Pete had stepped from behind the front desk again, the Boss noted. Not having a receptionist in place had become something of a problem of late. Mr. Y understood, but still, just for a few drags on a cancer stick was all he normally took, but since the first of moon of Harvest, it had gotten worse. Mr. Y. settled into the chair, knowing routing the calls to the right agent to deal with was something someone like Him could still do. Ever since they had gone digital, though, volume was up from the old days, when it had been just Him and Enoch and the boys not chained to cubicles, but out there delivering the product.
One hundred million calls waiting, though, made the Boss blink twice. That had to be a glitch. When Pete came back in, He would get on the IT guys about not pulling jokes other than April First and Fifteenth. The Boss sighed, if this was the problem, the desk would be manned more if needed. Even if He had to contract out to the folks downstairs.
Placing the headset on His noggin, Mr. Y bravely hit ready and took the first call.
"Heaven, this is God speaking, how can I help you My child."
Normally, answering in person used to lead to five or ten minutes of total silence, which could be used to look out for the constantly in trouble sparrows. But the modern world was not the place He used to deal with anymore. Folks assumed He was being humorous.
"Nice answer, look, my name is Joe Smithers, and I have a one time deal for you."
"Deals are not how We work here at Heaven, young man." That old stern tone His Son so often tried to get Him to drop snuck into His voice. He had not dealt with Faust, why should He for this wayward lamb. "You ask, I determine your worthiness, and you get what you deserve. No more, no less."
Again, the child of Adam laughed. Mr. Y was beginning to understand why a certain member of His staff had left to make the firm downstairs, besides the obvious temperature on aged joints joke they often shared. "Look mister, I have a plan for your car that allows you to extend your factory warranty for your lifetime."
The kid was starting with a joke, the Boss thought for a second. Out of concern that His Son might be in on the joke, He decided to play along. "Make it quick, My child, there is a hell of a mess in Japan I need to clean up it sounds like."
"Look, this plan will cover your car with a near match to the factory warranty, minus any defects actually coming from design error, normal wear and tear or accidents." The joker rushed into his pitch, talking faster than Noah had when He told him about the Deluge to wash off the evil folk. "For just ninety-nine dollars a month, we will fix only those errors caused by acts of God."
"Son, you were not listening to Me. If acts caused by Me, namely accidents, are not covered, how can you fix an act of Mine?" This was getting old quick. It was not as bad as waiting for the boys to find their destined wives back in the early days, but the Boss had a feeling that something almost as long was coming along. And He did not shake those feelings off easily. He had His hunches for a reason.
"No sir, if you caused it, its an accident. But acts of God cause more problems in the insurance industry than all Hell combined." A disturbing thought, the Boss realized, knowing just who was downstairs, why they were there, and what they dreamed of doing if let loose. "Now, like I said, we cover those events, unless they are predicted by any form in a two year range, including psychics, prognosticators, erroneous computer programs and weathermen. Buts still, we all know how often the weathermen are wrong, right sir?" A recent inside the office joke made Mr. Y smile widely for a few moments. Weathermen were wrong because their wives called upon Him to "fix their pompous butts".
"There is that. Now son, lets cut to the chase, what is the problem you need Heaven's help with, and I will send you to an Angel or Minister of Mercy to deal with the issue, based upon your piety."
"Look, Mac, You have to buy this, its the only way to protect yourself from acts of God!" The child was no longer being polite.
"Call back again, and I will assign you to Hell for all of Eternity!" Mr. Y managed not to roar this, though He was tempted to set the bush nearest this backwards fool on fire and give him the kind of dressing down He had not dished out since Moses broke the first set of Tablets.
The disconnect button felt good under His finger. He was sure that was an invention of some lad in the back offices who needed a week over in the Garden. He grumbled then hit the next prayer button.
"Heaven, this is God, what ails you my child?" He chided himself internally, as a bit of the anger was still touching His voice. He would have to work on that, or Junior would be on Him about His blood pressure again. Not that it was a problem with the health plan here.
"Hi there, my name is Monica, and I am calling on behalf of the National Endowment for Edsel Repairmen. We would like your help in supporting this long suffering group in their chronic plight of under-employment...."
Mr. Y almost laughed. He remembered this issue. "I told Henry not to buy that company out when he prayed about it, child. I don't hand out money here, just mercy. Now, if you have any other problems, state them fast, there is a big backlog while Pete takes his break." He felt better about this one. His recollection was that He had advised all the mechanics not to specialize when they had asked Him for guidance, back in the day.
"But sir, for a donation of just five hundred dollars, five percent of which we guarantee will make it to the afflicted group, we can support one of them for two to three days." The girl had an earnest tone, but it was just a slick and oily as the one the Daystar had used, before being given his walking papers and the chance to make his own firm. "Seriously, sir, we really could use your money. We would have called you, but the 'do not call' law prevents that, so we had to reach you this way. Think of the good you could do for the millions of out of work Edsel Repairmen."
"Five, actually, and they are all making a bundle. I know, they thank Me nightly for advising all the fools who collect cars of the value of antiques." That got a gasp, then a laugh.
"Sir, see, its just that kind of mentality that prevents these deserving folks some compensation...." CLICK.
The Boss thrummed His fingers on the desk. Down on earth a line of thunderstorms stalled over Ohio, Kentucky and Tennessee, unleashing the greatest number of tornadoes in a one hour period ever recorded. One stirred up set out to beat the record of being the deadliest, strongest, widest, and duration record holder for the western hemisphere, making the Tri-State Tornado look like a dust devil in comparison.
Hoping it was a joke, or Lucifer playing a joke with the gear from downstairs, He hit the ready button, after cooling off.
"Heaven, this is the Lord. What is troubling you My child?"
"Sir, I am with the Internet Addicts of Africa, and we desperately need cash to improve the service in rural African nations to allow more spam to be sent out by the various gangs and mafias. Think of the return on this investment, why you could see a twelve thousand percent return on every dollar you give us to invest, just from the lonely men of America sending money to other men in Third World countries, minus our handling fee of course..." The speaker got no further, as a bored Deity spiked the cutoff button with a stern finger. The stab was echoed by a series of nine plus Richter earthquakes around the Ring of Fire.
The Pearly Gates opened slightly and a waft of tobacco smoke drifted in, making an irritated God desire a smoke Himself. Resisting temptation, He took the next prayer.
"Heaven, this is GOD. What problem do you need help with?"
"Sir, my name Mikey, and I am with the Committee to Elect Rob Bobblehead to Congress......" The name set off twelve off season hurricanes in the southern Hemisphere of Earth, the four in the South Atlantic alone being more than mortals could recall ever happening. Congress with Bobblehead in it was not something He, THE Almighty Lord wanted to see. There were enough idiots in Washington DC already. Not to mention the messes they made he had to listen to complaints about.
"Why, I say he will lose, and what I say, goes!" The button creaked under the Hand of God as He poked it in irritation. A scowl on His face, He checked His book, and sure enough, Bobblehead was marked down to have his philandering and gambling problems hit the presses two weeks down the road. It was not merciful, save to the voters and fools who might contribute to his running. Some of those were good hearted folks destined for Heaven themselves, just gullible to the sly tongues of the shysters out there, like Bobblehead and Mikey. Mikey would find his own quick little payback for disturbing the lines of communication with such drivel. Mr. Y made a note to have his past as a democratic fund-raiser leaked to the Tea Party Movement and all the radio commentators that supported his PAC.
Pete had come back in and stood in the Gates, face ashen, trembling. "My Lord...."
Mr. Y forestalled him, scowling as He hit the ready button, motioning for a cigarette and lighter with the other hand. Both went to it reluctantly, until the Boss shook one out, stuck it in His mouth and fired up for the first time since some fool had asked Him to support smoking and drinking as being evil. The best part about being Him was He got to decide what was Good and what was Evil. After this, smoking had dropped from Cardinal Sin all the way down to "Quirky habit that can be overlooked" again.
He let the petitioner wait as He took a long, noisy drag on the butt. Filters, He noted, ruined the taste He remembered.
When the Boss spoke this time, all Heaven heard and trembled at the volume and tone. "Heaven! This is the Lord God Almighty, make it brief, and you better be in Good standing!"
His Son bolted into the room, his eyes wide as a gas planet's rings. Yeshua did not say a word, though. He remembered that tone from the day He asked for a burden to be lifted. Not that the Gentiles had really been a great problem, until the last few centuries.
"Good evening. This is the Right Reverend BillyBob, and I am calling to tell you that the Mercy of our Savior can be yours! All you need to do is give all your worldly ways and goods up......" A crook of His index finger ended this pitch, cold.
"William Robert Wastedbreath, you are scum, and I told Peter to call ME when you get to the head of the line! You make your parishioners live on crumbs, working to support you, the wife, kids, six concubines, four prostitutes, one of them who was not born a girl, and so many bastards I have trouble counting them! Well listen up, go to that camera, confess your sins, or I will be down there to tell the whole of the congregation just how little mercy I have for you! Now SCAT!"
This time the teleprayer shattered under the closed fist that slammed the buttons. Silence ruled almost as quiet as in the days before the Creation for a whole eternity between human heartbeats. Then the Voice of God rang out.
"URIEL! FRONT AND CENTER!"
All Heaven trembled, down to the foundations, which let the devils down at the foundation level know there was about to be some boom business in souls.
"Yes, Oh Lord?" Uriel walked up slowly.
"WHAT IS THIS CRAP!"
The archangel charged with dispensing wisdom sighed. "Politicians don't come to us for Wisdom, like Solomon did, Sir, they just want more power and wealth." Wiping an angelic brow with a handkerchief, the messenger of God pressed on fast. "So, those idiots in the Washington....well Boss, they, um... passed a law that prayers could be regulated by their Federal Confused messages Committee... and well, it took effect Monday..."
Mr. Y stormed out of the lobby, finding His way out back to the stables. Plague and Pestilence were lounging around, taking pot shots at the world with the tools of their trade. "Where is War and Azrael?" God said in a cold, low voice.
"Azrael is busy with some disasters that appeared not on the schedule last hour, and War is somewhere in the Mid-East. Libya, I think." Plague was never one to stand on formality, which had taken the Boss a long time to get used to, but he had his uses to Him.
"Go down there, forget the signs, forget the trump blowing, just do it, boys. But promise me one thing."
Pestilence grin spread at the thought of rats and locusts staging comebacks, not to mention many others he had not used in ages. Bedbugs were not worthy of his concentration anymore.
"Sure thing, Boss. What is it?"
The Lord God paused, then changed His mind. "Two, get me some cigars from Cuba and take out all the Telemarketers first." The Horsemen were saddling up when the Boss spoke again. It was a sweet syrupy tone they had not heard since the first Passover. "And no need to rush things with the telemarketers, take your time. Then the Politicians. After that, have fun."
Plague turned back to ask one last question. "What about the Lobbyists?"
God's grin tore the fabric of the Universe just from sheer malice in it.
"Forward all the tele-prayers, emails and the like to them, and glue them to their chairs."
The boys rode out, grinning, happy to be back at work again. The people of Earth found their faith again, as phones fell silent for longer periods of time. Until it was time for their own Last Judgment. Mr. Y contracted the job of making appointments for Judgment out to Hell, and told them to be really nasty to anyone in the telecom industry who had survived.
Like I said, I see a burning ring of fire in my future... or a laugh while smoking a good Havanna hand rolled. Somewhere, and I am still looking for it, I have a tale of a poker game between angels in grace and fallen, as they complain that humans are just.... strange. I may share that on a later date.
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