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The Devil and Pastor Gus

By Roger Bruner

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"Good day, my man." The stranger might have been addressing the doorman at the finest of five-star hotels back on earth and not Heaven's renowned gatekeeper, who leaned closer to the bars of Heaven's outer gate to get a better look. "I have an appointment with God."
Simon Peter grabbed the golden clipboard from a nearby stool and glanced over the names on the top sheet. Then he flipped to the second sheet. And the third.
Just as I thought. No new arrivals expected for another eight earth minutes. Nobody shows up here before his appointed time. Ever.
The stranger swaggered to a prominent spot several feet from the outer gate. Peter narrowed his eyes in shock. New arrivals didn't do that. They stood back a respectful distance, bowed their heads as if they were already in God's presence, and waited for Peter to call their names.
What was with this guy?
After giving him a discreet once-over, Peter mentally clicked through each of the pictures he'd viewed moments earlier-the next several groups of arrivals. He shook his head. None of them resembled the stranger.
He rubbed his chin and looked at the man. "I'm sorry, but I don't know who-"
"Call me B.L.ZeBubb," the stranger said before spelling his surname-twice. "The accent is on the L. Bee-EL-zuh-buhb. Sometimes people misspell it as B-e-e-l-z-e-b-u-b." He crossed his arms and looked into Peter's face. "And as I just told you, I have an appointment with God."
"Bee-EL-zuh-buhb," Peter said to himself as he wandered over to the computer at the check-in station and typed the name into The Lamb's Book of Life search field. He double-checked his spelling before clicking Go. If the correct spelling didn't work, he would try the misspelling.
A blood-red "No matches found. Be on the alert!" exploded across the screen. Peter narrowed his eyes. He'd never seen anything like that.
A message from God popped up on the screen before Peter could finish wondering what to do. "Not a problem, my child. Here's how I want you to handle this…"
#
Twenty yards into his stroll towards his appointed meeting place with God, B.L.ZeBubb looked back over his shoulder. Peter was still watching. And laughing his fool head off.
"This is what I think of you, Simon Peter." His eyes glowed red as he spit, and the saliva sizzled as soon as it hit the mud and burned straight through to…wherever.
Even though God had long been his worst enemy, B.L.ZeBubb deserved better treatment than this. The very thought of His refusing to grant a visitor's pass or to speak to him in person. Unwarranted.
But making him walk halfway around Heaven's outer wall to talk with God on an intercom? Preposterous. He almost turned around to go home. But this mission was too crucial to his well-being to give up on.
He walked only a few yards further before one foot slid out from under him. He barely caught himself in time to keep from landing in…mud. Conditions ahead appeared worse. He looked this way and that for a way around the bog only to discover that Heaven's foundation extended a mere five or six feet outside the wall, and that part was completely mud-covered now.
An immediate drop-probably bottomless-surrounded the foundation's outer perimeter.
Why hasn't God installed warning signs and guardrails? Especially for someone as important as I am?
The closer the path came to the edge, the more often B.L.ZeBubb lost his footing.
He glared at the mud and sensed that it was glaring back at him. Scuffing his custom calf-high boots through the shallow mire and leaving little toe troughs in his wake, he mumbled a string of the most profane curses he knew. And he knew a lot of them.
He would've preferred to shout them at the top of his lungs, but his mission was too important to chance offending God. And these aggravations wouldn't mean anything once he got what he'd come for.
"I won't be satisfied until I have Gus Gospello's soul," he muttered. "And every bit of my lost respect."
He snorted like an unbroken colt and clenched his fists. He wanted to shake them in God's face, but that would cost him his case before he could present it. It would also mean losing his balance and falling down in the mud-and possibly sliding over the edge.
Ugh. He shook his head.
After rolling his pant legs up just above his hairy knees, he slipped off one boot and-balancing awkwardly on the other leg-peeled off a sock that matched his flames-and-pitchforks necktie. He almost fell backward into the mire before he could get the second boot and sock off and leave them standing Satan-less at the edge of the worst part of the mud that oozed and squished between his toes.
It was cold. Oh, so cold. After thousands of years in a much warmer climate, he couldn't stand anything that wasn't superhot.
"Ouch!" He barely managed to avoid cursing aloud before examining his foot for the source of the pain.
Oh. He had apparently kicked a good-sized hunk of stone so hard that a piece of it broke off and lodged beneath his toenail. He wouldn't bother to dig it out now. He could stop at the vet's on the way home.
His movements slowed. The mud had grown deep enough to bog his steps down with a distinctive, suck-sounding thlurp each time he lifted a bare foot to move forward. He proceeded that way for several minutes, each an eternity longer than the one before, before he spotted a waterfall washing-no, flooding-the way ahead.
The outlet from Heaven's central heating and air conditioning system. He'd once gotten into big trouble by turning the heat up all the way as a practical joke. Maybe that's where God got the idea for Hell.
Sounded like a God-thing.
Grrr. Something small, silvery, and cylindrical sat on the mud at the base of the wall, where his chances of avoiding an ongoing drenching ranged from nil to zero. That must be the place.
After thlurpping closer, B.L.ZeBubb grabbed the empty can, pulled the handwritten note out, and held it up to the light that spilled over from Heaven.
#
B.L.ZeBubb read the note aloud. "Satan, you didn't honestly expect me to welcome you with open arms, did you?"
"Yes, I did." So what if he sounded petulant? God had no right to treat him this way.
"This children's toy intercom-made from two empty cans, a pair of nails, and a piece of string-is the best I'll do for you. The regular intercom isn't waterproof."
B.L.ZeBubb snorted at the series of indignities he'd encountered, which-like the waterfall itself-never seemed to let up. No more. What's God going to do next? I'm out of here.
But he couldn't leave. He had to have an answer. The one he wanted. The one his reputation depended on. His quest was too important-too essential for his personal well-being-to give up now.
"Gus Gospello," he muttered, "I'm gonna take you down. And I mean all the way to Hell."
He hoped God hadn't heard him.
He looked at the rest of the note. "Pull the can away from the wall until it's taut. Then we can talk."
How undignified. He looked around to make sure no one was watching.
Oh, man. Female angels sunbathing on top of the wall. Six, no, seven of them. Their eyes are glued to every move I make. And they appear to be giggling. That's okay, babes. I'm going to win your respect back today. Shortly, anyhow.
He put his mouth to the open end of the can. "Hey, God-are you there?"
I wouldn't do this to the lousiest, holiest human being on earth. I wouldn't even treat Gus Gospello this way.
He eyed the can with disdain. "Don't You have any respect for me?"
Laughter. From the intercom-and from the top of the wall. A bass voice responded. "The ambitious angel who rebelled and tried to take my kingdom away from me would dare to complain about how I treat him?"
Hmm. Better not respond to that. "I've been out walking the Earth, as I do daily," B.L.ZeBubb said, proud of making his words sound so biblical. "Your churches are filled with hypocrites and losers. Even the pastors. Doesn't that bother You?"
"My children love Jesus and me and strive to be more like us. People who claim to believe in me but not my Son aren't my children-regardless of what they think."
B.L.ZeBubb remained silent. Same old sermon. Heard it a zillion times. Give me the abridged version this time, won't You? Better yet, don't preach at all.
"Every human being is a sinner. But some of them refuse to follow me and seek my forgiveness. You know all about that, though, don't you?"
B.L.ZeBubb grinned. He'd lost count of how many "good" people he'd led away from God over the ages. But then his face curled into a vicious frown. Gus Gospello should have been his greatest contemporary success.
"Yes, B.L.ZeBubb, my pastors sin, too, but I forgive them-just as I forgive all of my children. But the real ones are tried and true."
Although B.L.ZeBubb had tipped his can to drain the water, the momentary delay didn't keep him from shooting back a quick response. "Tried and true? Who's tried them? Who's tested them enough to prove their veracitude"-was that a real word?-"beyond the shadow of a doubt?"
"You've done your best to sidetrack them from their calling, fella."
"Not really. You won't let me test them adequately." His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Not enough to really prove their faithlessness."
B.L.ZeBubb hoped to fool God with his half-truths. If faulty logic didn't work, he would resort to doubletalk. "God, You always draw protective circles around the saints I want to test. Especially Your pastors. You won't let me cross the line."
God's bass voice shook the foundation. "Within a few yards of where you're standing are thousands of the Christians you've martyred." He paused. "I didn't stop you."
B. L. ZeBugg shrugged. "Nobody's perfect."
Momentary silence. Several seconds later, God chuckled once. Then He laughed harder. The angels on the wall joined in, and the sounds of merriment seemed to echo throughout Heaven.
B.L.ZeBubb laughed, too. And why not? He'd managed to defuse God's anger.
"What about Job?" God said. "He was the most righteous man of his day…a spiritual giant. I let you 'cross the line' with him and do whatever you wanted."
B.L.ZeBubb bit his tongue…hard. "But not to take his life."
"What would killing him have proved? A dead man can't speak against me."
B.L.ZeBubb shrugged again. "Point taken."
"Face it, Satan. You failed to prove Job unrighteous. He didn't sin against me. All he did was defend himself a bit overzealously against those 'friends' of his, the three stooges you sent to torment him with their barrage of words and false accusations."
B.L.ZeBubb didn't pay attention to any part of what God said except "You failed." He never conceded loss. His mind couldn't fathom the concept, and his ego refused to stomach the thought.
Especially regarding Job.
God didn't wait for a response. "Yes, you failed."
Satan let the string go slack for a few seconds and cursed. Several times, in fact. Then he pulled it taut again. "Don't I deserve a second chance? You give human beings 'seventy-times-seven' second chances."
God remained silent.
"Anyhow, the Human Era had barely begun when I tested Job. My methods are more sophisticated now, and I've had more practice. I could do a really good job of testing Job now."
God smirked, and the angels giggled. "A good job of doing bad? I didn't know you had it in you to suggest an oxymoron like that."
What the-? Are you calling me a dumb ox? Or a moron? Or both?
He couldn't take much more of God's derision. Or of the sunbathing angels' raucous hooting.
He took a deep breath. "Don't You always look for the good in Your children because You don't want to be considered a failure? That keeps You from seeing how wicked they are. Under the worst of circumstances, even the best of them will turn against You in ways You can't miss."
"That's quite a speech, my boy. But because I am God-because I am perfect-I see my Believers more objectively than you do. However, if you want to perform an updated test-"
"I do! I do!" B.L.ZeBubb's mouth watered the way it did when closing a deal on a human soul. Not even manna tasted as sweet as the prospect of success.
"I know you have an ulterior motive, though. This is personal."
B.L.ZeBubb opened his mouth to protest, but promptly closed it again and grimaced in silence. No point in denying the truth.
"Tell you what. Pastor Gus Gospello at the Little Church on the Corner once approached you about a deal-yes, he told me the details later when he asked my forgiveness. Although he almost signed a contract with you, he changed his mind at the last minute."
"Oh, I…" B.L.ZeBubb's Job failure had been bad enough, but he never let anyone remind him of the Gus Gospello fiasco. Unfortunately, he couldn't keep anyone from talking about it behind his back. And he couldn't tell God to shut up, no matter how much he wanted to.
God's tone pricked every part of B.L.ZeBubb's pride. Especially when He added, "Gus changed his mind out of fear, not righteousness. He couldn't have wriggled free of your well baited hook if you hadn't scared him into breaking the line before you could scoop him into your net."
And I thought Peter was bad about using fishing analogies.
"After you boasted to everyone that you'd snagged a faithful Christian minister, his failure to show up for the signing galled you horribly. My angels are still laughing at you. Gus Gospello isn't Job, but would you like to fish for him again? I believe in his righteousness-one hundred percent. He's stronger than ever, but I give you permission to try to prove me wrong."
"Perfect. You're wrong, and I'll prove it."
"Here are the rules. You can torment Gus any way you like as long as you don't hurt him physically." He smirked once. "And you can't kill him painlessly, either."
"No?" B.L.ZeBubb's enthusiasm morphed into a joyless whine. "That's not-"
"You said you've updated your methods. Prove it. If your new approach fails to win Gus, you'll remain the laughingstock of Heaven. And I'll have my angels spread the word around Earth, too."
B.L.ZeBubb's ego roared to life like a car with a new, high-power engine. "You'll never have a chance to do that."
"You have to accomplish two things before I acknowledge you as the winner." If the confidence in God's voice meant anything, He didn't expect to lose.
B.L.ZeBubb shuddered. "Two?"
"Gus's signature on your standard Souled Out contract-"
"Of course. And?"
"-and you must deliver him personally to the fires of Hell. One accomplishment without the other makes your claim of victory null and void."
"But you know he's mine once he signs-"
"'There's many a slip,' the poet said years ago…"
B.L.ZeBubb huffed. "Yes, I know, 'twixt the cup and the lip.' But that won't be a problem."
"So you say. By the way, Gus is suffering a tough mid-life crisis right now. Thought you might like to know that."
B.L.ZeBubb just did stop himself from snarling. You don't think I can figure out Gus's weaknesses by myself?
Not that he really objected. Success counted more than anything else. Even if it meant accepting a little bit of help from the enemy.
He stared at the angels on the wall. Just wait, you blasted creatures. You'll soon show me all the respect I deserve.
#
Assuming that the interview was over, Satan drop-kicked the can with such force that the string broke, sending the can soaring over the edge of Heaven's foundation into nothingness. For all he knew, he'd put it into orbit somewhere over Hell's hot air space.
He thlurpped his way towards the gate and the parking lot beyond it. Lost in his thoughts about acquiring Gus Gospello's soul, he forgot to pick up his boots and socks.
He also failed to notice the angels serenading him with a personalized rendition of an old Carly Simon song. "You're so smug. We bet you'll think this book is about you. You're so smug…"
Neither did he pay attention to the bass voice shaking the ground beneath him with regal authority. "But it's not, B.L.ZeBubb, and you aren't going to like the way it ends. Not one bit."

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