It had been a lousy Friday. The worst of my somewhat brief physical sojourn what with being whipped, forced to carry a heavy piece of wood all over town, being whipped again, then nailed to a cross, then, as if that hadn’t been enough, stabbed in the ribs with a spear to see whether or not I’d enjoyed the experience. I hadn’t but Dad had refused to give me a hand. Then I’d been taken down from the cross, sprinkled with herbs, wrapped in linen and sealed in a damp, cold cave. At least it was fairly dry. Hell of a place to wake up in but in fact, Hell was where I awoke very early the next day, I think it was just after midnight. For some reason they like midnight there. It was hot! Not the ideal place for a rest after a harrowing day. Interesting people there though, in fact, almost everyone who had ever lived, except for the few Dad had teleported to the penthouse was there.
Lucifer, the old Roman god of light and truth was there complaining that he was being transmogrified into Dad’s prosecutor, Shaitan. A bunch of Dad’s old, discarded servants were there as well asking me just how long eternity was going to last. I did my best to ignore them (which wasn’t easy). Adam and Eve were there of course, with all of their progeny, which, well, included everyone. Cain and Abel had made up, it had all been a misunderstanding, no one knowing about death and all. Dad had sort of forgotten to explain just what and how final it was. Bummer. For some reason, everyone felt I was there to save them but I really had no intention of sticking around. I wasn’t too excited to return topside either, not after the week I’d had, but evidently, before Dad would let me return home, I had to finish off a forty day sentence, make a bunch of vague promises, etc. But after that, I was definitely not coming back, no matter what they expected.
I was thirsty as, pardon the pun, Hell, but no wine was to be had there at any price, just filthy boiling water mixed with Sulphur, and the omnipresent smell of rotting eggs. For some reason I have to stick around until after the Sabbath is completed. It’ll feel like more than one day let me tell you! At least three.
Who can understand Dad’s inscrutable ways? I confess that I can’t. He loves being mysterious and never says things straight out. Hard to know what he wants, which causes a lot of problems because he hates it when he doesn’t get his way! I remember when he blew up this city, then turned one of his followers to stone for turning around, and then, a while later, flooded the whole place for forty days and forty nights. He seems to like the number forty. He stuck me in the desert once for forty days and forty nights to see if I’d break, but after a while, I just kind of blanked out.
Anyway, I’ve got a while to kill here before I’m let out so I think I’ll circulate, maybe chat with Lucifer to find our his side of the story. That ought to take a while.
Ouch!!! That smarts.
I was going to write this using a fake name, popular way back then, I had Don Rickles in mind (he was no fan of the protagonist), but, what the heck, he has Santa working for him so he already knows everything. Here goes nothing. © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2021; all rights reserved. Please feel free to share with appropriate attribution. I hope “Dad” has developed a sense of humor.
Guillermo (“Bill”) Calvo Mahé (a sometime poet) is a writer, political commentator and academic currently residing in the Republic of Colombia (although he has primarily lived in the United States of America of which he is also a citizen). Until 2017 he chaired the political science, government and international relations programs at the Universidad Autónoma de Manizales. He is currently a strategic analyst employed by Qest Consulting Group, Inc. He has academic degrees in political science (the Citadel), law (St. John’s University), international legal studies (New York University) and translation and linguistic studies (the University of Florida’s Center for Latin American Studies). He can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org and much of his writing is available through his blog at www.guillermocalvo.com.