THE DEEDS OF MERCY
An End of Times Story
iii
Nestor sits at the head of the bed, watching the approaching twilight and wondering where the day’s gone. The sky’s a darker blue now, and the sun’s over by the horizon—where it should be—turning everything into a dusty rose—as it should be—and he soon forgets everything he was trying to remember. He looks at the three men in front of him, sitting at the foot of the bed, playing cards, and shakes his head. He doesn’t know if it’s disbelief or wonderment he feels; either way, it doesn’t make much of a difference, he tells himself. He watches Sid shuffling the deck before counting out the cards, as BJ and Moe rearrange the cards in their hands one card at a time.
“So why me?” Nestor asks, looking out at the sunset again. He can see himself as a reflection in the window, and sees his shirt fluttering in the gentle breeze. There are long, tight ringlets in his hair and for the life of him, he can’t remember it hanging to his shoulders before; or the close-cropped beard he has. He thinks that it makes him look younger somehow, thinner even, and maybe more alive than he’s ever looked before.
He wonders where the window came from, and if it was there earlier.
“Why?” he asks again, turning to look at them.
“What do you mean, why?” Moe asks, looking up briefly before laying three cards down at once.
“I mean why pick me? What did I do, to deserve such an honor? This is an honor, isn’t it?”
“You know it is!” BJ laughs, but it rings of sarcasm and Moe looks at Sid.
“Is that because He didn’t pick you?” Sid asks BJ.
BJ lays down four cards, with a “Ha!” of triumph, and Moe looks at him in annoyance.
“Who?” BJ asks, distracted. “Do you mean…the Man?” BJ laughs, and points upwards as he leans forward.
“The Man? What do you mean, the Man? Oh my God, do you mean God?” Nestor asks as realization sinks in. “I’m God’s chosen one? Me?”
“You got a problem with that?” BJ asks, and continues laughing.
“Have I got a problem with that?” Nestor asks; there’s a note of the incredulous in his voice. “God picks my name out of a hat, and wants to send me back, with a message for all of Mankind, and you’re asking me if I have a problem with that?”
“That’s putting it rather crudely, but yes, something like that,” Sid says, as he picks up a card and just as quickly lays down his hand.
“Gin!”
“That’s more than anybody ever asked me—” BJ starts to say. “Gin? How the fuck…?
“Are you thinking that maybe I cheated?” Sid asks.
“Why does he always win? Ever since I started playing with him, he’s won. I’ve won what, maybe four hands? We’ve been playing for all of Eternity, and I’ve only won four hands.”
There’s a knock at the door and Moe looks up.
“That’ll be Al,” he says, and gets up to answer the door.
“Al? And by Al, you mean the Devil? The Devil’s knocking at my door? Well, the Devil’s in the details they say,” Nestor sighs with a note of disbelief. “Why does he call himself Al, anyway?”
“Beelzebub? Be—AL—zeh—bub,” BJ smiles. “He’s not the Devil anymore than Moe and I are…gods—didn’t you just say it’s all in the details. Try not to think of him as simply one of His messengers, though,” BJ says calmly. “He thinks he’s above all that. It’s the vanity thing.”
“You mean he’s nothing more than a messenger? What does that make me? Am I one of the good guys, or one of the bad guys?” Nestor asks.
“There are no good, or bad guys,” Sid says as he picks up the cards and begins shuffling again.
“Stop me if you’ve heard this one,” BJ says quickly as Sid begins to play a game of solitaire on the bed. “An Irish priest and a Rabbi are sharing a compartment in a train when the priest says, ‘I know you’re not allowed to eat pork, but tell me, just between us, have you ever tried it?’ The Rabbi nods his head slowly. ‘Once or twice,’ he says. Then the Rabbi says to the priest, ‘I know in your religion, you’re supposed to be celibate, but tell me...’ The priest nods. ‘I know what you’re going to ask. Yes, I have succumb, once or twice.’ The Rabbi smiles, ‘Better than pork, isn’t it?’”
Nestor smiles weakly as Moe opens the door. Beelzebub is a tall, stately figure. Nestor looks to see if he has cloven hooves and a long, prehensile tail. He doesn’t. His hair is slicked back into a neat ponytail, and there’s a touch of grey at the sides. He’s dressed fashionably, wearing a mustard coloured three-piece suit; he’s carrying a large ebony walking stick with a knob on top shaped like a dragon’s head. He has an overcoat hanging on his shoulders and he shrugs it off with a movement, folding it in half and laying it on the back of a chair. He pulls up a second chair up and sits down, crossing his legs and brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his vest.
“Is this our man?” he asks, looking at the three of them. “Isn’t anyone going to introduce me?”
“Nestor Farras,” Sid says politely. “Beelzebub.”
“Call me Al,” he says with a smile, and leaning forward extends his hand; his nails, of course, are perfect, Nestor notices. All the same, Nestor gets off the bed and shakes hands with the Devil.
“He’s like that. Vain. Prideful. Lazy—” Moe says slowly as he closes the door and sits down. “He thinks everyone should come to him.”
“He’s the harbinger of BJ’s seven sins,” Sid says without looking up from his game of Solitaire.
“The harbinger? I’m not that bad,” Al says with a laugh, leaning back in his chair. He looks at Moe. “Have you told him yet?”
“There wasn’t really a lot of time,” Moe says with a shrug.
“What do you mean, not enough time?”
“Things came up, like they do,” Moe adds.
“Told me what?” Nestor asks.
“Do you mean about expecting you?” BJ asks with a laugh as he pulls another joint out of his cigarette case. “We told him you were coming.”
“You’re not going to smoke that shit in here, are you?” Al asks.
“I’ll stand by the window, just for you,” BJ smiles, and gets off the bed.
“I hate it when you smoke that shit. You get all weird on me.”
“Weird?” BJ asks.
“Yeah. Next thing you know, you’ll be dancing across some pond somewhere pretending you’re walking a balance beam, or something like that—thinking you’re some great gymnast. It’s bad enough you don’t follow the same dress code we do.”
“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” BJ asks as he lights the joint.
“Seriously?” Al asks.
“I go to the beat of a different drummer.”
“A suit and tie would be more appropriate, don’t you think? More professional,” Al says, looking at his reflection in the window and adjusting his tie, which is perfect.
“I don’t like to feel constricted by tight clothes, and I hate ties,” BJ says as he purposely steps in front of the window and takes a long toke on his joint.
“Hey!” Moe says with a quick clap of his hands. “Focus gentlemen. Focus! We didn’t come here to discuss BJ’s fashion woes. Everyone knows he’s a little different from the rest of us—”
“A little different?” Al echoes.
“—but he’s not the issue here, is he? You have to explain the big picture to Nestor.”
“Yeah, like what’s the thing you said about not telling me everything?” Nestor says.
“Nestor?” Al says slowly, “I’ve always liked that name.”
“I’ve always hated it.”
“Then what do I call you?”
“Call him anything, just don’t call him late for dinner,” BJ calls out from the window with a giggle as he blows out another large cloud of smoke.
“There he is, going all weird on us again,” Al says.
“You two really should learn to get along better,” Sid says gently.
Al levels a look at Sid. “I’m not in the mood for one of your lectures.”
“See? He’s always the one starting it,” BJ calls out.
“Whatever,” Al says with a quick wave of his hand as he turns back to Nestor. “Anyway, to paraphrase an old philosopher from somewhere in your past—Hume I believe—late eighteenth century? You studied him in university? Remember? Any of this ring a bell for you?”
“Yeah, I hated that class,” Nestor says with a nod.
“Of course you did, which is why I helped you through it. ‘There cannot to be found in all of history, a miracle that can be attested to by a sufficient number of men showing unquestionable good sense, education, and learning, as to secure us against all delusion in themselves; men of such undoubted integrity, as to place them beyond suspicion; men of such credit and reputation’—blah, blah, blah (those are my words, not his)—‘as to have their being detected in any falsehood; while at the same time, attesting to facts performed in such a public manner, and in so celebrated a part of the world, as to render their detection unavoidable.’”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” BJ laughs. “Is that an example of the quotes you carry in your head? Hume? You can’t have Shakespeare, or Shaw? Not even Cicero?”
“Which is exactly why I didn’t like that class; I should’ve failed it,” Nestor says slowly.
“Yes, you should have; but it goes on—or I should say—he goes on.”
“Well, thank Christ for that, but if I didn’t understand any of it before, what makes you think I’m going to understand it now?”
“Because you will. Now listen. ’The Christian religion was not only first attended to with miracles, but even in this day and age cannot be believed by any reasonable person without one. Mere reason is insufficient to convince us of its veracity; and whoever is moved by faith is conscious of a continued miracle in his own person, which subverts all the principles of his understanding, and gives him a determination to believe what is most contrary to custom and experience.’”
“And you believe this claptrap?” BJ asks.
“I do, and so will he. He’s writing about you,” he says to Nestor.
“Me?”
“Yes. You are that miracle.”
They all turn to look at the TV. They look at the body being rocked by the woman—it’s difficult for Nestor to remember her ever having been his wife; there’s little to say about the heart-wrenching scene. Or the following scene of him in a hospital bed. Nestor looks at the screen.
“I thought you said I was dead?” he asks Moe.
“Brain dead. Your body’s in a drug-induced coma.”
“Is this what I’m reduced to? An emotion I can’t express? A wife I can’t remember, or hold, or speak to? I can’t taste her tears, feel her skin, hear her heartache—”
“And yet, all of that can change in the murmur of a stuttering heart,” Al smiles.
“What are you talking about?” BJ asks, turning away from the TV and eyeing both Moe and Sid.
“You don’t know?” Moe asks.
“Nobody told me.”
“You know, as the Son of God, I was sure you’d know what the Big Picture is,” Sid says. “It’d be a lot easier for all of us if we had a clue as to what was going on. This feels like we’re making it up as we go along—as if there’s a choice as to what you should do, or what you want to do.”
“We all have a choice,” Al says with a smile. “Have you ever seen a miracle that proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that God exists? Do you even believe in miracles? Do you even believe in God? Do you have faith in your life? Religion?”
“What you’re saying doesn’t sound like something built on faith as much as it is a vilification of faith,” Nestor says slowly.
“And that’s the whole point. Mankind has no faith, let alone belief in us,” Al says.
“Who’s us?” BJ asks.
“Us! The two of us—”
“Four of us,” Sid corrects him.
“Whatever. None of us can exist in the hearts of Man without the other. If we didn’t exist, it would’ve been necessary to invent us because there can’t be any Good if there is no Evil, and no Evil, if there is no Good. It’s a double-edged sword. That’s where you come in,” he says, turning to look at Nestor. “I plan to use your body as the tool of Mankind’s destruction.”
“Mankind’s destruction?”
“As the Antichrist.”
“The Antichrist?” There’s a hint of disbelief in Nestor’s voice, even as he’s saying it.
“Bummer, isn’t it?” BJ says from the window, sucking on his joint.
“And what happens to me? If you plan to use my body, where do I go?”
“You stay here and wait for everything to work itself out.”
“You mean with BJ over there coming down in his flaming chariot and casting you back into the pits of Hell?” Nestor says with a note of disbelief in his voice
“Something like that,” Al says, flicking at another imaginary speck of dirt on his lapel.
“And what about what I want?”
“What you want? What does that have to do with anything? You’re dead as of this moment,” Al says. “I’m using your body—the shell of the man you once were—to take your place.”
“And if I don’t agree?” Nestor asks
“I told you he wouldn’t go for it,” BJ says with a quick laugh.
“Shut up!” Moe, Sid, and Al all say at the same time.
“You’re going to sleep with my wife, and she’s going to think it’s me; you’re going to make love to her, and again, she’s going to think it’s me; you’re going to hug my children, and once again, they’ll think it’s me. Only it won’t be me, will it, it’ll be you?”
“No one says you have to watch,” Al says quickly.
“And how many people will die? Another six million? Maybe a billion this time? Four billion? A million doesn’t sound so bad when you roll off numbers like that, does it?”
“Does it matter? Does whatever number I throw at you determine your answer? It doesn’t work like that. You have free will only as far as you saying that I can take your body and work my magic.”
“And if I say no?”
“You won’t be the first one,” BJ admits.
“Remember that singer?” Moe says.
“Lennon.”
“If you say no, that picture will be you,” Al says, looking at the TV screen. “What are you now, thirty-two? You’ll live to be ninety-three. That’s sixty-one years of being in a coma. They’ll turn off life support, but you won’t die. It’ll be deemed a miracle. You’ll receive excellent care for ten or fifteen years, and then people will start to forget you. What do you think it’ll be like for you? People will be cleaning your shit, and then, say thirty or forty years from now, they’ll let it slide. They’ll turn you so you don’t get bedsores, and then they’ll forget once in a while. No one will care towards the end.”
“You know, I’m not without my own quotes from Hume. Because with everything you’ve said, you remind me of those door-to-door JWs spouting off their End of Days scenarios; or worse yet, the world’s terrorists who purposely misquote Moe over there to serve their own purposes—correction, misquoted; I’d better start getting used to the idea of talking in the past tense. ‘Their credulity increases his impudence: and his impudence overpowers their credulity.’ I never understood it until I started listening to you.”
“Is that a no, then?” Al says with the same forced smile.
“I don’t know. I’m going have to get back to you about this one, Al,” Nestor says with a smile and a wink.
“If you’re thinking this means you’ve sold your soul to the Devil, it doesn’t,” Al says standing, he picks his coat up off the bed, throwing it around his shoulders.
“Hey! Did you hear the one about the dyslexic Satanist?” BJ says of a sudden. “He sold his soul to Santa.”
Al looks at him and slowly shakes his head.
“Like I said, I’m going to have to get back to you on this one,” Nestor says again. “Let me sleep on it,” he adds with a smile.
Al looks at BJ, Sid, and Moe as he picks up his walking stick.
“What about the dyslexic Atheist who had insomnia?” BJ asks again. “He went to bed every night wondering if there really was a Dog. Somebody stop me, I’m on a roll,” BJ cries out with a laugh. Moe simply rolls his eyes.
“This is what? The third time? The fourth? We succeeded twice before—Napoleon and Hitler—remember them? It was so much easier when the world was a smaller place. Genghis Khan? Tamerlane? Alexander? Those were tyrants you could understand; they understood how things were supposed to work. It’s all your fault,” he says, looking at BJ. “We’ve almost had candidates three different times now. Or is it four? Who was that old man?”
“Gandhi,” Sid says.
“Oh yes, him. Turned me down flat. And that other guy? Those two other guys! Brothers, to boot.”
“The dead Kennedy’s,” Moe smiles.
“One after another. Refused us again. All three of them, high profile people. Perfect for what we need to accomplish here, and what does your Old Man do? He puts stipulations on everything. He gives everyone the choice to say yes, or no. How do you expect to bring about the end of the world if no one’s willing to make sacrifices? So now, I’ve got to go back to my Boss and tell Him it’s a no go.”
“He didn’t say he wouldn’t do it,” Moe says softly.
“Who are you kidding Moe? Does he strike you as the One?”
“The One? And who’s the One?” Nestor asks. “Sounds like something out of Star Wars.”
“The One to bring about Judgment Day and reunite Heaven and Hell so that we can start the whole cycle over again. The War of the Angels; the Birth of the Gods; the War of the Titans; the Twilight of the Gods. Did you think they were all fantasy stories people made up to tell their children like ‘The Age of Monsters’, or when Giants walked the Earth. Those things really happened. But that’s okay, because you’re going to sleep on it.”
