coffee cup back to his lips, discovered he'd drained it then placed it onto the floor with a clink.
“I was committed to the promise too. I'd bring every single one of those creatures back, I told her, well, the ones that worshipped me at least. I was certainly going to try my best.”
The plump woman frowned.
“How does that, work then?”
God stared down at the linoleum shaking his head.
“Dunno. Still trying to work out the details. Not had time to work out the technicalities of the retrievals yet,” he said, then grinned, a mean piggy look in his eyes which reminded Bog of his dad on a Friday night, after too much beer at the club, “well, since I've not set the date for what they call, Judgement Day, well, I've got some wiggle room.”
“It sounds very clever,” the fat one said, “I was trying to instigate a cyclical system along similar lines, how are you going to manage doing them all at once?”
“Dunno,” he repeated, “to be honest, I can't totally remember where they all are. Some days I can barely keep track of the living beings, let alone the location of dusty, decayed remnants of the long dead.”
“Another coffee,” the big man asked, patting him on the shoulder.
“Thanks Thor, four sugars please.”
The one he'd called Thor disappeared then returned with a couple of fresh mugs of instant coffee, and some sachets of sugar and milk.
“Most of things I promised her were just shit I made up after I let her down again,” he admitted, “a way to wipe the look of sadness from her eyes.”
“Where does that sadness come from God?” the plump woman asked, and God glanced at her, twisting again on the hard plastic chair, not answering the pointed question.
"It'll all come right, I told her, though I warned her not to rile me up so much - she knows I've got a bit of a temper. Way back when, back in the beginning, She would have said sorry, said She hadn't meant to upset me, but now she just stares me down, this cold look in her eyes which makes me want to weep.”
“Thor,” he said, looking at the big man, “you understand right? You had a few rage issues yourself in the past, you know it's not easy.”
“These are different times now,” he responded, “I'm a different god, these days. This group has helped though.”
"God," said the woman, "have you got anything that you'd like to add? How have you been treating her recently.”
"I gave her a new disease last week."
God stared at the floor, looking both guilty and proud.
"Did she do something to cause this?"
"Kinda."
"What happened? Did she hurt you somehow?"
“Some of the minions,” he looked round at the group, “the cells, well, they keep putting videos on this YouTube thing saying stuff like: I don't exist, and even though a whole other bunch of them say it's wrong, and say I'm there for them, just have faith - I get so mad, so I made AIDS airborne. It'll take a while to kick in, but they'll get the message.”
"What message?"
"To love only me, I suppose. I'd had a few glasses of brandy see," He concentrated hard on the lino, like He was gathering his thoughts and looked over at Thor, "you know I get a bit maudlin after I've been drinking, and I'd had a couple of spliffs, and I was just so sick of Her shit."
"So you blame Her for the non-believers?"
God took a sip of the coffee.
"Well, she could do more to keep them in line - in the old days, when She believed I'd created them, She'd have never put up with people bad-mouthing me, but then She started going through my jacket pockets, in a manner of speaking, and found all this stuff out about the dinosaurs and evolution and everything, and suddenly She's considerably less certain of me. Little Miss Doubtful."
"What does it matter though, if the atheists don't believe? She still loves you, even with all the shit you've pulled.”
God shook his head from side to side.
"It bugs me. I guess, I worry I'm not enough for Her. I mean, back in the day, She had a bit of a rep," looking accusingly round the room. "Half you guys took her for a spin back then. So I made the rules clear. Me and me only, and for the longest time she understood the deal. Me and me only, and I'd look out for her. "
"True, but you still put Her through some things even then,” interjected a well-dressed man, "floods, pestilence and the like, and She was on her knees, just trying to please you."
“Spare the rod, Rama, spoil the child,” God responded gruffly, “that's what my old man used to say. Don't I know it too?”
God appeared to reflexively put a hand to his back as if remembering some long ago ass-whooping, and Bog had a sudden flash of his own father, in a Friday night fever, stinking of Whiskey, black leather belt gripped in his bony fist and rubbed his own back on sympathy.
A pudgy, dark haired god spoke up, and tried a different tack.
"Have you considered that you might start to see other worlds again? Or even be non-exclusive? I've seen the way you are with that little planet on the horsehead nebula, She seems nice."
God smiled at this, and Bog had a sense that this woman had been more than nice to him, but that he was less keen on the missus sharing the same freedom he had to roam.
“She just needs to do as she's told,” he said blankly.
One of the others spoke up, the grey one with the custards creams, who from this angle appeared to have more arms that the usual, probably a trick of the glass distortion, "look, from what you're saying, I'm not sure she's the 'exclusive' type. Hung for a long time with Zeus and his mob, not to mention," here he glanced nervously over at Thor, "well you guys were pretty close back in the day. She's a very friendly girl."
God, clenched his nicotine stained fingers tightly into a fist, as though he was considering pounding it into the man's face for reminding him that Thor had been there first, but appeared to think better of it.
Thor coughed.
"What do you care if the atheists don't believe?" asked Thor, "you still hold infinite sway over their lives and deaths, you're still all omnipotent, and omnipresent, though that's a bit of a headache at times, don't know if you're coming or going half the time - so what do you care if even half don't believe? Screw them."
"Dunno. It makes me feel good when they all like me," God looked sadly at the faded linoleum floor, patterned with green and flecks of what might once have been white, but which now was more yellow or grey, "and I worry that maybe the atheists are right, I am nothing - well, they just make me anxious…”
"Dude, you're all three major religions on the planet," a shabby street drinking, bearded figure told him in a growl, "she still loves you to bits man, even with all your shit, but if you keep whoopin' her she's bound to lose faith."
"How 'bout a good visitation?” Thor suggested. "Get your holy ass down there and find a nice prophet to spread the word. Always did it for me."
"It's not so easy though these days. Time was I'd pick out a nice prophet, sincere, receptive, and present myself to him so he could spread the Word."
God waved a hand to demonstrate the ease with which this used to work for him, “then, he'd go off to spread my Word and all would be cool again. But now, when I present myself to one of the minions, he goes off to tell everyone of my decrees, and quick-smart they lock him up in a mental hospital dope him up to the eyeballs, start taking pictures of the inside of his brain.”
God stopped for a second, as if contemplating this development.
"Did you know they can do that now?" he asked the group, "take pictures of the inside of their brains, so they can almost see what each other is thinking. I don't really know how they..."
God trailed off looking impressed despite himself at the level of education and independence his planet had achieved.
“Don't you think that's amazing?” the woman asked, “the things they've achieved, doesn't that make you proud?”
“It should, Momma E, I know it should, but it doesn't,” He said, eyes w
et with tears, “but it just makes me think the day when She doesn't need me, or any of us is getting even closer. It scares me.”
Bog watched this strange conversation from above. So he wondered, what was their thing? Not booze or gambling. The usual wife-beaters group met on Thursdays, and the meeting for the victims of spousal abuse was on Mondays, but this lot, they were something else again with their odd delusional asides.
"I even sent Jesus back, you know,” God told the group, and Bog saw a tall and ancient looking African man and Momma E exchange a knowing glance, as He continued, "not that the ungrateful little shit wanted to go."
"Well they did nail him to that cross thing," the man said in a precise Nigerian accent, wincing, “and you wouldn't help him; he was in counselling for years after that. What happened when he went back this time? Did they nail him to something else?”
"Well, Shango, I picked a nice religious country called America for the second coming, and I warned the little hippy, none of that peace and love shit, not like last time, hellfire and damnation is the message I want you to take back,” he waved his hands in the air dramatically, “tell them this time we're back and about to go all Old Testament on their arses unless they fall into line.”
“What happened?”
“The Feebies, the American police, they shot him.” God had retracted into himself and begun to pick at his fingernails with a small pearl bladed flick knife he'd retrieved from his shirt pocket with a click, click, click sound, just audible up on the roof of the community centre. “Then they