By Garion Bel
My peaceful rest was interrupted rudely on Thursday morning when the Lord, disturbed by the soft knock, knock, fuck knocking on the front door, started barking. It was 5am, and some person, maybe the neighbor, was knocking on my door. Persistently. I told the Lord to hush and rolled over a few times. The Lord just whimpered, as an apology, and would bark again. Isn’t the Lord a great dog? I’ve never heard a dog bark in an apologetic manner before.
Reluctantly, and quite fucking mad, I got out of bed, and retrieved my hunting knife from the computer desk drawer. (Nothing makes me want to cut myself more than Bob’s articles.) And then God pipes in, “Don’t kill her.”
“She had better be a fireman, a cop,” I reflected on this for a second, “or a really hot lesbian.” I flip on the lamp in the living room. The lamp wakes to see me with the knife looming over it said, “whatthefuck?” “It’s kind of early for this shit isn’t it?”
I gazed through the peephole to see an old, soon to be cut, woman with a sack. Then to God I said, “Behold, she has seen the squirrel head on the stick at the bottom of the stairs by the cat food, she has seen the sign that declares, ‘abandon all hope ye who solicit here’, and yet there she stands.” “She has no fireman or policeman uniform, and she is not hot.”
God’s only reply, “Fuck it, cut the bitch.”
“You really are an angry guy aren’t you?” I asked the almighty.
“She asks for it every Sunday when she drinks my son’s blood worrying about how quickly she can get to the buffet before every one else instead of reflecting on his death.” God went on for a little while, “Cut her, they won’t catch you, and you’ll go to heaven...”
Then the Lord spoke, “grrr woof,” followed up with another apologetic whine.
Then to God I said, “The lord says I’m already going to heaven and that I don’t have to kill anyone for you, but I’ll keep the option in mind. Lets see what she has to say.”
I opened the door, and looked at her, with the knife carefully hidden. She looked at me, standing there naked in front of her, and actually asked, “Does Chris and Lori live here?”
“Um, no” I replied but then God added, but if you like I can cut the extra bits of you away until you are about the same mass as Chris.
She grabbed her sack to leave, and I shut the door, without killing her. Then the lamp asked, “Why did you let her go?”
“She was a hurricane refugee…”