Prologue in Heaven
When Saint Nicholas showed up unexpectedly at the foot of his throne, God the Father was, shall we say, somewhat put out.
Aw, hell, let’s he honest.
Almighty God was pissed, peeved, and perplexed.
He thundered and snapped at the usually-but-not-right-now jolly old elf. “What is it now? Fucking race of human fuckers is my bet. All right, spill the beans. Who did what to whom this time?”
Santa delivered the bad news, adding, “It was all done by a bunch of wankers who never managed to get off my naughty list.”
“They put that idiot up for election to the most powerful position in the world?”
“And he won?”
“In a manner of speaking, though he’s really a minor-league president-elect who lost to another candidate by nearly three million popular votes.”
The Son immediately appeared. “Yes, Father?”
“Oh, shut up. I wasn’t addressing you. You did enough damage on your little adventure down there. And stop flashing those fucking palm gashes before the heavenly host. They impress no one.”
The Son, giving a hangdog look, vanished.
Santa explained further what had happened in the last months of 2016.
“They don’t believe in science?” God the Father gaped in incredulity. “Or they pretend not to, lest spouting such beliefs might block their labial access to the buttocks of the rich? Fucking dolts!”
Santa put the best face he could on this Trump character.
If he dredged deep enough and downplayed the countless layers of crap slathered over the man’s personality, he could contrive to come up with some slight measure of generosity in depicting him.
But, let’s face it.
When you’re tarting up a pig, at some point, you simply run out of lipstick.
“Nice try, Nicholas,” said God. “No cigar. They don’t call you a saint for nothing.”
Santa went further into the political absurdities happening on planet Earth.
With each new insanity the jolly old elf reeled off, God the Father grew increasingly upset. At last, he let out such a sudden, high-decibeled bellow of bitch and bile that the angel choirs, caught mid-song, left off their hosannas and hallelujahs, glanced stupidly about at one another, then resumed.
And God sighed. “I suppose divine intervention is called for. Who shall it be this time and what sort?”
The Son began to materialize, but the Father, with a sweeping gesture of dismissal, dismissed him and he at once backed off and winked out.
Santa said, “I’d be happy to—”
“Yes, yes. You and I, initially at least.”
He glanced sharply over. “Wait a minute. I thought you’d fixed those seven billion goddamned human psyches, you and your elves, the Easter Bunny, Hephaestus—and finally Aphrodite, giving you such a vast quantity of exquisite fucks to help you guarantee the integrity of them all.
“What the hell happened?”
Saint Nick’s face reddened. “I dropped in on Hephaestus. He took a closer look at the active clones in the psyche factory. Then he compared them to the actual psyches on earth.
“It seems they’ve developed a disconnect.”
“Have developed. Up here, they look perfect. Down there? Royally screwed up.”
“And how long have you known about this?”
“Well we . . . I mean I . . . took my eye off the ball. I thought everything would be perfect. But now I see that that was a false hope. Their psyches are exceptionally stubborn. Resist change. We’ve got some sort of bug in our system. Hephaestus is checking it out right now.”
“Any evidence of mayhem from the Tooth Fairy, her imps, or any of her nasty recruits?”
“None. The psyches seem to have fallen back from a state of perfection all on their own.”
“And would I be correct in assuming that you’ve kept on fucking the Goddess of Love—to the tune of, what is it, a million and a half per week—in order to shore up the psyches of newborns? That you’ve done so, knowing that every last one of those psyches is disconnected from its original on earth?”
Santa averted his eyes. “Well, Aphrodite is an exceptionally beautiful goddess. And I’ve long ago reconciled myself to having once been Pan, King of the Satyrs.
“Insatiable him and therefore me.”
God scoffed, “Water under the bridge. Hephaestus is on board with your bedding his wife over and over and ad nauseam over again.
“Let’s put together a plan and head on down there now!
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish