h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

The Prince of Lies peered through the floral-print curtains at the street below. A small red Vauxhall went by, and a man selling steaming sausages at a stand across the road turned the page of his newspaper. Apart from that, there was no movement at all on the tidy Swiss street. He sighed inwardly. Time to end it all. Goodbye, world, it's been interesting.
"What's the matter, D.? Getting cold feet?"
He turned, annoyed, to the taunting voice.
"If I remember correctly, G., this was all your idea anyway. Creation, mankind, free will, temptation, the battle between Good and Evil...all your idea. Even I'm just a pawn in your Ineffable Plan, but once in a while I like to take a quiet moment, and this may be one of the *last* moments, so if you don't mind...."
Lucifer realised he was rambling, and picking nervously at his talons. It was time to begin the End.

"This is Armin, our neutral observer. He will ensure that everything proceeds fairly." God gestured to a neatly dressed, blandly smiling little man with a combover, who inclined his head slightly.
"It vill be an honour" he whispered.
"Fine, fine, let's start before the monk beats us to it. Just one go, right? Not best out of three - we decide on one try?"
"Yes"
"And it's - two beats of the hand, and then on the third we reveal the paper/scissors/stone, right?"
"Correct"
"Very well. Let's go"

They made an epic couple, facing each other across the card table. The Word and the Lie. da Vinci would have painted them, Mozart would have composed operas, Michelangelo would have rendered them immortal in stone. Unfortunately the only person present was Armin, and he was a banker.
Two great hands were raised, clenched into fists, one glowing white and the other red and scaly. History and Destiny crackled in the air, as the two fists swung up and down, with seeming geological slowness, like the pendulum on the clock of Universal Time. Outside, storm clouds boiled and rolled over the mountains, lightning flickered and the wind picked up. Armin, being Swiss, was unaffected. He shuffled his feet, and discreetly checked his watch.

The hands beat down once...twice... And now the Universe seemed to hold its breath - in a moment it would all be over; the winner would gather up the chips, the loser would taste bitter defeat, both would leave the table and the lights would go out...

The Agents had followed Annabel's instructions, and now found themselves huddled at the entrance to the main chamber. Guy had found himself appointed official peerer-around-corners, and was currently describing to the others what he saw.
"I can see Gonzaroolio! He's all tied up on a slab, next to a woman in a suit...the Diabolical Engine is there, too. It's a bit of a let-down, to tell the truth, just like something from a cultural museum... there's lots of bunting, all torn down, and little flashes of blue light on the roof..."
"Yeees" whispered Richter sagely, "The navel of the world... Those blue flashes are ley lines, my friend, earthing themselves in the rock. I could explain more, but no-one is actually listening to me, are they?"
No-one replied. Richter tutted, and doffed his bowler hat. Wilfully ignorant, people just wouldn't listen these days.
"Look at the pretty colours..." mused Bob. Richter fought the urge to smack him.
"Now I see Rasputin! He's walking around shouting, raving, shaking his fist...yikes, he's covered in blood...seems to be waving a sheaf of paper...very angry, I'd say...he's shorter than he looks on the telly..."
Heddingly gave Guy a Look.
Now some of Rasputin's fractured speech found its way through the crack between the slab and the doorframe.
"...have been weighed, and found wanting, due to your criminal negligence! You made your children, then abandoned them to their own worst instincts! What kind of parent does that?!?"
"He's got a point there, interesting theological point..." mused Robin, stroking his chin. Richter ordered him to shut up.
"...tried prayer, fasting, abstinence from pleasures of the flesh - nothing. And now, my friend, I am forced to more desperate measures to attract your attention..."
Flinging back his cassock, the mad monk strode towards the cast-iron laundry wringer.

Richter urgently jabbed his finger in Bob's side.
"NOW is the moment, Bob. You are the Divine Champion, you must manifest your goodness to vanquish the evil!"

And Bob spake, and he spake thus:

"Erm..."

Armin polished his spectacles, replaced them on his nose and tittered.
"You both appear to have um, 'chosen' stones."
This was quite embarassing. Satan and God glowered at each other, each still with their fist outstretched over the table.
"So what does that mean?" barked the Lord. "Not a stalemate?!?"
"Ah no. The rules state that in the event of a tie, both parties must simply, um, 'go again' in order to determine a winner. Ahaha"
"Sounds like a plan. Alright" Both players shook around their shoulders, flexed their wrists, attempted psyche-out stares.
"Let's go!"
The hands beat down once...twice... And now the Universe seemed to hold its breath - in a moment it would all be over; the winner would gather up the chips, the loser would taste bitter defeat, both would leave the table and the lights would go out...
"Oh, this is ridiculous. BOTH paper?"
"The, ah, rules are quite clear on this eventuality..."
"THANK you, Armin, we know."

Once again... The hands beat down once...twice... And now the Universe seemed to hold its breath - in a moment it would all be over; the winner would gather up the chips, the loser would taste bitter defeat, both would leave the table and the lights would go out...
This time it was stones again.
"You know G., this is starting to look like a bad idea..."
"The, ah, rules are quite clear..."
"YES Armin, thank you so very much"
They kept playing. They keep playing. They will keep playing. But neither can win. They're both too good.

"Scissors!" thought God. "I've got 'im now. "

Satan just grinned a toothy grin.

1...2...

"Scissors." announced Armin in broken tones that bordered on despair.

"What ...AGAIN?" bemoaned Satan.

"Yes..odd that, really, isn't it?" said God, stroking his beard.

"We go again." demanded The Devil, pointing an accusing finger at his rival.

"Alright." said God, with a shrug. "patience was never one of your virtues was it?"

"I don't *have* any virtues...now if you don't mind..."

Armin stopped biting his nails and gathered his composure.

"Hands behind you backs please gentlemen - on three, please reveal your chosen stance..."

They beat their hands down..1...2...

"A-HA!" said the Devil triumphantly.

God looked a little non-plussed and raised an eyebrow at Armin.
"I say, he can't do that can he?"

"No he can't." agreed the arbitraitor, looking over his spectacles at the Demon.

"What? - well why not?" growled the devil petulantly.

" 'Jack-hammer' is not an accepted position in this game."

"Beats 'stone' doesn't it?"

"Yes, but that is not the point." said Armin, who began busyily consulitng the slim-bind office folder that contained the single sheet of paper upon which ALL the rules for this game in exitence were inscribed.

The devil silently cursed Armin unto the thriteenth generation.
God saw this one coming and diverted it onto a listless plant-pot in the corner.

God sat and stroked his beard again. There was something bothering him. He recalled the events of yesterday:

Before he'd left Heaven for this little mission He'd deputised St Peter to deal with all the in-coming prayers. As he hung around the door to the prayer room he'd glimpsed St Peter sat on several cushions on the Throne, struggling to find a comfortable position.

St Peter himself was a spectacularly unimpressed grouch. His temperament was hardened by eternities standing at the pearly gates welcoming the recently deceased and answering those same two bloody questions! "Am I dead?", "Is this heaven?" mimiced St Peter silently. Strapping on the headphones he waved to the switchboard operator.

On earth...Samantha Temple was slicing cucmber to make sandwhiches with. A momentary slip and she cut the top of her thumb. It oozed and bled a little. Samantha ran to the other side of the kitchen and started dabbing at the wound with some paper toweling.

"Oh god." she muttered.

"YES?" came the imediate and deafening reply.

Wide-eyed and striken she stared upward at the ceiling.
"bu-b-b-bu-b-t-b-b-b-...."

"DON'T JUST STAND THERE GAWPING - IF YOU'VE GOT SOMETHING TO SAY - SAY IT."

"eep!" she said and fainted.

"HELLO?....HELLO?! THE LINE'S GONE DEAD...HONESTLY SOME PEOPLE! -"
and the voice faded from the room.

God allowed himself a little chuckle. Being omniocgnisent he new that Samantha would make an excellent nun - and closing the door with a satisfying 'click' he mused on the fate of those with blasphemining tongues and how they had better be more careful in future.

Gabriel had packed his suitcase.

"Ready to go, sir"

"Thank you, Gabriel."

"Is that everything?" Gabriel asked.

"Let me check." said God reaching into his jacket pocket and unfolding a slip of paper. "check, check, check, check...keep an eye on Peter won't you - he means well but..."

"Of course." nodded Gabriel.

"Check, check, check ooh here's one.. a-ha! of course!" said God.

The memory faded and God found himself once again sat opposite his frustrated nemesis:ready to decide the fate of the world.

"ah-ha! of course!" said God. "how silly of me to forget." and he clicked his fingers.

-----------------------

In the bowels of Stone henge there was the magnifcent echo of the Celestial Choir singing "Allileueh", a sound like "shhhlop!...*twang!*"

And Bob stood before them clad in the armour of God that shimmered and glowed even in the murky darkness that pervaded these corridors. Jaw set, eyes fierce, Bob drew from it's scabbard a sword that looked like it has been forged out of pure white light and merely compressed into something that was sword shaped.

"I say!" said Richter. "I take it all back - that's pretty impressive."

Bob swallowed hard. He wasn't looking forward to what was about to happen one bit...

----------

Rasputin had heard the cry of Allileueh as well.

"Zo you come to fasz me at last."

Yellow, fetid clouds boiled over the countryside, casting a feverish glow on the landscape and the monoliths of Stonehenge. Strange flashes of light were seen deep in the clouds; in Stoke-on-Trent there was a rain of fish. In London, the ravens flocked the air on clamorous wings, departing the Tower and setting off down the river towards the sea. All over the world, the great colourful carnival that was the end of the world wound up towards its deafening climax.

In a field a short way from Stonehenge, a thin, dapper little man had settled down to have a picnic. Tim reasoned that he may as well face death on a full stomach, and the roadside café had really good luncheon rolls. Now he settled his back against a fence post, and unwrapped the roll, setting the wrapper neatly on his knees to catch the crumbs. He felt, strangely, at peace, for the first time in several weeks. Since he had met the monk, in fact. Now there was nothing more he could do. He had tried to get in to the Stonehenge complex, but been turned back by the Marine guards. If the Twilight of the Gods was really upon them, it would have to do without his contribution.
The happy spy took a small bite out of the roll, and wiped his chin free of tomato juice. He was his own master again. Life was good...

In this peaceful frame of mind, he was totally unprepared for the spitting, clawing ball of fur which suddenly dropped on his head. He felt a razor-sharp pain along his forehead, yelped and jerked back. The breakfast roll went flying unfinished into the hedge. He felt claws scrabbling on his shirt, pinpricks in his chest, saw a totally evil little cat face thrust into his.

"ttIImmmMM..."
"Boss?!? Oh Christ, is it YOU guv'nor?"
"YoU BRoUght me BaCK, tiM...diDN't You?"
"Sure boss. Course I did." The fact that this was stretching the truth a little didn't even cross Tim's mind.
"we'VE gOt tO geT OUt of HEre TiM... tHoSe B******S hAve CATNIP... yOU'll tAke CAre oF mEEe, WoN'T yoU, tIm? MeeOOWWW..."
"Oh yes boss. Absolutely." Cats are notorious for their ability to manipulate humans; in this case the Leicestercat was helped by some strategically placed claws. Tim didn't so much speak as squeak.
"i'LL mAKe thOse AgENCy meDdLeRS pAaaAyYy... buT fIrst, Do yOU KNoW wHat I WAnt?"
"A saucer of cream and a ball of string, boss?"
"sTOp sNiggerIng, tiM. mY neeDs aRE dIfFereNT NoW, That'S aLL. aLSo, sOmE wHIskAs..."
The dastardly duo walked and padded down the motorway and out of our story, for the moment. But it would be foolish to underestimate the evil malevolence of the Leicestercat - we haven't heard the last of him...

Back in the Apocalypse Chamber, things had taken a turn for the Biblical.

Bob stepped forward, uncomfortable in his bulky heavenly armour, and hefted the heavy fiery sword. He was sweating profusely, uncomfortably aware that something was expected of him. The bloody monk was staring at him with those deep-set, grey eyes...Bob felt himself slipping...
A sharp crack on the head brought him to his senses. Jill glared at him.
"Focus, you lemon. And if you mess this up..."
Bob gulped, and turned back to the monk, who was looking on, amused, and tapping his foot.
"Trouble vis ze voman, yah? Unt you call yourself a Champion..."
The Champion, feeling distinctly ordinary, took another step into the chamber, and tried to fix the monk with a steely glare.
"Now see here..." he began. Then he realised that Rasputin wasn't paying attention. The monk had in fact turned his back and was messing with the laundry wringer, oblivious to Bob's presence.

"Hey, hey! I wasn't finished! Excuse me, umm... Mr Rasputin? Stop that! What are you doing?!? Stop!"
Richter slapped his forehead. Moments like this made him seriously consider atheism.
Rasputin looked over his shoulder, and grinned. It was a terrible sight. The ground began rumbling slightly, like distant thunder.
"Vy don't you make me stop, you silly little Henglishman? You nekulturny turd, I haf seen more life in a ... Digestive biscuit. Hah!"
"Well, there's no need to get personal..."
Realising that he wasn't quite filling his armour, so to speak, Bob lunged forward and swung clumsily with the fiery sword. Rasputin side-stepped with a cackle, and shot out his arm. Bob overbalanced and landed with a small cloud of dust on the floor next to the altar. The fiery sword flew out of his grip, and out of reach.
"Bugger! Come back here..."

Bob struggled in the heavy armour, and managed to roll over. All around him, the ground was shaking. Rocks fell from the domed ceiling, bouncing around and over him. Twisting his head, he saw the ground around the altar was falling away into a pit of churning lava. He was left on an island, isolated from the other Agents, with the laundry wringer and Rasputin. Flickering red light filled the chamber, giving an appropriately sinister air. This is about where the 'Dominus' chorus would kick in, if this was a film. You'll just have to hum it to yourself...

Now the monk was looming over him, grinning evilly.
"Vot do you sink off my little toy? It does bluddy good tricks, da? Now maybe I mess YOU up, like I mess up your very funny friend, Mr Clown"
He was hauled up, and slammed back on the altar by the wiry but incredibly strong President of the United States, who then produced a stiletto blade and pressed it up against his throat. Bob smelt oil, blood and sweat as Rasputin thrust his lined, twitching face very close.
"Now you vill all DIE, vot do you sink of that, eh, my Henglish friend?"

And suddenly Bob was overtaken by a great surge of annoyance. He hadn't asked to be mixed up in secret agent games or apocalyptic conspiracies, or chosen as some kind of divine tool, or fight megalomaniacs over pits of lava. It was, what, eight o' clock? All he wished was to be on his comfy sofa-bed watching Ready-Steady-Cook and wearing slippers. This immense tide of miffed-ness swept through his body like a red tide, eventually reaching his mouth, where it erupted.

"OH, WHY DON'T YOU JUST P**S OFF!!!"

he roared, shoving back the monk with unexpected strength, and slapping him upside the face in the process. Rasputin fell back, nearly toppled over into the abyss, but regained his balance with cat-like grace and cast an appreciative look at Bob.
"Aha, not all tea unt crumpets, zen? Very vell - let's dance!"

"What's happening now?" demanded Robin.
"They're circling each other...Rasputin is saying something to Bob...if only we could help..." Guy squinted "What..? I think Gonzaroolio is doing something..."

Horrible pain clouded Gonzaroolio's mind. Before the Agents had arrived, Rasputin had used him for amusement for several minutes, and now his face was laced with blood, with a broken nose and two black eyes. He had somehow retained his little red nose, and this was a comfort to him in what he knew were his last moments. Now episodes from his long, eventful life played out on the ragged cinema screen of his mind. The first time he had told the old Don that he wanted to become a clown, and the old man's fury. His first unicycle. His first cycle-by shooting. The giddy thrill he had gotten after killing the Communist Premier of Czechoslovakia with a bunch of flowers. Great days...

He felt his lifeblood oozing out, weakening him. Worse, he was unpleasantly aware that he would have to do something incredibly noble before he died, to make up for a life of crime and depravation. The old Don, his father, would have called it a debt of honour. Gonzaroolio called it a bloody pain. Well, may as well get on with it. Gritting his teeth against the terrible agony that seized him, he turned over and slipped the ropes off his wrist - escapology was one of his specialities - and shook his head groggily. He saw the monk inches away from him, facing away, shouting something at... was that Bob?

"Ve vill see hif your spit unt vinegar vill last, eh?, ven I haf buried zis knife in your guts, haha! Vere is your pretty sword gone, Henglishman? Maybe you vill knock me out viz your big stiff hupper lip, da?"
Rasputin seemed to swim in the heat haze rising from the lava pit, and he tossed the stiletto blade from one hand to the other. He was grinning madly, and foaming slightly. Bob spat out a bloody tooth, knocked out when he had fallen, and growled. Unfortunately he was a mild-mannered chap at heart, and found it hard to keep in the berserker frame of mind. The Russian's incessant chattering didn't help, either.
"Why don't you just shut up, you silly fool!" he shouted hoarsely. Insults weren't his strong point. The monk reared up in mock-horror, and whistled.
But now Bob saw a dark, twitching figure rise up behind the monk; from the smeared makeup and bruised red nose, he knew it could only be Gonzaroolio. The clown winked painfully at him, and reached into his sleeve. He fumbled for a moment, then drew out a long line of colourful handkerchiefs, all tied together. A pigeon flew out too, cooed and fluttered off in a cloud of feathers.
Rasputin half-turned at this, but it was too late. The clown's garotte was viciously yanked around his neck, and dragged him back. Gonzaroolio put every particle of his remaining strength into pulling back on the garotte, trying to cut off the monk's windpipe. Rasputin struggled with wild fury, lashing back with fingernails and feet, but the grim clown stood firm.
"Bob, grab his arms!"
Circling around, Bob attempted to get hold of Rasputin's flailing limbs, but only caught a hand in the face for his trouble, which sent him teetering at the edge of the precipice. He lost balance, half-fell and swung an arm over the edge in time to save himself. The heavenly armour weighed him down, making every movement an effort. Tremendous heat washed over him from the Pit, as he scrabbled for a handhold. He heard grunts and sounds of the fight proceeding.

Eventually dragging himself over the edge, he saw that the mad, half-dead monk had somehow slipped his multi-coloured noose and was facing the haggard clown, who stood on the edge.
It all went slow, as Bob looked at the clown, who looked right back at him. He could see the resignation and tiredness in his swollen, bloody eyes.
"I don't suppose you'd care to sniff my button hole?" he hoarsely enquired of the evil monk.
"Vot? Do you plead for mercy?"
The clown shrugged fatalistically. There was a blur of robes, a sharp crack, and then he was just gone, disappeared over the edge.

Rasputin turned, and Bob cringed. The monk had a livid red line around his neck, dripping blood all over his black cassock and giving him a well-hard appearance. He snarled, an animal sound, and advanced.
"You see vot happens to your very funny friend, Mr Clown? Vell, I vill take my TIME viz you, Henglishman, make you beg for ze Lord's forgiveness..."
Only Annabel, from her position trussed up on the altar, could see that Gonzaroolio had left more behind than a few bloodstains. Directly in the monk's path, there lay a blackened, shrivelled old banana peel...

It is well known that the Universe loves a joke. Just look at giraffes. And the simpler a joke is, the better. *This* one is really going to have them rolling around on the floor.

*CRACK*

....

?

What?


Feels like I'm falling or...

Gonzaroolio opened his eyes.

"Hello Alfredo."

Gonzaroolio sat up.

He felt an odd disquiet. Not becuase he was uncomfortable - quite the reverse in fact. All the old aches and twinges had dissolved away; the pull in the pit of stomach, the parched sensation at the back of his throat, the legacy of years of alcohol abuse, were all gone. He felt well. For the first time...ever.

"Feels strange don't it?"

Gonzaroolio shifted on his hands, turning around, trying to locate the source of the voice.
The owner of the voice was a man. The first thing that you noticed about him was he was thin, really, quite extraordinarily thin.
He sat in a chair - well sort of slouched, no he...reclined in a regal sort of manner - leaning into one side of the high-back chair, a leg cast notiantly over on arm-rest.
He was wreathed in many glamourous cloaks that hung around him down to his ankles. He sort of drooped like a sheet blowing in the breeze. He stroked a small grey and whispy beard that extended a couple of inches from his chin. The real kicker though was his eyes. They sat like diamonds beneath his two grey, perpetually arched eyebrows and crackled with an unfathomable joy when they fell upon you. They made you want to laugh.

Gonzaroolio was obviously still taking all of this in.

The man cast his eyes around the room which seemd to extened to limit of sight in every direction.
"How do you feel?" he asked smiling gently.

"Um...okay, I...think...who?"

"Am I?" finished the man with a wry grin.

Gonzaroolio nodded, his brow furrowed deep in confusion.

"I am Pan." said the man

"Am I?"

"Dead? Yes."

"Oh."

"Are You?"

"HIM? No." he self-effaced with tiny chuckle, and steepling his fingers, leaning forward. "HE is away on business - the workload gets farmed out to the lower divisions if things get a bit busy.
I am the pagan god of mischief.

He tap his hands on the rests of the chair, gave a quick clap and in a flash was one his feet. Everything about the way pan moved was a performance.

"So this is Heaven?" said Gonzaroolio casting a critical eye about the uniromly bland walls.

"Mmm-hmm." nodded Pan through pursed lips. and segued like a tap dancer,over to where Gonzaroolio stood.
He placed a comforting arm on the clown's shoulder and gestured with his free hand.
"All of this...Heaven - frightfully boring, let me tell you."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. The light entertainment is organised by senior managment and between you and me - Peter couldn't get a rise out yeast."

Gonzaroolio startled on a small chuckle.

"Oh you liked that? I authored all the great ones. Some of the less great ones too. You've heard of The Divine Comedy - that was me. Dante got it all confused of course." said Pan roling his eyes and spiralling with his index finger round his forehead.

"The chicken?" mumbled Gonzaroolio in sudden awe.

"You want to know why?" Pan said grinning like a cat.

"Uh-huh." said Goonzarrolio nodding furiously.

Pan cupped his hand around the clowns ear and whispered something.
The clown, smiled then the smirk spread across his cheeks and he laughed for a long time. He had to rest his hands on his knees while he fought to regain his breath but all of sudden found he had no need.

Pan reached into his lapel pocket and produced a small black box like a remote control. It had a single button.
When he pressed it, then was the sound as of gears far away sliding into position and from the featureless, milky background two huge gates opened and brilliant white light spilled out.

"Cor!" cooed the clown.

Pan crossed his arm once more behind Gonzaroolio and led him forward, the pair silhouetted aginst the light.

"Do they have a stage?" Gonzaroolio was heard to ask as he disolved into nothingness.

"Cabaret on Wednesdays but we'll soon see to that, eh?" Pan was noted to reply.

"Yessir." saluted the voice of Gonzaroolio

"I think this could be the start of a long and beautiful friendship."

"Really?"
"You've got talent kid, there's no denying it. That thing with the bannana you just pulled - masterful!"

"It was nothing."

"no, no - it had style."

The textured air that now was the clown could, had any mortal being been their to wittnesses it, been seen to blush slightly but seeing as this is clearly impossible you'll just have to take our word for it.

"Knock, Knock."

"Who's th - "

And with that, the gates of Heaven closed and the light faded....

"And there wille come a Beast,
With thee Firey Lyte of Helle in His Eyes,
Thee marks of Deathe on His Brow.
From thee Lande of thee New Caesars he will Comme,
And He wille claime Dominion over thee Worlde Entire,
And thee Kinges of Menne will Bow Before Him.

But lo! Know ye His Downfall!
It wille be Smalle, Yellowe and Quite Humorous..."

- Nostradamus, Volume VI, Verse CIX


It was the pratfall to end them all. Time seemed to run slowly, like thick honey, while Rasputin's feet slipped from under him. The banana peel, its function in history complete, shot off the edge with a little squelch. Apart from that, all was silent.

He almost hung in the air, arms flailing impotently. Thinking back, Bob could even remember the expression on the monk's face; utter surprise, mixed with incomprehension and rage. It was one of those moments as if preserved in amber, still, quiet, perfect for all eternity.

Normal temporal service resumed suddenly. Rasputin landed on his back at an angle, with a loud and quite final *crack*.

And that was very nearly it.

Taken aback, Bob could only stare. Several seconds passed. The fiery light from the pit played on the walls of the cavern like an ambient mood in a fancy restaurant. Across the precipice, Heddingly cleared his throat. It was one of those moments, like after a really good party, when you pause, take a deep breath and take stock of the damage.
Richter bit his fist and squinted at the still figures across the lava. He was worried. He was *always* worried.
Guy was chuckling loudly. Jaded as he was, banana peel jokes just cracked him up.
Jill tutted, amazed by his immaturity.
Bob leaned forward a little bit, peering at the tangle of cloth and hairy limbs. Some of the latter were at rather strange angles, he noted.
Annabel, still trussed up on the altar, jerked around in her bonds and wished someone would say something explanatory, as she couldn't see a thing.
Rasputin did nothing, not even breathe. He was dead.

This was a conclusion Bob had just arrived at. He gave a short, breathless laugh, and raised his eyebrows as high as they would go, and scratched his head.
"Wonder if I get the credit for this...?" he mused.
He reached out cautiously and poked Rasputin's knee. The leg flopped down. He giggled, a little frantically.
Turning on his heel, he waved to the Agents clustered on the opposite side of the chasm.
"HE'S DEAD!!!"
Guy and Heddingly did a high-five, and Jill shot him an appreciative look. Ignoring Richter's frantic hand gestures, he turned back to the corpse.
Rasputin's face, though laced with blood and bruised, looked almost peaceful in death. He had something tucked into his collar, and Bob leaned in to look...
Richter winced, and bit through the brim of his bowler. He could see where this was going...

...the mad eyes shot open, and before Bob could even gasp he was staggering back seeing flashes on a black background, clutching at his throbbing head, and wishing he had stayed out of headbutt-range.
When Bob painfully opened his eyes, Rasputin was back on his feet, shaking his head groggily, wiping blood from his eyes, not grinning now.
"Oh, da," he snarled "Ha bluddy ha. You sink me fallink is jolly funny, eh? Vell, let me show you MY idea of a choke..."
He slipped yet another dagger from the recesses of his robe, and spun it in his fingers.
"Vot do you get, ven you cross a bluddy stupid Henglishman, vis eight hinches of stainless steel? Take your time, sink about it..."
"But...but...you were dead..." stammered Bob.
The monk gave him a wry, sideways look.
"I get zat a lot"
Without further conversation, he lunged.

By sheer luck, Bob caught the monk's arm as it swung down, and tried to prise the dagger from his grip. Rasputin growled, and scrabbled and tugged at Bob's hand. Locked together by the dagger that tottered over their heads, the pair staggered about the altar, inches from the chasm, Rasputin spitting and hissing, Bob absently dreaming of microwave dinners and primetime TV.
There was something he should remember, he thought distantly, as the dagger slipped in his grasp and the monk tried to edge him over the precipice. Was it something important, his body enquired; it was rather busy at the moment. Yes, his psyche assured him, this was very important indeed, vital, in fact. No, it wasn't about Ready, Steady, Cook. He must think.

Ah yes. After all, he *was* the Divine Champion.

"Mr Rasputin?"

"Nnngh....vot? You bloody Henglishman....you vant to TALK? Hnnnghhh...let me see that dagger..."

Bob had never been very good at witty remarks, but the occasion seemed to call for one:

"See with your eyes, not with your hands"

Well, you try coming up with one at short notice. We can't all be Bruce Willis.

And with that, he brought up the *third* arm, which he had quite forgotten about in the exitement, two forefingers extended, and poked the Beast in the eyes.

Howling, Rasputin clutched at his face, letting the dagger drop, and stepped back -

And that was it.

A few moments later, there was a high lick of flame and a pleasant barbecue smell, redolent of summer days and patios.

Back in Switzerland.

Armin was trying to kill himself by repeatedly beating his head on the table. Aside from a bit of bruising ranging to mild concussion he was enjoying little success.

God and Satan were keeping time by the rythmic beating of his forhead against the wood.

1*thunk*.....2*thunk*.... -

*beep beep*

"what was that?" said God, looking up.

This time the noise broke out into a tinny rendiotion of "The Macarena"

"hmm? - oh - it's my mobile!" said The Devil

"You have a mobile phone?" said God.

"Oh yes very useful things. We get all the venture capitalists so naturally we also get all the latest gadgets." beamed Satan. "Not to mention that one of these babies in Fifty years time will do for radiation sickness what one of the old ICBM's would do back in the eighties. You gotta love progress..." he mused as he acessesed his text messages.

God waited.

"oh yes!" he exclaimed. "We got 'im! We got that little sneak damn grease stain of a monk. He's mine."

"Rasputin is dead then."

"Yup." said the demon tossing on his jacket. Heard it was a laugh-riot too. "

"Yes, I know the banana - "

"- skin, yes." chuckled Satan to himself.

God turned to Armin.

"You may go now." and clicked his fingers. There was a flash of light and Armin vanished - transported off someplace to recover.

"I" God said standing up and dusting of his tunic "have some business t attend to - if you'll excuse me." and with that he vanished.

The Devil was just putting on his painfully stylish sunglasses and retrieving his pitchfork from the umbrella stand where it had partially melted into the floor.
"Hey - come back here! " he stamped a hoof - there was a lick of flame and a whiff of sulphur and the flat was empty.

It was like a dream.

There was a sense of space opening before him - he opened his eyes are saw nothing but heard the sound of wave-fall. He realised he was laying in sand and staring up into the sky.

Rasptuin hauled himself to an upright position and surveyed the scene stood down by the water was a figure wreathed in robes and white light.

"My Lord." he whispered and picking up his cassock ran down towards the beach.

He arrived feeling as though he ought to be breathless but found that it came quite easily to him. The fresh salty air of the sea was cool on his face.

"Lord..." began Rasputin.

"Walk with me a while." said God and began to walk off along the beach.


Rasputin hurried along behind.

"Lord God - how often did I speak to you. How many times did I entreat you to bade my pleas, how often did thou ignore my offerings and thy back on me!" spat Rasputin his anger welling up inside.

God stopped and turned to face the monk.

"Take a look at the sky."

Rasputin looked and saw his life as the beach upon which they know stood and he saw God beside him at many intervals along that path.

In each scene he saw two sets of footprints in the sand.
one belonging to him and the other to God.

Occasioanlly one of the sets of footprints would dissapear.

He glanced back down the beach they had just come along.

One set of foot prints stayed steady and true the other set wavered and unsteadily meandered up to where Rasputin now stood and instead of leading to where God stood they lurched right, up and over a dune.

He noticed that the footprints of his life had departed from God's path when he had felt most desperate and alone and as a result had acted most wickedly.

"What lies beyond that ridge."

"The Desert." Said God.

As before God led the way up the dune-side and over the top.

As they crested the ridge, Rasputin couldn't stop thinking about the footprints in the sand.

"Lord, It was written in the Holy Books that once I decided to follow You, You’d walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints.
I don’t understand why when I needed You most You would
desert me."

"It was not I who abadonned you my child. No, it was you who abadonned me." sad God sadly with a flick of his head.

"Then if it was not thine who I serviced. Who?"

"HIM." Said God pointing to the Horizon.

Satan stood aflame in the centre of the sea of dunes.
You could tell he wasn't happy because the closest ones to him had fused into glass...

The monk whimpered. He made a pathetic figure, on his knees, eyes raised to the Terror on the far horizon. The shining figure by his side watched him impassively.

Squinting, tears running down his lean, lined face and through his matted beard, Rasputin turned to look desperately into the face of the sad Lord.
"Is it-?"
A slow, solemn nod.
"And I have to-?"
Again, the nod.
"Mercy-?"
God cleared his throat, and tutted.
"This, from the man who never showed mercy to another living thing? That business with the nylon laces and the red-hot Dustbuster... You forget that it was I who coined the phrase, 'An eye for an eye'..."
Rasputin groaned, and averted his gaze. And although he clamped his hands over his ears and screamed at the top of his voice, he heard quite clearly.
"You ask for mercy. You ask too much. I give you...justice"

When the monk looked up, he was alone. The desert had spread to consume the sea, and the red-brown dunes stretched away to infinity. He got unsteadily to his feet, wiped his nose on his sleeve and went forth.

Bob, two fingers still outstretched, turned his head and cast a quizzical look at Richter across the fiery abyss. The seismologist gave a thumbs up.
"I think that did it!" he hollered. Everybody cheered, except for Annabel, who was grunting desperately and jerking in her bonds like half an earthworm.
When a large chunk of the roof of the cavern came loose and tumbled into the lava, the reason for her agitation was plain to see. Bolts of blue energy were shooting out of the walls and ceiling and striking the Diabolical (cast-iron) Laundry-Wringer, which was emitting a shrill shriek and shuddering slightly.
The divine, rather terrified champion ripped off Annabel's gag and flinched as another block whipped past, this time glancing off the altar pedestal.
"Gakkk..." spat Annabel breathlessly. "The engine is unstable. He half-completed the sequence, it's drawing in all the energy, it's going to implode, or explode, but there's going to be a hell of a bang, we've got to get it out of here..."

Bob reeled backwards at this, and, as he always did when confronted with something incomprehensible and upsetting, reverted to the habits he had learned as a good boy.
"Ummm... I don't think we've met. My name's Bob."
Annabel gave him a withering stare.
"Just untie me. Bob."
Which, against a background of fiery armageddon, he rather clumsily proceeded to do. He had, of course, been a Boy Scout. He had gotten a merit badge for Eagerness, so he wouldn't feel left out.
The shaking in the chamber grew worse and the blue streams of lightning flickered and sparked, as Annabel, rubbing her wrists and shielding her eyes from the white glare, turned to the laundry wringer, in it's pride of place on the altar. Bob rocked on his heels and bit his nails. He felt nervous around women in suits.
Right, thought Annabel, as she leafed through the instructions for the engine, time for another executive decision. Ah, here it is...
"You might want to stand back. Bob. I'm not one hundred percent on how this works." She shot a little smile to him, and he practically leaped back, glancing at her uneasily and feeling that he was somehow failing to fill his armour.

Annabel felt the handle of the wringer, barely warm despite the elemental power flowing through it. Blue sparks crackled on her arm, raising the fine hairs. She gave a long turn anti-clockwise. She gave two short twists clockwise.
She gave a sweet smile.
"Ciao, Bob"
She gave one last twist, tapped herself on the wrist and blinked out of sight.

That, thought Bob, was unfair. Now more chunks of bedrock were plummeting from the crumbling roof, and a large swathe of the wall cracked and slid into the spitting, churning lava. The laundry-wringer was vibrating and giving off a high-pitched squeal which slid into the ear like a knife and cut up the ear-drums. He picked up the sheaf of instructions from where they had fallen, and regarded them balefully.
Technology and Bob were uneasy bedfellows. To take the analogy further, they had arranged separate single beds, which they occupied in frigid silence, and didn't talk to each other at breakfast. The last time he had tried to set his VCR to tape an episode of 'Heartbeat', he had ended up with a programme on the iron-ore industry in Argentina, in Flemish, *on a channel he didn't even have*. That had been three years ago...
He grimaced as he leafed through the instructions. Better get good fairly quickly, he thought, trying to block out the frantic yells of the others. Let's see, does it have an index? No. Glossary? No. FAQ? No.
Alright, I'll just have to wing it. Not perhaps a thought to inspire confidence in anyone trying to stay alive. But what had Annabel done? Adolescent years of furtively finding the salacious passages in his parents books paid off. He suspended the manual by the spine, and found the page she had been looking at. 'Trannsport & Trans-Location w. the Enginne'. This is it! he thought, sweat running into his eyes; the sound of tortured rock filled the air.
One hand holding open the instructions, the other on the handle, gibbering slightly, he copied her moves to the last, and, just as a massive rock smashed against the side of the altar pedestal and cracked it down the spine, he tapped the glowing laundry wringer. Then the world twisted sideways, and slid into the abyss. He slipped on the shifting floor, grappled for a handhold and fell into emptiness. His last thought before the darkness swallowed him was that it served them right for 'Home & Away'...

--------

Headline for the 'Sydney Star' newspaper the following day:

STREWTH!
Bloody Huge Crater in Great Sandy Desert!
Scientists Baffled! : "Don't look at me, mate"
Crazy Blue Light Reported By Eyewitnesses: "Yeah mate, it was crazy"
More on Pages 2,3,4,5,6,10,11,12 & 25. Mate.

You couldn't see. But here that didn't matter. It was sound that carried - and there were some hushed whispers being conducted not too far away....



"Hark! She comes."
"Who?"
"The Mistress."
"Where?"
"um...over there, I think."
"Are you certain?"
"Let me check my notes."

The two shadowy figures, the questioner and the one who was a bit unsure of things, were huddled together over what had once been a plinth. All around them was darkness - real darkness not just the darkness which is like light has gone on holiday and will be back next tuesday but the sort black that is dark because light had never been there in the first place. The pair's sole recourse against this inhospitable scene was a small waxy candle that was hurrdly burning down to the stub - the yellow flame was flickering madly like the left eye-lid of an old sailor as as he recounted his high sea escapades.

The air was still and old but there was aoccasionally from the depths something approaching a tale breeze, ever so slight, which caused the candle to go into something approaching a spasm.

The flickering light made it hard to read the scrolls.

"Um...take a few paces that way". said one of the figures pointing with out really looking

"Here?" asked the now distant voice.

The scroll studying figure glanced upward.
"No,no - the other way."

There was the sound of sandals on flagstones

"Like this?"

"That's it - perfect!"

There was a strangled metallic sounding bass note with a resonant twang - as of one molesting a harpishord with a chainsaw - and a flash of intense blue light flared up above their heads, illuminating the forest of impossibly tal stone pillars that surround them on all sides.
There was a cry like "whoa!" and another sound *whumph! - arg!* as of an immaculately cut suit with a person inside it and with accesorising guichi heels crumpling to a heap after dropping 8 feet out of mid air through a dimensional rift.

In all the excitment the candle had gone out.

"I think that was it." said the first.


....




"Hello?" he ventured bravely but against all reason what came out was a terrified squeeak.



"urrrrrgh." growled some furred toothy monstrosity - well at least that's what the first figure's imagination was currently crediting with having made that sound.

He reasoned - that if there was a big, huge, furry, hideously clawed thing - out there in the dark it would be useless him sacrficing himself for his colleague who by now was probably having his shin bone used as a tooth pick , and all in all the best thing he could do right now was ...RUN!!!!

His feet were already one step ahead of his cerebral cortex. In fact they were several - he ran and ran , careeering into obstacles left right and centre, ricocheting from pillar to post. After he figured he put sufficient distance between himself and whatever it was he was supposed to be here to escort (for the moment forgoing the fact that he would doubtless be killed for abdonning his charge) he was merely trying to put off being killed right now by the ..by the.. the...um...

While our protagnoist wrestled with this rather limited series of career options he failed to notice the shadow move black-on-black past this pillar around that corner snaking towards him.

The cowled figure shuffled his feet a little and sounded despondant.
"So that's it - I'm dead then."

A hand reached out grabbed him by the tunic and hoisted hm bodily up into the air and pressed him against the stone pillar with a considerable degree of force.

"Yes you are!" said a voice.

There was the sound of some fumbling, some itinerant clicking and finally a flame jumped up out of the lighter and Annabel stared frustrated into the half-sane eyes of the terrified monk.

"your..your..."

"Yes." said Annabel. "Late. I was unavoidably detained being tied to a stone alter about the be sacrficed by a crazed holy man."

"bad day at the office?" prompted by some inner instict of survival.

"The office" stared Annabell "is no more. I shall contact my solictor have the company liquidated, the assets sold on.
On second thoughts I won't kill you We may someone to have to come back for your friend over there, I'm afraid he gave his head a nasty crack on the floor when he broke my fall."

"It's good to see you again, miss."

"It's good to be back."

"You mission was successful then?"

"I have seen much that the others must know. Take me into the inner sanctum. I must speak with Him."

"The Dying Pilchard Bleeds Under A Turqoise Moon." intonded the monk from the bottom of his indoctrinated heart.

"Yes.....quite." smiled Annabell whimsically and heel's clicking on the ancient stone floor of the temple she strode off to deliver her report.....

The only magazines they had were 'Christian Action' and the 'Catholic Daily', and Bob was becoming quickly bored. He squirmed on the white couch, and cast a glance at St Peter, back behind his desk and glowering over a log book that had to be filled in in triplicate.
"Erm..." quavered Bob.
Peter gave him a Look.
"Like I said, he'll be ready when he's ready. You wouldn't believe his workload. It's not as if you're going anywhere, is it?"
"No, I was just wondering where the, umm, bathroom was? You see, I didn't have time to go before I...went"
The angel frowned.
"This is...weeell, it's never come up before. Highly irregular"
"Yes, that's the problem" said Bob jovially, trying to make a joke of it and failing. Peter harrumphed, and turned back to his books.
The little monk beside Bob on the couch gave him a broad grin.
"Don't worry, he's always like this. He has a lot of stress. Every time I get reincarnated I say to him, you've got to get an assistant, but he has his ways, you know..."
A bell rang out clear and bright, and a grateful Bob was ushered out of Purgatory into the presence of his god.

"So, Robert, you did it. I must admit, I had my doubts about your ability; when Arthur refused me...ungrateful little p**sant...but you performed above and beyond the call of duty. And right now, things are becoming...unpleasant...for the renegade monk. Thanks to you"
Bob blushed, shuffled his feet, stared at the floor, said it was nothing really.
"Although I have had several quite sharp prayers from my children in, um, Australia I think it was. Was it really necessary to transport the machine there? Wouldn't some inoffensive stretch of ocean have done just as well?"
Now Bob looked up.
"Have you ever *seen* 'Home & Away', sir?"
God cradled his chin in his hands.
"Fair point. When you leave me, you will wake up in a hospital bed, surrounded by your friends. I have arranged it all. But first, I believe it is customary to grant you a request - a boon, if you like. A reward for your sterling services to Creation. What shall it be, Robert?"
"If you could get rid of the third arm? Please? Only it's a bit of a nuisance, 'cause I lose track of which hand is holding what, and when I'm in the loo that's..."
"That's already taken care of, Robert. Tell me so; what do you *really* want?"
Bob looked far away for a moment.
"Well, there is this girl..." he stuttered, then stopped.
"Jill" prompted the Lord.
A mute nod from Bob.
God shook his great head sadly, and clapped a hand on Bob's shoulder.
"Walk with me, my son"

And now they were surrounded by stars, billions of tiny galaxies that twinkled and flashed garishly in the sober vacuum of space. Bob waved a hand, and it passed right through a cluster of stars and space dust.
The Lord turned to him, infinity reflected in his eye.
"Look. This is my Creation. I made this. All here is mine to control"
To demonstrate, and also because he had a penchant for showing off (remember the burning bush?), God waved an arm expansively. A perfect circle of galaxies supernovaed around his head, giving him a halo formed from the death of worlds.
"Time is my servant, Matter is my tool, Reality is my canvas..."
And here he looked sympathetically to Bob.
"...but you and Jill? That's *never* going to happen..."

He clicked his fingers, and the real world came back into focus.

Bob jerked up in the hospital bed.
"He's awake! Oh Bob, thank God you're alive!"
He looked at the circle of relieved faces, and thought: As of now, I'm going atheist.

A thin, cracked voice was quavering out over the bleak dunes of the desert of the soul.

"...amaaaaaziiiing graaaaace, how sveeeeet ze soooul, who saaaaved aahaaha wretch, like meeeee, for Iiii voooss lost, but now am found...."

Lips parched, throat dry, Rasputin was stumbling up a large dune. Pebbles stuck in his shoes. Dust stung his eyes. How long had he been stumbling across the terrible expanse of flat sand, with nowhere to hide from himself? Eventually he had started to sing, to drown out the voices in his head. They would *destroy* him. Through long years of debauchery and evil, he had become numb to the protests of his weakened, atrophied conscience. Now it had caught up with him, with a vengeance. All those people...men, and the women... He began bawling out again, as loudly as his tired lungs would permit.

"Vooos bliiind, buuuuut now, I seeeeee...."

With this he reached the crest of the dune. Below him, water glinted in a small canyon, carved from a rock outcropping. A patch of white showed up lividly against the ochre hues of the desert. There was a whisper of wind in the airless desert.

....my son....come to me....

Forgiveness? Hope dawned in the eyes of the bedraggled monk. He ran, tumbled, fell, rolled down the dune in a cloud of stinging sand, regained his footing and hobbled frantically to the white figure, sitting gazing into the small desert spring. Sweating, gritty with sand and bleeding from small cuts, he stood behind the figure, heaving in deep breaths.
"My Lord?"

There was a blur of movement, which ended up with Rasputin on his back in the sand, and the white figure kneeling on his chest, gripping his neck and pushing an unfriendly red face into his.
The Devil cast off his white robe.
"Care for another guess?" he spat. Hellfire flared in his eyes.
"Aaahahh..." twittered the monk, "My, ahh, ozzer Lord. I haf been lookink for you..."
"I've been looking for you too, Rasputin. You made me look *quite* foolish, with your little escape-from-Alcatraz stunt"
Rasputin looked blank. "Al-katraz?"
"That's not important. You tarnished the reputation of my fine establishment when you skipped out. You made HELL look SILLY..."
The Prince of Lies was literally fuming. Steam rose off his flanks. A heat haze formed in the air. Rasputin turned approximately the colour of really *good* lobster.
"My house didn't seem to affect you overmuch, monk. We boiled you in molten sewage - you came out smelling of roses. We cut out your entrails, and made you eat them - you smiled, and swallowed. We stewed you in the odious maw of Azrael the Black Beast for a million years - you compared him..."
And here the heat grew more intense.
"...to a *jacuzzi*! Do you have any idea how much that hurt him? I'll tell you - he cried like a baby. You arrogant little twerp!"
Rasputin gave a tiny, satisfied smile.
"Hell apparently couldn't punish you. We failed. So, Rasputin, you're not going back to Hell"
The monk raised an eyebrow, cracked a grin.
"Vell" he squeaked, "Vell, zat is good news. Haha"
Satan stood up, dusted himself off, smiled.
"Haha. Yes. Goodbye, monk"

Rasputin was alone again, in the featureless desert. The canyon was gone, the rock was gone. He stood, quite still for a moment, before walking on, heading for the horizon. No wind whispered. No vultures circled. Silence, but for the sound of his footsteps.

...remember that woman who lived on Pokrovskoe Street, who...

"AAAAVEEE MARIIIIIAAAA...!"

Pretty soon, he was going to run out of songs.

Two figures sat at a table in the bright, plastic McDonalds off the motorway, being regarded on all sides. One was a nervous man with a funny, Chaplin-esque moustache and jackboots, who darted glances from side to side and picked at his box of chips. He had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't welcome here. The other diner was a sallow, twitching young man in a toga with a crown of laurel leaves, who was messily devouring a cheese-burger with all the trimmings, spraying his neighbours with secret sauce and random gherkins, blissfully oblivious to the hostile attention being focused on the table. He held two pickles up to his eyes, and giggled. The two Dignitaries had gotten bored and hungry, and wandered off to find some grub. The Fuhrer had opted for Chicken McNuggets, while Caligula had insisted on getting a Happy Meal.

Now a chair scraped back, and a hush fell over the restaurant as a huge, muscled biker strode slowly over to their table. The entire restaurant held its breath; only the reworked pan-pipes version of 'How Deep Is Your Love?' that was playing on the intercom broke the silence. Leather creaked as he walked, and the tattooes on his arms rippled. This man looked, for want of a better non-censorable word, 'ticked' off. He had already been accosted today by what looked like an especially sick creation of HR Giger, and he couldn't take any more upsetting freakiness. He leaned ominously over the table. The Dignitaries leaned back. The biker, whose name, though he would never admit it, was Gerald, cleared his throat.

"I *knows* you" he rumbled angrily.
The Fuhrer felt his stomach drop into his boots.
"Ent-entschuldigung? Ahhaha...ich-"
But the biker was looking elsewhere.
"You're the emperor Caligula, incha? Thirty-seven ta forty-one ay dee, right? Who's yer friend?"
The giggling despot looked up and, well, giggled.
"Imperator Caligula mea. Qui tu, plebeian insolens?" ('I am the Emperor Caligula. Who are you, rude person of low standing?')
Secretly-Gerald didn't understand, but growled.
"Murdered yer sister Drusilla and proclaimed yerself a god, dincha? Made yer horse Incitatus into a consul in thirty-eight ay dee while neglecting the functions of proper government and pursuing a life of wanton luxury, dincha, yew *b*****d*? We don't want your kind round here..."
Caligula stuck a chip up his nose and started singing an obscene song in Latin. It could have gone very badly for him, but at that instant he and his fellow diner disappeared in a lick of flame, leaving only a lingering whiff of brimstone and two half-finished meals. Hell had claimed back her own, and Gerald finished off the chips, so everything was alright then.

A side-step to the left - through the flimsy dimensional barriers we laughing call 'reality' - and we arrive again in Hell.

The Devil clapped his hands in glee and folding his arms, reclined upon his throne.

"They are all back then?" he asked stroking his chin

"Yessir" muttered a three-legged purple demon wearing half-moon spectacles who was pacing up and down with a clip-board. Pausing he ticked off the last re-maining name on the list with a charcoal stick with an officious flick.
"well minus one...er..."

"I've taken care of that one myself. He won't be going anywhere soon."

"I see. If that is all?"

"Yes. leave me."

The Imp, bowed and exited backwards, closing the impressive black gates behhind him as he went.

The Prince of Hell waited a while until he thought he was alone. then unfurling his clawed fist he flexed his fingers once or twice then beating his hand rhythmically on the arm-rest counted out:

1...2...

paper.


1...2...

scissors.


1...2...

stone.

"Bah!" he exclaimed in frustration. "Next time we play tiddlywinks."

Now two steps to the right - and into the Kingdom of Heaven, which has an unprecedented twenty billion stars out of five in the Michelin Hotel Guide. God, like his infernal counterpart, broods on his throne. It had been a busy week, and he turned events over in his vast mind which is, in fact, the universe. He was pondering again the reason why he had given humankind free will - all they ever did was use it. Like the monk, Rasputin...a needy child who thought his god should come when he was called. Perhaps he hadn't been Old Testament enough recently: people seemed to be getting uppity all over. Spare the bolt of lightning, spare the child... He hadn't waxed his wroth in *ages*, it must be getting tarnished.

And the ones who weren't denying him never gave him a moments peace, with their prayers, hymns, dedications, invocations...did they know he had to listen to every one of them? Intolerable. And just on cue, Gabriel's voice came in on the intercom.

"Sir, you're scheduled to create some new suns after lunch, then you'll be receiving a new batch of souls, answering prayers, watching a sparrow fall and posing for Michelangelo, which brings us into the evening schedule...more prayers, I'm afraid... Oh, but first, you'll be appearing in a vision to a medieval hermit named Severinius. The usual clouds parting, heavenly vision, booming voice job. OK?"

"Yes, yes..." he affirmed wearily, already feeling the headache. But now an old memory bloomed in his mind, and he smiled slowly. He glanced around warily...but then who was boss around here? He hadn't had a rest since the seventh day. They could manage without him for a weekend.

Severinius lay in his smoky cave, trembling with anticipation. He had lived as a hermit for twelve years far from any towns, in a hair-shirt the whole time, flagellating himself daily with thorny branches, neglecting hygiene and all worldly things, existing on a diet of slugs and moss. But now he felt some great moment approaching, and had laid himself on the jagged rock that passed for a bed.

And all of a sudden, lo! he felt himself lifted up above the world, leaving his corporeal body behind, and he saw the whole world girt by the sea, and all the lands thereof (and he fought an inexplicable urge to shout 'I can see my house from here') and then he saw three circles, each within the other, and they were with each other, and they were one, and he saw a golden chariot race across the sky carrying the sun. And it was good. Finally he saw clouds, fluffy white ones tinged with gold from the glorious sun, and the clouds parted, and he saw... a note.

He picked it up. It said: 'Gone fishing'.

...and he sat up, back in his cave and extremely bloody annoyed. Francis of Assisi never had to take that kind of crap, he fumed to himself. Sod this. Pausing only to kick over the slug barrel, he stomped out of the damp cave and went looking for a stiff drink.

I am the ghost of Old Threads Past.....

Are we ever going to get this sod finished, Clive?

and I am the of threads yet to come....


YES. is the simple answer. By way of explanation however...

You may recall I was for a while at least, contributing to these threads whilst simulainously trying to pass my degree.

Well since leaving university I've been rushed off my feet (Graduating, going on holiday, visiting girlfriend...um...going on holiday again. - not that I'm complaining.) The simple truth is I've not been near an internet terminal long enough in recent days to pay but the most cursory attention to my favourite site and all the threads I am part of.

pPnic not though. I am back now. and with no schedulded absenteeism forseeable in the near future. Yes we shall indeed get back to the story. and I shall get the coding finished and over to the post.

My sencerest apologies for the delay. I always suspected June through till August would be busy months for me. I never truly anticipated just HOW busy they would be.

*off to put on skull cap and think of ideas...*

Hiya Mr Legion (I hope you are still subscribed)

Apologies again for not picking this back up sooner.

However - an odd thing happened to me on the way over to hootoo this morning. I checked my e-mail and found out the portions of the story i have already started writing up and coding into GuideML have been moderated!

I'm not asure which bits were yoinked and seeing as the message has come only now when it's been stone cold of activity for at least the last month - they must have had some poor person sat and read through the whole thing looking for something to lift!! (if only they knew - that was just the beginning!)

ANYHOO, this has given me the impetus I needed. Life is returning to normal levels at last - I am sat at home looking for jobs, therefore I can sit at home looking for jobs AND write up the rest of the thread!

Best Wishes.

Clive.

They Modded it? The fiends! Maybe you should put a little 'resemblance to any persons living or dead etc.' disclaimer on it...though that would quite defeat the purpose of Rasputin. Change his name to Rasputine?

As it happens, I saved the storytime code last time I saw it - I've uploaded it now and it's in my Scratchpad entry. A782921 Do you need it, to copy or anything? If not, I'll take it down - don't want to incur the wrath of the Mods. I have it saved in a Word file anyway.

Looking forward to the gripping conclusion

Mr L