responding to a challenge aptly handled by syd7t5, I’m continuing the story I started after promising it wouldn’t be a serial. You’ll recall I broke all the rules for submitting a story and then said it wouldn’t be a serial, well I changed my mind because… reasons and inspiration, and I’m exempting myself from all the rules Syd7t5 so neatly submitted to, because I’m special. I’m not really special, I just can’t do really really short stories because I tend to ramble… It’s because I’m not as good as I wish I was. If I WAS as good as I wish I was I wouldn’t ramble, I could follow rules while expressing brilliance, and when given rules to follow I wouldn’t say “FUCK THE RULES,” I’d instead admit I’m not really good at following them and then I’d labor laboriously to write something that followed the rules and was of real quality. Instead, this shit:
Heavenly Serial (or, “Heavenly Cereal,” continued, as “Deal With the Devil”)
“It’s almost lunch time. Is the dishwasher guy here yet?!” Mr. G was starting to feel less than gracious, and less full of mercy as the minutes ticked by. Mr. G was known for episodes of holy wrath and righteous indignation. Some people accused him of being moody. So He made a guy named Moody to throw everybody off. And he also gave Moody a great message to share. Not everybody got it, but it was a great message, and it was all true.
“We called and he’s on his way.”
“Jesus, can’t anyone up here already fix this thing?”
Jesus said “There’s a guy but he’s off doing contractor work already, I’d hate to pull him off that job. We’re on deadlines.” Jesus laughed. “Get it?! Dead-lines?”
Mr. G groaned audibly.
B.S., in the basement, couldn’t resist a laugh.
“I thought I told you to shut the hell up?!”
“You did. I’m sorry. I’ve got a guy if you want to make a deal.”
“I always hate your deals, B.S.” Mr G replied. “But it’s not like I have a lot of options here, unless I want to hand wash all of these. What’s the deal?”
“It’s crowded down here. I’ve got lots of contractors down here. Promise breakers. Embezzlers. Liars. Cheats. So here’s the deal. I’ll send you a guy, and you keep him.”
Mr G could hear the smile in B.S.’s voice. “Oh, all right. We’ll keep him as long as he wants to stay. Deal?”
“Deal!!” In a puff of awful smelling sulfur and methane smoke, who should appear but B.S. himself, in all his devilish glory. Beside him, cowering, but smiling, was the contractor. The proper documents were signed, triplicates were made, one on file, one for each of the parties (except the contractor, who was just ecstatic to get out of hell free).
“Jesus, (ugh, he still smells!) take this guy to the kitchen. AFTER he gets a hot shower. The SHOWER still works at least!”
Jesus took the contractor to the shower, got him all laundered and pressed and even got those little gauzy booties over his boots, before taking him to the kitchen. “Can you fix it? We’re on a deadline.” Jesus chuckled remembering the joke.
“I heard that joke all the way from hell. Believe me, it should have probably stayed there. Let me take a look.” The plumber climbed into the gargantuan dishwasher, swore so loudly it echoed all over heaven, and started making a racket with tools and tubing and solder. But, he had the problem fixed in a jiffy, not taking his usual extra breaks because he was so happy he got into heaven after all the wild, wanton sinning he had done on earth, without so much as a moment of repentance. He had had a guilty conscience ever since his death. He climbed out and turned on the dishwasher to test it. He took a look around the kitchen and dining area, and couldn’t contain how impressed he was with how lovely everything looked.
“Jesus Christ! This is some of the most beautiful woodworking I’ve ever seen!” said the contractor, whistling approvingly.
Jesus said, “thank you. I did the work myself.”
“No shit! All this detail? I’m impressed. Even though your hands…”
“Yup. And I did it all without getting a single splinter. This is, after all, cedar. And it is heaven. So it has to be perfect.”
The contractor looked around trying to find anything out of line. An angle cut wrong. A rough edge. A drop of stain. Nothing. “I’ll be damned!” said the plumber.
POOFFF!!! The plumber appeared back in the basement, right in front of B.S., almost scaring him to death.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” yelled B.S.
“What?!” responded Jesus. “It’s not my fault! HE said it!”
Mr. G laughed so loud the rafters of heaven rattled. “Just in time for lunch! Thanks, B.S.!!”