Steve’s shorts: Character Assassination
This was available for some time for next-to-nothing on Amazon Shorts. Alas, the latter has been sacrificed to the marketing gods–Amazon’s loss, your gain, especially if you have read my sci-fi thriller Full Medical. An old friend was upset that I killed off his favorite character in that book, so I resurrected him, in a sense. Enjoy.
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Character Assassination
Steven M. Moore
Copyright, 2007
“Your holiness, sir, I really want to lodge a complaint.”
St. Peter twirled the keys to the gates to heaven with his left hand, his right perched jauntily on his corresponding hip. He was assuming a defiant pose as this was the first case where a fictional character had wandered up to the heavenly gates. He didn’t know quite what to do with him. In the meantime, he was twirling the keys to the kingdom with his left hand so that Old Bob would know that the saints were ambidextrous, not favoring either the left or the right, but the old drunk apparently was not impressed. So the bearded saint decided to demand an explanation.
“What do you mean, a complaint?” he asked, his voice booming like rolling thunder. “If you’re here, I’m supposed to look you up in our heavenly database and determine if you’re worthy to pass through. If you’re not, you go straight to hell. Complaints aren’t part of the plan. Did you read the user’s manual?”
“Don’t lecture me about databases. I was minding my own business down there in Lexington Park when I found that dead fat man in the garbage bin. Do you know Lexington Park?”
“Sure,” said St. Peter, still twirling the keys and now looking indignant. “Besides, it’s in the database. That’s that little town outside Boston where the yanks and the redcoats went at it. You know, ‘We hold these truths….’ ”
“Wrong Lexington, you old fart. It ain’t Kentucky either. It’s Maryland. It’s a nice town, away from DC and Baltimore with their teeming millions, their crime, and their cloying, swampy humidity. Not much traffic there, not much crime, and not many politicians and lawyers. A little more freedom, too. It’s even been quite a few years since I renewed my national ID card.”
St. Peter pulled at his beard with his right hand, obviously perplexed. He still twirled the keys with the left.
“I’m sure there’s a long, sad story there. I’m also sure that Lucifer will enjoy hearing it over a nice shot of whiskey.” He opened the trap door in the clouds. Old Bob could see the red light of Hades shining through. It was a straight drop down.
“Just a minute, old man. I’m sorry if I insulted you.” He scratched his mohawk, thinking of what to say. St. Peter waited patiently since he had apologized. “You’ve got to listen to my complaint. Then you can do whatever you want.”
St. Peter had gone over to his dais and pulled a few files onto the Celestial Mark Two holographic screen of his computer. It wasn’t much of a computer since it used only the third-from-last generation semi-organic AI circuit technology that that fellows from Cupertino had come up with, but it tapped into the whole heavenly network.
“I see here that you’re from 2053. Troubled times, troubled times. Of course, all that trouble started back at the turn of the century has finally come home to roost. You’re in the database, all right. Not a very saintly life, Mr. Bob Martin. You may not have a national ID card, but I’ve got you right here on my screen – it looks like there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Yeah, I also suppose that somewhere, in some computer in the Pentagon, there’s also a database with my DNA, fingerprints and retinal pattern, taken when I entered the military, rather than be drafted. I remember thinking that maybe I should apply for veterans’ benefits and see if I can get into a VA nursing home some time before I die. For that I’d probably need my national ID card from the Department of Homeland Security, my taxpayer’s ID card from the IRS, and my military ID card from the Department of Defense, so I could get my medicare ID card from the Department of Health and Human Services. Databases and more databases, each with its own card.”
“Oh, I think all those problems will be solved in a few years when they embed a chip in every person’s shoulder at birth that the authorities can read remotely. Cards are so passé, even with chips in them. Anyway, I can see why you’re not a fan of databases. But what’s your real complaint?”
Old Bob seemed to ignore the question.
“You know, you’re kind of an uppity old fellow, St. Peter. You spoke of troubled times. Let me just say that I think you bozos are shirking your duty. The number of homeless reached a hundred-year high in 2053. It was partly due to a bad economy, but mostly it was due to the fact that there were just not enough good jobs in the world for all the people in it. I was just one of many who had no job, no benefits, and no home. Most of the time I preferred it that way, of course. Kept me off them databases.”
Old Bob cleared his throat – some of the sulfur smell was coming up through the trap door – and looked at St. Peter sternly.
“When I looked into that dead man’s eyes I remembered the war. I looked into my first dead eyes when I searched a dead Arab kid for ID near a little town on the Iraqi-Syrian border. I saw many pairs of dead eyes in five years of war in the Middle East, both on my side and theirs. Third major war there of the new millennium. Are you guys deserting us or something?”
“You sound like that fellow Thomas I used to hang out with,” St. Peter muttered. “God helps those who help themselves, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. Now, let me get this straight. You’re a character in a book and somehow you arrive here with a complaint. I think I’ve been hearing nothing but complaints all along. Why don’t you just take it up with the author of the book?”
“Can’t. He killed me off and forgot about me. That’s my complaint.”
“And what do you expect me to do about it?”
“Work your miracles and have him unkill me.”
“Hmm. Sure you don’t want to go to hell and just get it over with?”
“Hey, if you send me back and make the author keep writing about me, maybe I’ll redeem myself. He’ll fill in some background material on how good I was before I went to war.”
“Well, there are some good points here in the database entry for you. You think your author can add to those? Sort of pad the record?”
“If he keeps writing. And I think he’s always secretly wanted to have a mohawk.”
St. Peter started twirling the keys again, this time with his right hand. His eyes were twinkling as he thought of the consequences of his decision. Yes, it would teach the author a lesson. His cardiologist had recommended a drink per day. Those bottles of Jameson’s seemed to be going down a lot faster than that.
With a poof! and a flash of light Bob Martin was returned to the mind of the author. The story started to unfold on the laptop screen: “Your holiness, sir, I really want to lodge a complaint.” St. Peter twirled the keys….
