Time(0): God and His Boys Ride Inta Hell-- No, Worse. H^ Escapes th' Wrath of God.
God pats His hair into place and reaches for the hair spray. (...the aerosol kind that obliterates ozone. He doesn't care. He could fix the ozone with one breath, one little puff of hallowed wind, but what would He do with all those unemployed atmospheric scientists? Where would those ill-tempered environmentalists turn up next? The problem with fixing problems is that -- then what? Idle minds, that's what. God'll take ozone depletion over idle minds any day.) Carefully, He dons His white cowboy hat, then steps back to view the effect.
"Buy a girl drink, handsome?" He imagines a pretty barfly saying.
"Why shore, darlin'." He grabs the hat from His head and plunks it indifferently down on the bar, the way a real cowpoke (whose hat was actually worn to keep the sun off, instead of for show) would do it. A little puff of trail-dust wafts up from the immaculate hat. Then, furtively, God snatches it up again, remembering that a real cowpoke wouldn't bother taking his hat off. "What'll ya have, sugar?"
"I'd like to get closer to that absolutely rivitin' mustache. That's what I'd like, cowboy," she says with a knowing smile.
God is pleased. He thought the mustache would be a nice touch. He sticks out His tongue and curls it upwards to lick the unfamiliar growth. It tastes like pine-gum. The pretty barfly loses her smile as the underside of the Omniscient tongue comes into view. God notices.
"Sorry, ma'am," He says.
"Uh...it's okay, mister," she replies uncertainly. She begins to wonder if buttering up this overdressed dude will be worth it. She glances around the bar, looking for another mark, just in case this one licks His fake mustache again. Ugh!
Having embarrassed Himself, God ends the imaginary encounter. At least, He's learned something; don't lick the mustache. Anyway, if things go right, it'll never even be seen.
Quickly, He looks around Anna's bathroom to make sure He's left it clean. "Mustn't rile the little lady!" (Then, why doesn't He use His own bathroom?) He touches His hat and steps out through the shower onto the packed earth of the abandoned watering hole. The hoof prints of a million trail weary cows have been baked into the hard clay. A trillion or so flies savor a couple of million cowpies (two per cow). Ten ugly guys stand by ten ugly horses. A pretty white horse waits by himself. He looks up with relief when he sees God.
"Let's ride," is all God says.
As they mount up, one ugly guy turns to another. "Ya ever ride with this dude afore?"
"Nope."
"Ya know where we're goin'?"
"Nope."
"Ya care?"
"Nope. Not so long as I gits paid."
"Not even if'n he takes us ta hell?" The first ugly guy grins malevolently, like he'd almost enjoy a ride into hell.
The second ugly guy checks his carbine. "Hell? Hell ain't nothin'. Hell's boring."
The third ugly guy speaks up. "At least there's weepin' 'n wailin' 'n gnashin' of teeth. And fallin' wimin. What's really boring is them Elysian Fields."
The fourth ugly guy nudges his horse around the others as God glances around impatiently. "Yeah," he said, "bliss 'n frolickin'. I rode inta thar by mistake once."
God speaks up. "Ya goin' ta ride or jaw?" He swings the beautiful white steed towards the distant hills. Sweeping His hat from His head, He swats the horse on the rump with it. With a whoosh, they disappear into the golden dust--er, dusk.
"I hope it's hell," the first ugly guy says. "I ain't never been thar." Whoosh.
"Boring," the second ugly guy mutters. Whoosh.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh...(Ten ugly times.)
Whatever anyone says about God; about His cowboy talk, or His bad comic timing, or His tracking dinosaur dung into the house, or His cigars--let no one doubt His courage. When He reins in the magnificent white stallion, all covered in sweat and duck--er, dust, and when His ten ugly cohorts have reined in their ten mangy nags, and when the dust has finally settled so everybody can see, everybody sees that they're at the base of a tall black mountain. Smooth, like a glass ashtray. Obsidian, if you know what that is (and you should by now. If you don't, stop and look it up. Educate yourself as you read!)
And it's painfully obvious to all them ugly guys that the unthinkable is about to happen.
"I wish ta hell we was ridin' ta Hell," the second ugly guy says. "Oh, how I want ta go ta Hell...."
"Why?" The first ugly guy feels a stab of fear cut through him like a knife or fork. "Where are we?"
The fourth ugly guy rides up. "Black. Smooth as a glass ashtray. Big as a mountain. Ah-h-h-h, shit!"
"What? What?"
The third ugly guy turns his nag's head back the way they've come. "Not me." he says. "I ain't goin' there."
But, even as he spurs his horse into flight, the reddish dusk--er, dust through which they rode, whirls and swirls and curls in towards them as though a giant vacuum cleaner was sucking it up. Soon, there is nothing in that direction but darkness.
"No goin' back," God says quietly. "We're goin' in."
"Make me," the fifth ugly challenges, the first time he's spoken.
Suddenly, the fifth ugly guy is at the front of the ugly (except for God and His splendid mount) group, face-to-face with the huge slab. Like it or not, he's going in first.
"Now, git," God tells him. "Cover yer faces," God calls to the rest as He pulls a red bandana up to cover His mouth and nose. "We're ridin' inta the Grimm Five-A, itself."
* * *
Pterodactyls are too stupid to be really good watchdogs, but they do have keen eyesight, just like birds. So, if you can get a pterodactyl's attention turned to a threat, he'll be able to see clearly what it is, and watch its progress...and let you know how long before it gets to you. (Although he will express time in terms of his own wing-rotations, which can be hard to decipher. A computer can do it, though.). The trick, then, is to have a forward scout who can confirm that a threat approaches, then explain to a dumb pterodactyl what's going on and convince it to fly toward the threat and report its progress in term of wing-rotations.
Neon signs make good forward scouts. No one suspects a neon sign. It can be almost anywhere and go unnoticed (except in a church, their one serious weakness). And, they have a rapport with pterodactyls, who like to sit on them and peck their lights out. Hang a neon sign somewhere and you've a good, reliable scout. (It should have lots of letters, otherwise it's always in the shop.)
The fifth ugly guy notices the sign. It's hanging over the entrance to a large sheep ranch. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, it says. It's multicolored, although you and I would never recognize the colors. It flashes on and off.
"There's one a' them spy signs," the fifth ugly guy says.
God reins in alongside him. "Yep." He looks out over the vast spread -- sheep everywhere. He chuckles. "This computer ain't so smart. That ain't no Ewe-nited States! Not with all them revoltin' li'l wooly thangs! Thet sign chap jus' hung up the sign with the most letters."
"Wan' I should shoot it out?"
"Naw. Jus' ride on. Keep yer eye peeled fer the pterodactyl."
"Kin I shoot the pter-- pter-- big bird?"
"Ya cain't shoot nuthin'," God says. "I don't hold with killin'."
"Then, why've I gotta gun?" The fifth ugly guy grumbles.
"Ta twirl," God replies. "Ride on!"
* * *
In the midst of the United States of America sheep ranch, a few low adobe buildings huddle in the shade of a stand of cottonwood trees. There's a ranch house which appears deserted and is. Its only function is to house the Grimm Five-A's CPU, which rests on a patchwork quilt in the master (and only) bedroom. There's a barn topped by a corrugated metal roof. There are a couple of outhouses, one for men and one for women. There's a combination blacksmith shop and neon sign repair shop. And, there's a barbecue pit.
Just beyond the neon sign repair shop, two pretty girls sit at the edge of a scum-laden pond in the shade of a cottonwood tree. A pterodactyl perches on a low branch of the tree. He looks expectant. The girls ignore him. The brunette is doing the blonde's nails, while the blonde does the brunette's hair.
The girls are data types. Lazy ones.
The pterodactyl is a (virtual) dog. He needs a bath. He wants one. The girls will give him a bath when they're damn good and ready.
From inside the neon sign repair shop, comes the sound of hammering (not a good sign in a neon sign repair shop!) and the pffzzzzzzt! of a welder...or maybe it's a sputtering neon sign. A man is heard singing. Hammering, welding, and singing. The man would be annoying to work with. His name is C.A.R.L.O.
C.A.R.L.O. hits a high note...because he has hit himself with the hammer! He rushes to the entrance and calls the girls to him. They fly to his side, then are instantly gone. They move pretty fast considering how lazy they are. Now, they are back with bandages and a pan of cold water. C.A.R.L.O. immerses his thumb in the water, heaving a sigh of relief, then throws the water onto the dry ground. It is immediately soaked up. Gone.
C.A.R.L.O. sends one of the luscious girls into his shop for the latest neon sign. It's a beautiful sign, done in Mother's Milk white letters on a gold background, which gives its light a sumptuous, almost celestial, glow. "THE LORD COMETH," it says.
So...they're on to Him.
God halts his band of uglies in the shade of a saguaro cactus and motions for them to wait. He nudges the flanks of his splendid charger and rides forward, stopping at the edge of a cliff. He is overlooking the Painted Desert National Park, a walloping big expanse of reddish, grayish, and yellowish (and some greenish) desert that stretches to the horizon in every direction (except behind Him, where it's dark). It's not the Painted Desert that you're thinking of, but there are enough similarities to justify a comparison. Go ahead and think of the one you were thinking of.
A drop of water spilled on the floor of this desert is instantly soaked up, leaving the surface as dry as before it was spilled. The ten ugly horses and seven of the ten ugly guys are back there in the shade pissing into this ruddy plain. Schluup, it's gone. Just a memory.
God turns from the view and rejoins his cohorts. He needs to make some plans. He needs to talk things over, but--
The fifth ugly guy is leaning against the big cactus, bitching to the fourth ugly guy about the heat and the color of the rocks and the sharp pain in his arm. The first ugly guy is wishing he'd gone to hell, and so is the second, though the first ugly guy is thinking of himself and the second ugly guy is thinking of the fifth ugly guy.
"What?" It's the third ugly guy. He thought he heard something.
God shakes His head. What a sorry bunch. He looks at the sixth ugly guy, from whom he's heard nothing. Clearly the sixth ugly guy is planning something. That's what God needs right now. A planner. He moves toward the sixth ugly guy.
"Say podner. How'd ya thank we should handle this here operation?"
"Shucks!" Disgustedly, the sixth ugly guy throws down a handful of sand. "Ya'll made me lose m' place."
"What was ya doin'?"
"Countin' dirt."
Shaking His head, God glances at the seventh ugly guy, who is still pissing into the dust, fascinated by the speed with which it is absorbed. Then, He glances at the eighth, ninth, and tenth ugly guys, who are -- gone. He looks again (at what, if they're gone?) That's what He thinks, too.
"They must a' been the smart ones," He mumbles. In His mind's eye He sees them, riding hell bent for election back the way they'd come. That's when it hits Him.
"Mount up!" He calls. "We're goin' back!"
Wow! What a relieved bunch of uglies! They scramble aboard their ugly horses and ride out of there so fast, the wonderful white equine is left in the dusk. No. Wait. He's just standing there, a beatific smile on his horsey face. So is God. And, twirling His cap pistol.
Serenely, He mounts up and cantors slowly to the head of His ugly little band. They are all waiting at the edge of the darkness. The eighth, ninth, and tenth ugly guys are there, too, as you'd expect. They're darn glad to see God.
"Let thar be light!" He calls. And, the darkness rolls back and they ride on.
"Whar we goin'?"
"The back door," God says. "Thar's al'ays a back door--and, I know jus' whar it is."
As he leads his scruffy band through the gate to the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ranch, an unholy smell reaches His nostrils. He glances up. A pterodactyl flaps awkwardly to a landing on the big neon sign and begins picking at a letter.
"Gol dang!" God drawls, "Thet dawg needs a bath."
That's what C.A.R.L.O. thinks, too. But, now that the data types are ready to give him one, the dog's gone. That's fine with the data types. They return to the shade of the cottonwood tree and wait for instructions. C.A.R.L.O. goes into his shop.
One thing C.A.R.L.O. likes; every time he enters his shop, it's as if for the first time. That's because he forgets about the shop every time he leaves it. As soon as he enters, he is surprised and delighted with all the colors, the pulsing light, the shapes being made, cancelled, then remade, the buzz and crackle of energy...all the stuff that fancy neon signs do. And, he immediately remembers that this is his shop. He thinks that's the wonderful thing about working in RAM; random access memory. Forgetfulness leading to surprise leading to instant recall.
Once he remembers where he is, C.A.R.L.O. always glances at the wall on his left to reassure himself that his favorite sign is still there. It's a smallish sign that simply blinks on and off; doesn't light up like a rocket ship blasting off or anything like that. The sign has letters missing, but it wouldn't let C.A.R.L.O. replace them. It seems to be expecting something although it certainly isn't waiting for whatever it is expecting. Whatever it is expecting will have to catch it on the run. It has a full head of steam going even though it isn't going anywhere. That's the sense of it to C.A.R.L.O., anyway. "H^aGn'tl," the sign says. (We know all about that sign.)
Something is wrong in the neon sign repair shop, C.A.R.L.O. knows. H^aGn'tl is nervous (more so than usual). He is flashing faster than ever. He is straining against the wall, as though he'd like to fly from it and across the shop. A couple of the other, more intuitive signs, are also acting up. One of them, a broken Hel^ Want'd sign is running backwards, pointing left while gesturing right. His brand new sign, The Lord Cometh, suddenly fills the room with it's soft, brilliant, golden, lustrous light. The light is so comfortable, it's frightening. C.A.R.L.O. breathes. The air tastes like divinity (what else?).
He goes to the door. There, before him, is the most stunning white pony he's ever seen (also the only one). It stands before the most slovenly, ill-bred, mismatched bunch of black horse-flesh C.A.R.L.O. has ever beheld (these, too would be the only ones). Those horses would give Satan gas. They are all saddled, but riderless. A bad sign.
C.A.R.L.O. glances from side to side. Nobody there. He goes back inside. (He could look a little harder, we think, but then we think...would we?)
Doesn't matter. As he turns from the door, he is confronted by a tall cowboy dressed all in white, including his cap pistol, which is being steadily pointed at C.A.R.L.O. The cowboy's face is covered by a red bandana. Behind him is a gang of the foulest, smelliest, least friendly, and ugliest bad guys C.A.R.L.O. has ever seen. (And, of course, the only ones.)
"How...how'd you get in here?"
God smiles beneath his bandana. "...the back door." He turns to His disheveled crew. "I tol' ya. They's al'ays a back door." Then, He notices the beautiful white sign that had suffused the shop in heavenly light and candy. "Hold on thar, pard. Whar'd thet thing come from?"
"I made it. It's a warning sign."
"I kin see thet. What I want ta know is, why'd ya make it?"
"He's coming."
"Ever'one knows He's comin'," God says. "It's even in yer Bible. But, why'd ya'll feel called upon ta make the sign now?" Then, God has a thought. "Say, ya'll ain't one of 'em crazies, are ya? Predictin' doom 'n the end of the world, 'n all?"
C.A.R.L.O. doesn't quite know how to answer that. He knows nothing of crazies or the end of the world. He knows neon signs. He knows lazy data types. He knows a smelly dog, which by the way, should have warned him about this intruder. He looks around the shop for the dog. He sees H^aGn'tl. H^ is flashing madly and gesturing at the warning sign, then to the tall cowboy in white. Because C.A.R.L.O. works in a computer, he catches on quickly. His favorite neon sign is trying to tell that (a) this guy is a warning sign, or (b) this guy is the Lord.
"You're not a crazy, are you?" he asks to eliminate a third possibility that H^ might not have thought of.
"No!" God booms, re-leveling the cap pistol at C.A.R.L.O.
C.A.R.L.O. begins to quake. "And, you're not a warning sign, so..." Frantically, he hurls himself to his knees. Afraid he still isn't low enough, he throws his head down, bonking it on the ground. "My Lord!" he cries. "Please don't shoot me!"
Ah, shucks," God says, pulling the bandana disgustedly from his nose. "Git up from thar. I ain't yer Lord--that's My kid. I'm jus' God."
He raises an eyebrow, yanking C.A.R.L.O. to his feet. "What I'd like ta know is, how'd ya'll know ta make thet thar sign? Who warned ya?"
In a flash (God can do that), God and H^aGn'tl are in H^aGn'tl's old alley, though you wouldn't recognize it. The alley sweepers have been busy, the painter's have been busy, the derelict lights that used to slouch around the alley in a stupor have been made whole and sent to earth or some such place.
"Where are my friends? What'd You do to 'em?"
God resists the urge to whop H^ upside the head. "Figgers ya'll wouldn't 'preciate my efforts here. Yer sidekicks've all been born somewheres or other," God says. "Prob'ly as rocks," He adds under His breath.
"You've taken all the personality out of this place," H^ gripes.
"Ya'll said ya wanted it cleaned up! Wal', it's cleaned up!"
"H^aGn'tl flashes irritably, but says nothing. What can he say. God's right. "I don't remember it being this small," he mutters.
God smiles to Himself. "They never do," He thinks. He watches H^aGn'tl pace the far end of the alley. A welling-up of fondness for Neon Light overcomes Him, taking Him by surprise. He pulls off His hat and wipes his brow with the red bandana, surreptitiously wiping His eyes. "Enough a' thet," He scolds Himself. "Git down ta business."
"Aw, you fixed the fence," H^ whines. He runs his hands over the two or three new boards in the fence at the end of the alley. "At least you didn't patch my peep hole." He stoops to look into a small knothole. "I can't tell you the ____ I spent looking through that black hole!" (There not being any time in Eternity, H^ had no word to describe the amount of it he'd frittered away at the hole in the fence. God knew what he meant, though.)
"Stop thet whinin'," God drawls, His tender feelings gone. "I come to git thet file. Whar is it?"
For a moment, H^aGn'tl doesn't know what God is talking about. Then, it dawns on him. God is trying to find the computer file Gretl has compiled on Jonathan! The one she'd spent all that time on! H^ had forgotten about the file. He turns to God, who has, meantime, drawn His cap pistol.
Guns make H^aGn'tl nervous. "Please put that thing away. What do you want with my file?"
"Jonathan's file. Thar's certain information in it--"
"Well, if you already know what's in it...."
"Okay. Okay. Maybe, thar's certain information...."
"What information? About what?"
"About th' murder a' th' innercent child, Becky Blank, is what."
"I didn't kill her!"
"So ya'll say. But, I need me a corroboratin' witness."
"So much for trust," H^ says.
God fidgets at that, but says nothing. He waves the cap pistol menacingly.
"Anyway," H^ continues, "I don't have it. It's in there." He flickers his neon in the general direction of the Grimm Five-A (whatever direction that is).
"How do I git it outa there?"
"How should I know!" H^ shouts. "I--"
God is waving the cap pistol dangerously. His trigger finger is itching. "Ya'll spend an awful lot a' time in thet sign shop, H^aGn'tl. Don't tell Me ya don't know how ta git a lil' ol' file. I'm beginnin' ta thank ya got somethin' ta hide...."
H^ trembles. He's really scared of cap pistols. He favors banning them. "You won't tell how you found out? You won't tell Jonathan?"
"I don't make deals w' sidewinders," God sneers, knowing He has H^ where He wants him. "Spill it, pard. Don't make me use this."
H^ sputters and crackles his neon. He wonders why God always gets the upper hand. (Think about it, H^aGn'tl.) Then, it hits him -- what he can do! "Well," he says, stalling as he sidles toward the fence. "I guess you've got me..." Sidle, sidle. "Nothing I can do..." Inch, sidle. "Might as well face it..." Sidle...there!
"I have no choice but to tell you..." He glances quickly at the unsuspecting God, then leaps into the black hole in the fence! Pop! His light goes out. Crackle, pfffssst! He's doused in the infinite blackness! Zzzzzzzzzt! He barrels toward oblivion! "...but, not just yet!" he calls as he zooms to his fate! (I suppose you want to skip ahead and learn H^'s fate. Go ahead. No one's stopping you.)
"Dern," God drawls. "Varmint got away."