"Come on," Bill says, "you're imagining things."

"Am I?" I say, sliding into my foil pajamas. "I don't think so."

Bill's not getting ready for bed. He's sitting in the chair, tipped against the wall, strumming a badly tuned guitar and smoking.

"I tell you," I say, "one of them's an impostor."

"Mullah Billdoug loves masquerades," Bill says. "He's a fool for mummery of every kind. Could be both of them are impostors. But they're still Mullah Billdoug."

"Then why doesn't he remember our days in the Lincoln White House?" I say, climbing into bed and plumping up my pillow.

"Maybe he does," Bill says simply.

"Something's not right," I say, and close my eyes to sleep.

But as soon as I do, I realize something: it's not just that the guitar's out of tune. Bill's playing it strangely. I keep my eyes closed, listen carefully, and finally it hits me: he's playing John Prine's "Sam Stone"--backwards. And somehow it's the squeak of his fingers on the strings, not his voice, that sings "Paul is dead," which is very odd, because Paul's the only one who isn't dead.

So then I open my eyes, put on my glasses, and notice something else: he's smoking through the lit filter end of his cigarette.

And then I think: omigod, he's the anthologist from outer space ...

# posted by Doug Robinson @ 6:49 AM

"Okay, you two," Sun Myung Moon says to Hermes and Satan, "what's this about Ed Schrock turning gay? I smell the two of you all over this one."

Hermes and Satan try to look innocent.

"What?" Hermes says. "I thought he always was gay. Nobody can turn you gay."

"Not even a god?" Moon says.

"Well," Hermes says mock-modestly, "I guess it might be possible ..."

"Exactly," Moon says. "But why on earth would you go after Schrock? He's one of our most valued conservative Congressmen! He's got a 92% vote rating from the Christian Coalition, for god's sakes! He cosponsored the amendment banning gay marriage! How could you possible pick him to push?"

"Well duh," Satan says, stifling a smile.

"Come on, Sun," Hermes says. "He's a big hypocrite. Where's the fun in letting him go after gays when he's dreaming of a big juicy buttfuck himself?"

"Fun," Moon snorts. "Look, you're working for me now. Got that? Conservatism is all about hypocrisy. You go after the people who are too freely acting out what you're afraid to act out yourself. That's the way it works. That's how the moral majority stays moral: by policing other people's behavior and hiding their own. We have to be supporting this behavior, not exposing it--and certainly not for 'fun'! That's about the least conservative value there is!"

"Sorry," Satan mumbles.

"You're sorry?" Hermes squeals, looking from Satan to Sun and back to Satan. "Jeez louise, I can't believe you two. You're really serious about this shit? Supporting hypocrisy, not having fun? Fuck that. I'm outta here."

He spins on his heel and exits. Satan calls out "Hermes, wait--!"

"Let him go," Sun Myung Moon says. "We're better off without him. And we've got work to do. What about this Ken Mehlmann story? What are we doing about that?"

"I dunno," Satan says. "Whaddya want me to do, make him straight? Kill anybody who writes about him being gay? What? You tell me, I'll do it."

"Lemme think," Sun Myung Moon says.

# posted by Doug Robinson @ 8:44 AM

Bob Jones stands by the coffee pot, drinking cup after cup--to calm his jittery nerves, or to pretend that he doesn't need to calm his jittery nerves, that he isn't weirded out of his tiny mind by the gods here in the studio with him, working on his speech to President Bush. Hermes is writing the text and giggling madly. Sun Myung Moon is fiddling with Satan's Yahweh suit, adjusting the wig and the beard, twiddling the voice-box dial till it sounds exactly like Jesus. The scarab beetles swarm over everything, not just Sun Myung Moon and his wife with the unpronounceable hacky-whacky jaw-breaker name. The engineers ignore them, or flick them off a switch they have to flip.

"How about this?" Hermes says, holding up the paper with a wicked gleam in his eye. "'In your re-election, God has graciously granted America--though she doesn't deserve it--a reprieve from the agenda of paganism.' You gotta love that one, huh? Like he doesn't really know what paganism means, thinks it's the same thing as atheism--and it's written by the greatest pagan god of all!"

"Yes, yes," Sun Myung Moon says irritably, "we know you're clever. Get on with it."

"Okay," Hermes says. "It goes on: 'You have been given a mandate. We the people expect your voice to be like the clear and certain sound of a trumpet. Because you seek the Lord daily, we who know the Lord will follow that kind of voice eagerly.'"

"What the fuck?" Satan says. "The Lord will follow some mere mortal's voice?"

"Pay attention, Satan," Sun Myung Moon says. "Not the Lord will follow the voice. We who know the Lord will follow the voice."

"Oh," Satan says. "So is that when I come in?"

"I still think it's better for him to be next to the Bobster from the beginning," Hermes says. "Walking in right in the middle of the speech makes it look like Jesus just happened to be passing by."

"But why would Jesus just sit there quiet next to Joe Blow listening to him talk?" Sun Myung says.

"Bob Jones," Satan says.

"Sitting there beneficently," Hermes says. "Or what's the word, beatifically. And at the end, he says 'Hi, my name is Jesus Christ, and I approve this message.'"

"I don't like it," Sun Myung says.

"So what does the Bobster say?" Hermes says, looking up at the college president comically.

Bob Jones spills his coffee all down his shirt. "Fuck!" he yells. An intern dabs at the shirt. Bob Jones holds the fabric away from his skin, starts unbuttoning buttons. Clearly, he's going to have to change. This is TV.

But Hermes can't stop. He's fascinated by the dumb ordinariness of the name Bob Jones. "Bob Jones. Bob Jones. Bob. George. Dick. Why do all these people sound like characters in a children's book? Do you have a dog named Spot, Bob? Do you have a pair of square pants?"

"Enough," Sun Myung Moon says testily. "Was that the end of the speech?"

"Uh, no," Hermes says. "Here's the end: 'Don't equivocate. Put your agenda on the front burner and let it boil. You owe the liberals nothing. They despise you because they despise your Christ. Honor the Lord, and He will honor you ... If you have weaklings around you who do not share your biblical values, shed yourself of them.'"

"Yeah," Sun Myung Moon says, "that'll do."

"I like the sneer at weaklings," Satan says. "That's in line with the new Jesus we're creating. The fascist leader, not the faggot liberal."

"You don't think the cooking image makes Bobolink sound womanish?" Hermes says. "I mean, what does a real man like Bob Jones know about cooking, right?"

"No," Sun Myung Moon says, "Bob Jones isn't doing the cooking. It's like something a guy might say to his wife when he comes in from hunting, or fixing the car, or beating the kids. 'Move that pot up to the front burner, I'm fucking hungry.'"

"Okay," Hermes says, "so then George Bush is the wife?"

"Whatever," Sun Myung Moon says.

Somewhere the intern has found Bob Jones a new shirt. He's tying his own tie, like a real man. His eyes scan the room: the scarab beetles clicking and clacking over everything, Satan practicing sincere facial expressions in a mirror, Hermes putting the moves on some thirtyish associate producer ... and his heart sinks. What has he gotten himself into? But no, he tells himself: buck up. This is for God. This is for moral values. This is for America.

And that last is the magic word. It puts new iron in his backbone, new bounce in his stride. He takes his place with confidence.

And then, what the hell--he gets an erection. It's under the table where no one can see it, but still--how can he concentrate on what he has to say with Little Bobby throbbing? He glances around furtively. Nobody's looking at him, except Satan, and his gaze is, well--beneficent. Even beatific. He's got the look down, now; has put the mirror away. But why does that look creep him, Bob Jones III of Bob Jones University, out?

# posted by Doug Robinson @ 7:35 AM

Oh, shit, Hermes thinks, as he exits the White House and sees the scarab beetles all over the lawn.

Sure enough, just around the corner stand Sun Myung and Hak Ja Han Moon, covered head to foot in the disgusting insects and smiling beatifically.

"So good to see you again, Hermes," Sun Myung says. His freak-o wife never says anything.

"What's up, Sun," Hermes says.

"I'll take the stuff you stole," Sun Myung says.

"What stuff?" Hermes says, all innocence.

"This stuff," Sun Myung says, and starts relieving Hermes of his loot: silverware, champagne glasses, miniature soaps embossed with the Great Seal of the U.S., paperclips, a stapler, and a small Cezanne still life with apples, pears, and quince. Sun Myung slides it all into his shoulder bag. "I'll take the gun and the keys that you lifted off the Marine, too," he says.

Hermes gives an insouciant grin and hands the contraband over. Apparently Sun Myung doesn't know about the missing decoder ring!

"Listen," Sun Myung says. "If we're going to work together, we need to establish some ground rules."

"I gotta tell you," Hermes says, "I ain't real big on ground rules."

"I realize that," Sun Myung says. "That's why I'm telling you the way it's going to be."

Over my dead body, Hermes thinks.

"That too can be arranged," Sun Myung smiles. "Okay, rule number one. No more petty theft."

"What!"

"You heard me," Sun Myung says. "Absolute minimum value of stolen goods is one million dollars U.S. Preference will be given to virtual heists."

"What's a virtual heist?" Hermes says.

"Stealing abstractions," Sun Myung says. "Stealing numbers out of Panamanian bank accounts. Laundering drug money. Overbilling on government contracts--see Dick Cheney for that."

"No picking pockets?" Hermes says.

"That's right," Sun Myung says.

"Where's the fun in that?" Hermes says.

"Never mind the fun. This is the big time now. We don't have fun; we get rich."

Hermes is very careful not to think the obvious, here: what the fuck am I doing with these people?

"Rule number two," Sun Myung says: "no sex with the wives or daughters of elected officials or their advisors."

"How about the officials and advisors themselves?"

"What about them?"

"Can I have sex with them?"

"No! Sex only with the non-governmentally-affiliated!"

"How about virtual sex?" Hermes asks.

"That's always encouraged," Sun Myung beams. "But only with the citizens and the environment," he adds, "and only from behind, so they don't know who fucked em when you're done."

# posted by Doug Robinson @ 9:04 AM

"You're an attractive woman, Laura," Hermes says. "Can we find a quiet room somewhere?"

Laura blushes furiously, glancing down at George, who is fighting fish-shaped space invaders.

"Come on, you little motherfucker," he's yelling at the screen, "hold still for two seconds while I blast you into fish guts!"

Hermes looks at Laura comically, crossing his eyes and touching his index finger to his dimple. She makes a stern face, gives a librarian's shake of the head.

"Come on," Hermes says, "can't we find a quiet place where we can--talk?"

Laura takes one more look at George, then makes up her mind. She isn't going to sleep with this god, that's for sure--even though she's heard from the twins that he's a genius in bed. But it can't hurt to hear what he has to say. Maybe he'll be able to resurrect Karl?

# posted by Doug Robinson @ 8:53 AM

"Hi, guys," Hermes says brightly to the Marines at the White House security check point. "Wanna frisk me?"

"Empty your pockets, please, sir," one of the Marines says, and Hermes obeys. But of course while he is emptying his own pockets he is also emptying the Marine's into his own, so that the Marine starts noticing the bin filling with his stuff: "Hey, those are my keys!" and "I've got a gun just like--hey!"

The Marine is about to sound the alarm when Hermes produces a badge very like the Marine's own.

"Just messing with you, son," Hermes says. "I'm from the Secure Hermetic Interdepartmental Task Force on Unclassified and Classified Knowledge, here to see the boss on matters of national security."

"Oh," the Marine says, abashed, "sorry, sir. Please, pass right through. But, uh--Vice President Cheney isn't in town today, sir."

"No, no," Hermes smiles, winks, and leans in conspiratorially. "I'm here to see the president."

"I see, sir," the Marine says. "But I thought you said--"

"Nice talking to you, sergeant," Hermes says, and steps through the metal-detector. It goes berserk, of course. Alarms sound, lights flash: Hermes still has the Marine's pistol, keys, and decoder ring. The Marine hastily turns off the alarms. Hermes walks off jauntily down the hall.

# posted by Doug Robinson @ 8:33 AM