his impeachment, right?” “I do,” said the man. “Believe me, this isn’t the first time. This kind of tumult is not new for us. It’s a part of business, in general, to go through change. But on the other hand, it’s not healthy for a business to have to go through it so often. At the end of the day, what is the meaning of life?” “Planting seeds?” said Gene. “To find sweetness in imagining how the generations you will never meet are delighting upon the supple fruit picked from the bitter seed you have once sown?” “No,” said the man abruptly. “It’s to gorge consciously on idealism to fatten the soul so that every human, after death, enters Heavenly Bait as a rich and succulent worm.” “The meaning of life is to become bait?” “No, the meaning of life is to become succulent. One doesn’t become bait; one is bait.” “So all of this – the entire history of mankind, all the achievements, all the enlightenment, all of the loss and suffering too, it’s all been for worm farming?” “Worm farming ain’t what it used to be. Once upon a time, you could just whack a worm on the end of a stick and you’d pull up a dozen fish. These days, the customer wants more than a bag full of worms, they want a story. They want to feel as proud of their worms as their worms once felt about themselves. It’s all artisanal nowadays. It’s less about the bait and more about the back story. And I’ll admit, we were slow to catch on. No-one of us traditionalists thought it would last, the bearded revolution to intergalactic wormeries, but here we are and we’re none too ashamed to admit that we were wrong, and it’s time for change.” “Change how?” “God will not be with us much longer. He is being prepared for a handover.” “Handover? Who will lead?” “We toiled with many ideas. This has been in the planning for some time now. We’ve only had to push our agenda forward 31

because of the tumult on Earth. And we have spent the last decades preparing for a smooth transition.” “A new God?” “We’re disposing of the word God. The word itself has lost its defining character.” “The boy rape?” “Exactly,” said the man. “Amongst other travesties.” “So what’s the new….God?” “Guru,” said the man. “A guru will lead humanity into the infinite future – or until Earth is no longer a sustainable worm farm.” “And who is this Guru? You’ve been preparing for decades… since when exactly?” “February 29, 1960,” said The Man. “The year of your lord.” “February 29?” “You’re a historian; this date will ring out for the next ten thousand years.” “I write stories,” said Gene. “It’s different.” “What is history but a fact embolden with fiction.” It was then, as light from a hooker’s cigarette flashed upon the man’s shoulder that he saw the pin – the same pin and emblem worn by one an all in Heaven. “Tony Robbins?” said Gene. The Man smiled. “Guru is the new God.” “Holy shit,” said Gene. “I had no idea.” “This is where you come in. Every prophet needs a disciple.” “You want me to write about Tony Robbins?” “Your job, the reason you were invited here, is to spread his word.” “But everything he says is total horseshit. It sounds assailing, but the human experience is far too complex to be expounded in feel-good phrases. I can’t promote Tony Robbins. It would be an insult to my character.” “If you don’t. We will rob you of your character when you sleep and you will be willing worm just like all the rest. You work 32

for us, you can avoid the factory ﬂoor. It’s up to you. I’m sure there are…” “I’m in,” said Gene. “So where do I start?” “Well,” said The Man. “First we have to make us a martyr.” “Kill Tony Robbins?” The man stared at his watch. “Tony is in town giving a sermon, just two blocks from here.” “Ok,” said Gene, standing up from his seat. “Hold your horses, son. There’s a reason we met here.” Then he hinted towards a man slouched over a ﬁlthy glass. “Your job is to write a wonderful story. You leave the killing to the professionals.” “Who is he?” “He’ll be remembered as The Mad Scotsman. At least that’s how you’ll write him up. He’s no-one. He’s everyone. He’s the snake biting its own tail. He is the end of one era. The stone in the water that gives way to another. He’s our patsy.” “Does he know?” “Know? Nobody knows anything. Free will is a delusion. You all do things unwillingly and then try to justify yourselves postevent. He has no idea what’s about to happen. But after the life he has lived, it will make all the sense in the world.” “But how do you know he’ll do it?” “Every patsy has their trigger.” “And what’s his?”

the martyr The Mad Scotsman, as he is known, was not mad in a regular sense. It’s not like he wore his clothes backward or stood on his hands for any other reason than to impress a girl. His madness wasn’t inherited or the result of a difficult birth. No, his madness was the most worrying kind of all. It was the madness that dwelled in the heart and ruminated on the bitterness of broken trust. His madness was the kind that sat silent for most of a man’s life and only woke to unleash wrath and fury on one poor unfortunate soul. It was the type of madness that you couldn’t pick; not at first anytime. It was the type of madness that went entirely undetected, yet in retrospect, was patently obvious and as plain as day. To be clear, most men bore this kind of madness is one way or another, but for none so much as The Mad Scotsman, a patient and savage man, who would soon earn his namesake. “Do you like Churros?” said The Man, hinting towards the street. “Unless of course, you’d like some sex?” He called over a half dozen whores from a back room to dance and gyrate for Gene. They weren’t like the dancers on the stage. They looked damaged and infirmed – bandaged in perverse sexuality. The Man laughed as they cavorted on the floor; fornicating at the thought of a couple of dollars. He threw them a single penny in disgust. “You,” he said, pointing to one whore in particular. He waved her over and whispered in her ear. Then he gave her a satchel full of thirty silver coins. The whore cursed at first, refusing to take the satchel; looking back over her shoulder at The Mad Scotsman in overwhelming fear. “Someone else,” she said. “Not me, please, if you have any heart at all.” The Man merely smiled. “I have no heart,” he said. “I am not alive, nor shall I ever die.” 34

Then he forced the satchel into the whore’s two hands, squeezing them tight. “You promise I’ll have a new life? All this will be over?” “All you have to do is choose,” said The Man. She looked back at the surly looking man staring into his glass of scotch. “And I’ll see my son again?” The Man didn’t reply. He merely took his coat from behind his seat, shook off the smoke and dust, and then left a handsome tip on the table. He didn’t even watch as The Whore squeezed the satchel against her chest and held her breath in what could only be described as a vain attempt to wish she were any other person, in any other place, at any other time – which of course she wasn’t. “It’s not actually about the money,” said The Man, as back in the bar, the cavorting whores scratched, bit, and kicked one another for the single penny that had been thrown onto the floor. “The money is symbolic, that’s all.” They walked out the door onto the street outside and were almost swept away by the flood of people, cars, and stray dogs. The sun was out; the dark ominous clouds were too. The air was like a hot moist blanket, waiting to pour down and replenish the city’s desiccated roots. The streets were jammed with cars and motorbikes, and hustlers and entertainers – all filling the cracks like grout, juggling knives and flaming sticks for money, or just sticking them in driver’s faces and taking what was there. The sidewalks were littered with hookers and punks and old ladies with their grocery trolleys. There were celebrities and nobodies – the homeless and the has-beens – and police and gangsters too. There were drunks and drug addicts and one-legged beggars and families on their way to the zoo. “Sao Paulo,” said The Man, smelling the air. “There’s nothing like it. You know, they say God is Brazilian.” Gene nodded. He had heard the adage. “I love Brazil,” said The Man, kicking a beggar to the ground. 35

“And this here,” he said, pointing to a large auditorium with the name Tony Robbins sprawled on one side. “This is the new holy land.” “Sao Paulo?” “Mecca.” Inside the titty bar, the young whore walked slowly up to The Mad Scotsman. All of a sudden, she looked twelve years old again, scared to death that she would get in trouble for what she had done wrong. Every nerve in her body urged her to run. Her knees grew weak and wobbled as if the guilt she carried weighed a hundred thousand tonnes. All she could do was to think of her daughter. “Hi, dad,” she said. She tried to smile but it hurt too much. She’d worn this stony face for so long that if she tried to smile, the well of her sadness was so strong that she would erode almost instantly. All she could do then was look at him and hope that he understood. “Where is it?” said The Mad Scotsman, unable to look at his daughter. The picture he kept of her in his heart was not the girl she had become. The Whore threw the satchel on the table. The rattling of coins only made it worse. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. The Mad Scotsman snatched the satchel and hid it in his waistcoat. If he only had the courage to look at her, he’d see that she was the same little girl, and more than anything, she needed a hug. “How is she?” she asked. The Mad Scotsman merely lowered his head. “I miss her,” she said. “Like you’ll never know. It hurts every day.” The Mad Scotsman looked at her in the eyes. “I know,” he said. No, it was he who was holding back tears. 36

“I’m sorry,” said The Whore. “I know,” said The Mad Scotsman, still unable to look her in the eye. At this point, he’d settle for chewing on broken glass. “You’re doing the right thing, no matter what anyone says.” “I know,” The Mad Scotsman said again. “Sometimes walking away is the right thing,” he said. “Takes more courage. A trust test of love. This isn’t just for her, you know?” “I know.” It was then that he looked up from his glass and instead of seeing a slut, a whore or the blight on his family name, he saw the eight-year-old girl who finally taught herself how to handstand. He saw the girl who he tucked in every night and for whom he chased away armies of ghosts and goblins – not because she believed that they were there, but because she knew she once did, and it was still his favourite thing to do. He saw the girl who called him dad, not because she needed something, but because she had everything she ever needed. He didn’t see the whore that she had become. He didn’t see her body or the scars that had maligned them. He didn’t see marks on her veins or the cavernous expression on her face. He didn’t count the missing teeth or the bruises on her wrists and the back of her neck. He didn’t see the damage; he saw through it. He saw her and he smiled. He saw her and he cried. For he knew he would never see that girl again, even though, after all these years, he had finally found her. Enveloped in bittersweet Saudade, he wept and he smiled. “What is she like?” asked The Whore. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, her heart swam with fancy. “She’s big now,” said The Mad Scotsman. “She’s talking too; can hardly shut her up. She has your smile.” Then he downed his last drink and stormed out of the titty bar towards his sour fate. 37

the churros The auditorium was packed to the rafters; it always was. Nobody could woo and crowd like Tony Robbins. Whether it was his giant personality or his giant hands, there wasn’t a person on Earth who wasn’t made better by the profound meaning in each of his every word. “The board could not have picked a better CEO,” said The Man. “You mean god?” said Gene. “Semantics. All we are looking for in a face. The right face created the right brand awareness and at the end of the day, brand is king.” “When you say the board, I assume you are on it. How many like you are there?” “Seven,” said The Man. “And of course our stakeholders. What do you think of your churro?” Gene hadn’t eaten a thing. He could go a month without food on assignment, surviving on sheer resilience and placidity alone. He prided himself on keeping a clear state of mind, so as not to come to grips by his emotions and to say or do something that would get him killed. An ice-cream and a blow job were both dangerous in their own right. His work, if anything, was a form of meditation. “You know, the idea of a single God is entirely new. We tried it outright, but it got a bit hazy so we re-implemented polytheism in the guise of monotheism. We set up a communication channel dedicated solely to prayer: The Department of Occupations. We found that only crack whores, rappers, and Columbian goalkeepers prayed directly to God. So we kept the old model but changed the ideas of gods to saints.” “Where did you go wrong?” “Existence proceeds essence, Gene. Took a good two 38

thousand years to realize God had a penchant for well... rape in general. Hence the sunsets.” “Sunsets?” “Sure. When a child does cry there be blood in the sky.” Gene had an estranged look. “Terrible sights they are. But God did tend to project a lot of that anger onto children. And of course, there was all the bone cancer. And SIDS, well that was just laziness. Just killing kids for no reason at all. Now, I’ll be the ﬁrst to admit, our standards slipped, and we failed. We have a moral responsibility to the upkeep of the worms we grow. In hindsight, we should have done better due diligence with God’s track record. Mistakes happen, and good corporate governance is about recognizing that and putting new measures in place – better measure for everybody. Honestly, I prefer the sweet churros. I’m not complaining, it’s just if you’d had a sweet churro you’d be having a totally different experience.” And as The Man bit into his crispy, savoury delight, the lights dimmed in the auditorium and a tremendous rumble started to build as the tens of thousands of mentees stamped their feet on the ﬂoor like a tribal drum, invoking their hero, their mentor – their GURU. The lights on the stage blared. The twelve disciples jumped and did cartwheels in the air. The crowd erupted in manic applause. “Hello Sao Paulo,” screamed Tony Robbins, storming on the stage like a whirlwind of passion, determination, and possibility. “Are you ready to be empowered?” “Yes!” the crowd screamed. “Are you ready to let go of your fears?” “Yes!” they screamed again. “Are you ready for love, power, happiness, insight, motivation, and spirit?” “Yes!” “Turn around right now,” he shouted. “And I want you to chest bump the person beside you. Chest bump with all of your passion. Chest bump with all of your love, power, and might. I 39

want you to chest bump and unleash the beast within. Are you with me?” The crowd went into hysterics. They turned with joyful and maddened expressions and dove into one another. The elderly and the crippled flew in all directions, but that didn’t matter because this was an act of love, power, and passion. They lay on the ground with smiles as wide as the men and women who chest bumped around them. It was glorious to witness. “Are you going to eat that churro?” asked The Man. Gene shook his head and handed over the savoury treat. “You will not change if you don’t make the change in you,” shouted Tony Robbins. Everything was shouted – his words, his gestures, even his smile. “You choose to suffer. You don’t have to. So choose not to suffer. It’s that easy. There are no restraints outside of those that you put on yourself. You’re in a bad relationship? Get out! You’re in a bad job? Get out! You’re in a bad financial situation? Get out! Get out of debt! Get out of that job! Get out of that relationship! And get out of your own restraints! Get out! Get out! Get the hell out!” he screamed. And everyone followed. “Get the hell out! Get the hell out! Get the hell out!” “It’s beautiful,” said The Man. “This level of conscious stimulation, you’d normally have to burn down half a village. Tony Robbins is the future. He is every god and every dictator in one.” “If you can’t fix yourself, who’s gonna fix you? You feel empty inside so you dive into a relationship hoping they will fill that void? Well, guess what? They’re empty too. If they couldn’t fix themselves, how the hell are they supposed to fix you? Get the hell out! Get out of your self-pity. Pick yourself up. Wipe off the mud, and start loving yourself damnit. Love is not a noun. It’s a damn verb. You have to do it. You have to practice it every day. If you feel sad, worthless, depressed, ashamed, insignificant, invisible, inferior, 40

ugly, unwanted, expendable, useless, and unworthy of being loved; then get the hell up, and get the hell out! Get out of that mindset! Get out of that prison! Pick yourself up! There are no victims by accident alone.” Behind the curtain, The Mad Scotsman unsheathed his Sgian Dubh. Tony Robbins’ words echoed in his mind and all he could think of was his own failures. He thought about the children he had abandoned and the grandchild that he had saved to make amends. He thought about his son and daughter being forced to ﬁnd their own way in the world – having no love of their own; having no father. “If you’re being held down, what do you do?” screamed Tony Robbins. “Get up!” shouted the audience in return. “You’re being held down at work!” “Get up!” “You’re being held down in a park!” “Get up!” “You’re being held down in life!” “Get up!” “It’s that easy. It doesn’t matter who is abusing you because as long as you abuse yourself, you do half the work. There are no victims. Get the hell up and get the hell out! Don’t choose to be a victim. I don’t care if they have a big checkbook or a big old knife. You put yourself on the ground. You chose to be a victim. So stop it. Get up and get out. But how, you say? You know, my own father abandoned me,” said Tony Robbins. “You probably didn’t know this. I could have blamed him, sure. I could have played the pity card. I could have fallen into a cycle of sex and drugs. I could have lost my will and then lost my way. I could have, and I would have had just reason. I could have, but I didn’t. I wasn’t the victim so I sure as hell wasn’t going to dig a hole of self-pity. Being left on my own was the greatest gift my father could have given me because it pitted me against myself and I could have gone two ways, I could have been the victim of the story or the hero of the story. And you 41

know what I chose?” The crowd erupted in glee. “The hero,” they screamed. “You are our hero.” “Let me stop you there,” said Tony Robbins. “You are my heroes.” And then the crowd went mad. “I want to be you,” screamed one half of the audience. “I want your baby,” screamed the other. All Tony Robbins could do was smile and wait for the joy to subside. He stood there looking out amongst his church, empowered and impassioned by their devotion to his every word. So delighted was, he didn’t feel the knife sticking into the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” screamed The Mad Scotsman. “This is the only way.” Tony Robbins gasped. He coughed blood all over his polo shirt. “Hel…” He gasped again, almost choking on the blood. His eyes were full of fright and surprise. Again, The Mad Scotsman plunged the knife into Tony Robbins; this time lunging into his chest and his palms, and the side of his face. For an old man, he lashed with a young man’s vigor. Whatever inspired him, it was greater than whatever will Tony Robbins had to defend himself from maim and slaughter. It was only when the knife stuck in Tony Robbins’ ear that both men locked eyes. “Dad?” said Tony Robbins. He may have left when he was just a boy, but Tony Robbins would never forget that look. It was the look of heartfelt deceit. It was the look of willing abandon. It was the look of betrayal. “I had no choice,” said The Mad Scotsman, the satchel falling out of his coat. The coins meant nothing, but their rattle as they spilled on the stage meant everything. 42

“Why did you leave?” said Tony Robbins. “We were just children?” The Mad Scotsman stood up and backed away from his dying son. He stared with horror and disbelief. What good could come out of such evil? Was humanity really worth the life of his son? “I’m sorry,” he said. “If you were a father, you would understand.” Then he left before security could reach him; diving off the back of the stage and escaping the very way that he snuck in. It was amazing that he could run under the weight of that grief and shame. A ball of guilt grew in his stomach and swelled to the size of an elephant, threatening to spew out of his every oriﬁce. “I’m sorry,” he said, a thousand times over, as he hid behind a dumpster and watched his son being resuscitated on a stretcher to no avail. “I’m sorry,’ he said, again, as he watched his daughter take her brother’s hand – a savior and a fallen angel embraced in death and covered in blood. “I’m sorry,” he said as his last words, as he hanged from a railing, swinging as those thick black clouds opened up, and the summer rain started to fall. “Yeah, you see you got the chicken churro,” said The Man. “Here’s the thing about Sao Paulo street food, as good as the chicken tastes, it’ll go right through you. If it’s savoury, no matter what, I’ll go with bacon. You can’t go wrong with bacon.” The two stood in the rain, watching as tens of thousands of mourners wept. “What now?” said Gene. “You write your book. The world has their Guru. Let you be their apostle.” “What do I write?” “It doesn’t matter,” said The Man. “They’ll believe every word.” The rain poured down as the ambulance drove away. In an alley on the other side of the street, an old man hanged lifeless and gray, hidden behind a dumpster that wouldn’t be seen for a week. On the other side of the street, a whore sat on a curb shaking. In 43

her head, she imagined how her daughter’s voice would sound and what her smile would look like. She tried to smile herself, to imagine what a smile would feel like. She walked off back into the titty bar with a single silver coin she had taken from the satchel. Inside she bought some heroin and a cigarette. And like her father, she found herself a quiet place where she too wouldn’t be found for a week. “Excuse me kind sir,” said The Man to a vendor on the street. “What kind of churros do you have?” “I have all kinds,” said The Vendor. “Do you have Doce de Leite?” said The Man. “Yes, sir, I do.” “Hallelujah,” said The Man. “Just the one?” “Yes, please.” “You’re not from around here, boss. Are you here for Tony Robbins? It’s a shame what happened, you know.” “I’m just here for the churros,” said The Man.

Also by C. Sean McGee A Rising Fall (CITY b00k 001) Utopian Circus (CITY b00k 011) Heaven is Full of Arseholes Coffee and Sugar Christine Rock Book Volume I: The Boy from the County Hell Rock Book Volume II: Dark Side of the Moon Alex and The Gruff (a tale of horror) The Terror{blist} The Anarchist Happy People Live Here The Time Traveler’s Wife Ineffable London When it Rains The Inscrutable Mr. Robot A Boy Called Stephany Alex and The Gruff: Dawn of the Bully Hunter The Parasite

http://cseanmcgee.blspot.com