Friday, October 29, 2004
"I'm sorry, sir," the Marine says, politely but with an edge of menace, "but no one enters the White House without emptying his pockets."
"I'm not no one!" Yahweh shouts. "I'm God! You got that? God!"
"Uh huh," the Marine says. "What, they had the election five days early?"
"Stupid fucking election!" Yahweh bellows at the ceiling. "Look, put it this way. Lemme in before I huff and I puff and--"
"Oh," the Marine says, his eyes going wide, "you're a wolf?"
"Whatever," Yahweh says, "if it'll get me into this stupid house."
Suddenly all four Marines guarding the door draw their guns, train them nervously on Yahweh.
"Down on the floor, scumbag! Now!"
Yahweh is just drawing himself to his full 5'6" to start throwing thunderbolts when President Lincoln himself comes into the entryway.
"What's going on here, boys?"
"Step back, Mr. President!" one of the Marines shouts. "He's a terrorist!"
"At ease, boys," Lincoln chuckles. "That ain't no terrorist. That there's Yahweh. He and I go way back."
"Sir," the Marine says, rather more uncertainly, "I don't think--"
"No need to think, son," Lincoln cuts in smoothly, "I'm here to do the thinking for you. Lower your guns, all of you. That's a direct order."
All four Marines lower their guns. Lincoln claps a lanky arm around Yahweh's shoulders and leads him into the White House. "Long time no see, Yah," he says. "Where've you been keeping yourself? Up in that heaven of yours, I expect? Grilling ribs?"
"Got talked into this stupid election," Yahweh grumbles.
"Oh, right, right," Lincoln says. "The deity election. I see those signs everywhere. What a nuisance!"
"Tell me about it," Yahweh says, rolling his eyes.
"So," Lincoln says, "what brings you to Washington? Can't be the weather. Or the architecture. Or the culture. Hey, you wanna meet my girlfriend?"
"Later," Yahweh says. "I want one of your guys."
"One of my guys?" Lincoln says.
"Yeah. Doug Robinson. He's here, ain't he?"
"Fucking Bill Kaul," Yahweh says, steaming a little out of his ears. "I knew that fucker was lying."
"Lying?" Lincoln says.
"Fucker sent me on some wild goose chase down to Mississippi. Society of Dead Jesus Agency Talent my ass. I'm gonna fucking roast that fucker for my breakfast."
"Doug Robinson's my Literary Critic. Has been since practically the day I took over."
"Yeah well I need him."
"Yeah well you can't have him."
"Look, Lincoln, do you want Me to smite you?"
"Sure," Lincoln smiles. "Remember what happened last time you tried."
Yahweh gives him a sour look. "Shit," he says.
"Hey," Lincoln says, "maybe you should give it a shot. You never know. I could have gotten waterlogged, living down there at the bottom of that lake. Coulda slowed me up some. You might take me this time."
"No, no," Yahweh mumbles, looking down at His feet.
"Hey, come on in for a moment, meet my girlfriend," Lincoln says.
"Naw, I gotta run," Yahweh says. "I need to find me a campaign manager."
"You'll never guess who I'm sleeping with," Lincoln says.
"John Wilkes Booth?" Yahweh guesses.
"Cher," Lincoln says, trying to be cool about it.
Yahweh's eyes go wide. "You have got to be shitting me," he says.
"Come on in," Lincoln says. "I'll introduce you."
"Do you think she'd give me an autograph?" Yahweh says. "I loved her in Moonstruck! And that voice!" He breaks into a croaky tone-deaf rendition of "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves."
"My God, Abe, they're singing my song," says Cher as she steps brightly into the room. Yahweh strangles his song mid-tramp, gulps, gulps again, looks at her speechless. "Who's your star-struck friend, hon?"