Coven - Part 6

Leaving Korky staring at the flashing sign for The Dandy nightclub we return to the Bogan Council Chamber where Luke Skypilot has been striving all day to discover his particular familiar so that he might begin his own quest for The Beano. Roscoe Lunchpack and Grimy Hobo are little help as they chant the names of comic heroes dredged up from a misty, distant past.

Roscoe Lunchpack: We tried Biffo the Bear didn’t we?

Grimy Hobo: Yes and Keyhole Kate, Minnie the Minx, General Jumbo, Lord Snooty and His Pals - all that lot.

Roscoe Lunchpack: Well they wouldn’t work anyway. They were all Dandy characters I believe.

Grimy Hobo: Desperate Dan?

Roscoe Lunchpack: Desperate Dan was definitely The Dandy but I think Minnie the Minx might have been The Beano come to think about it, not sure.

Luke: None of them are working anyway. I think we’re on the wrong track. What else was associated with The Beano? Come on, you guys; I’m getting really frustrated here.

Roscoe Lunchpack: Can’t think of a thing.

Grimy Hobo: Beats me.

Luke: Oh, God Almighty!

(There is a flood of light so bright it should have blinded but is perfectly illuminating instead. It fills the room and seems to become the room. Luke is aware of every mote of dust that swirls about him and the dust is aware of him – he becomes the dust and sees the congealed dark matter that keeps the dust apart. All things can be seen in this light, it casts no shadow and has no apparent source. This is the same light by which Schrodinger’s cat saw a radioactive atom begin to decay and the cat therefore knew it was totally Dorised. This is the Light of the World and there is no mistaking it. After a few moments the brightness lessens. The light does not actually dim but withdraws into the rather short old man who now stands in the exact spot from which Luke has recently vanished. To make doubly certain there is no ambiguity the little fellow has a large badge pinned to his flowing white robes. The badge has jolly carton style lettering on it that reads, “ Six days – piece a cake. Thank Me for Sundays”)

God: Is this flesh and blood thing always so smelly or does one get used to it?

(Ron Yuteman: Why not? I take the piss out of everyone else. If the Old One exists I’m betting he’s got a sense of humour. If he hasn’t, I’m Dorised anyway. Oh look, Grimy and Roscoe have fallen to their knees and are crossing themselves like a skydiver who can’t find the ripcord on his parachute.)

God: Oh I wish you wouldn’t do that chaps. It makes me feel so self-conscious. I remember talking to Queen Victoria about this sort of thing. Everyone she met seemed so stiff and formal. She didn’t know they were all trying desperately to control their bottoms. Do you know, the poor woman went through her whole life without hearing another human fart? She thought it was just her that did it and wondered what ghastly affliction she had. So, please gentlemen, fart only if you must but at least relax and just talk to me as if I were any other vastly superior being that just happened to drop in.

Roscoe Lunchpack: Blatha nagga ba-dong gatha clatherblah ta Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha …….glorpht.

Grimy Hobo: I think what my friend is trying to say … uh .. sir … sire … uh .. thou-est, is that he is really honoured to be … well, for thou to be hereith withith usteth and blatha nagga glaphablath ptoing pting whampaclath.

God: Jesus!

(Poof.)

Jesus: Yes, Dad?

God: What did I tell you this morning – don’t interrupt – I told you to mind the shop didn’t I? That was the last thing I said after I said I was going to pop out for a few hundred years wasn’t it? What is the point, I mean, what-is-the-bloody-point of spending all that time on your training if you can’t follow a simple instruction? How are you going to learn the family business if you can’t be left in charge for a few centuries? Really - I might as well have given the job to that prat Gabriel for all the use you’ve been lately. What is your problem boy, tell me that, what is your bloody problem - eh? Don’t interrupt. Now get back there and start behaving omnipotent and all ghosty wobbly. Go on, sod off!

(Poof.)

God: Kids! Where’s the way out of this dump?

(Going for the short cut, God walks through the wall but forgets to turn on the Holy Spirit and makes a dreadful mess. He comes out the other side of the wall covered with plaster dust and bits of wood. After passing through a mains cable his hair and beard stand straight out from his head and he has set off every alarm in the building. Shaking the dust off, God moves in a mysterious way up the corridor towards the exit. He meets the entry guard who seems put out by the damage God has caused.)

Guard: Oy!

God: Are you talking to me?

Guard: Oh no, I was talkin’ on the phone to me Mum – of course I’m talking to you, you really naughty person! What the Doris do you think you’re Dorising doing?

God: Look I’m sorry but I’m in a bit of a rush. Could we continue this conversation some other time?

Guard: What’s your Dorising name smartass?

God: God.

Guard: All right Mr. God. Assume the position on the floor where I can comfortably give you a good kicking. And no curling up into a little ball either. I want to be able to see a clear boot trajectory into your bollocks.

God: I really have to go. Goodnight to you.

Guard: Stop or I’ll fire!

(As God carries on toward the door the guard opens fire. He empties a whole magazine and then throws a grenade that explodes around God with absolutely no effect. God is obviously a little peeved by this and he turns back to the guard who is looking crestfallen but resigned.)

Guard: You are God and I’m Dorised aren’t I?

God: ‘Fraid so.

Guard: What will happen to me?

God: Either upside down in 3 feet of shit or have your entrails picked at by eagles, both go on for eternity without the option – your choice. Personally I’d go for the eagles, we get all our shit from Bombay and it’s 90% curry.

Guard: Does it have to be forever?

God: Well, after a few hundred thousand years I might bring you back as a cockroach, but only long enough to get stepped on then it’s back to the day job.

Guard: And there was me thinking it was the Devil that lobbed out this sort of grief.

God: Yes, it’s always amazed me that people assume we are two different forces. Both sides of the one coin really. Heads, tails - good, evil - window looking out, window looking in. It’s all the same thing and morally dependant on your point of view. It’s the same with the punishment, after a few years you’ll probably start to enjoy it and wonder how you ever managed without soaking your head or feeding the birds. This is paradise, you will say - and perhaps you will be right.

Guard: Eagles or shit eh? Can I have a bit of time to decide? Talk it over with the wife and that?

God: Of course, I’ll send one of my people round to pick you up in the morning but I’ve got to be going now.

Guard: Yeah, right. Cheers God - and thanks.

(God leaves the building. He pauses briefly in Bogan Central to cause a flower to bloom, which isn’t quite up there with the parting of the Red Sea but pretty spectacular for Bogan Central all the same, and then he hops onto a passing Beaudesert upheaval just as dawn begins to break.

Thus God comes to Beaudesert for the very first time. Despite the bible bashing and pulpit fulminations, particularly from the Lutherans, Beaudesert has always been a Godless place. The population’s reputation for piety and simple faith is always second to its predilection for begetting and Beaudesert’s farm boys’ tendencies to “know” anything with a hole in it, including the livestock, doesn’t help. It was only recent closer links to the outside world that halted the popular Saturday night lynching of black fellas who had attempted to “know” a white Missus (or refused to, in some particularly ugly cases).

God knows he stands on shaky ground in this town. Beaudesert people will not appreciate a God at variance with their expectations no matter how many miracles he can pull out of his arse. The Beaudesert God is a jealous God and will brook no other. God will have to be very careful indeed because it is a virtually unknown fact that God can be killed and of the infinite number of places in the Universe, Beaudesert is the most dangerous place for him to be.

He stands at the war memorial searching the faces of the passing, bare-foot, drooling throng. The air is thick with cow shit and the sound of banjos drowns the roar of trucks and the bellow of cattle stampeding through the streets. It is market day and fat farm wives carry impossibly huge bundles of produce to market with the same silent stoicism that will take them home, each carrying a drunken husband on her back.)

God: Excuse me, I wonder if you can …..? Excuse me, would you ….? I say. You there. Hello, would you possibly know ….? Oh dear. I’m a Lutheran you see, or a Catholic if you prefer. Anglican? I’m definitely not God though. Goodness me no. Wouldn’t be God for quids. Hello …..

The Last Mayor of All: What’s the bother, old fella? You look a bit lawst. Can I ‘elp you?

God: Thank goodness, I thought nobody would stop. It was as if I was invisible and I know I wasn’t being that. I turned invisibility off, you see. And you are …?

The last Mayor of All: Me names Joy. I was the last Mayor of Beaudesert Shire. What a claim to fame, eh? Now what’s the problem me old mate?

God: You’re very kind. I wonder if you can point me in the right direction to find someone or something known as The Beano?

The Last Mayor of All: The Beano? Too right I can, mate. Everybody knows The Beano, at least, the old buggers like me do. The Beano’s a bloke, or ‘e was. Died in 1979 of the smallpox. You’ll find ‘is grave up in Gleneagle bone yard. You won’t miss it; it’s the biggest gravestone in the cemetery. So, what do you want with The Beano, friend of yours was ‘e?

God: No, not really. I wonder why I didn’t know about him? Where is this Gleneagle cemetery?

The Last Mayor of All: About 4 miles north. Fit old bugger like you could walk it in an hour. Take my tip though, don’t mention to anybody that you’re visitin’ The Beano. Not everyone is as forgivin’ as me - if you get my drift.

God: Thank you. I know how hard that was for you. Uh….when you come back … next time. I would like you to be Queen of the Lorikeets. I think you will enjoy it.

The Last Mayor of All: Yes, yes I would, very much. We understand each other, don’t we, you and me? These others can’t know what it means. Sometimes I despair, but I hold together. There’s not too many left and none like you. It’s been a pleasure old man.

(The last Mayor of All turns away and, despite her harlequin suit, is soon lost in the crowd. God heads north and quickly passes beyond the outskirts of the town. He is vaguely aware of a Beaudesert youth and his girlfriend knowing each other like nuclear rabbits in the scrub beside the road. This is common enough and hardly deserving of note but something about the union draws him. With a shock he discovers that the spermatozoon and ovum destined to meet will produce a being with a potential intellectual capacity to rival Einstein’s. However, realising the child will then grow up in Beaudesert, God decides that the conception is pointless so he blocks it to avoid the frustration.

But he is confused. If he can be aware of things like that and see the entire universe in a glance, why does he know nothing about Gleneagle and The Beano? Who is The Beano? What is he? Furthermore, why does the village of Gleneagle, that is now very close, seem to be cloaked in a mist absolutely impenetrable by the gaze of God?)

TO BE CONTINUED.