Hello, Office of the Demiurge. No, he’s not in right now. He’s out creating the world. This is his secretary. Is there anything I could help you with? That’s right. Uh huh. Well, what do you think? Of course he’s going to make sofas. And they’ll be good ones, very good ones. Like so much of his other furniture and trees and machines and landforms that he’s created. Yup. He’s gonna make those too. Yup, and in many, many different colours. Shapes as well, yes. Nope, he doesn’t give a crap about how they’ll make you feel. All he wants is for you to want one. And to know it’s there, exactly. What’s that? Nope. He disagrees that there may be some intangible connection between beings and their items. It’s all strictly about your material goods, ma’am. That’s right, strictly about the material world. Nope, he doesn’t think that’s shallow. And neither do I. Who the gives a ladybug about your soul. Or even if you have one. Alternate plains of existence? Spirit worlds? Okay just calm down. Listen, my boss is out there eon in and son out working his butt off making the world. Creating things. Tangible things, get it? Not some spiritual voodoo mumbo jumbo that doesn’t do anything or serve any purpose. A bucket has a function. Your aura does not. Hey, just you listen, he works hard to create actual stuff for you. For everyone. For the universe. So you can’t just sit here and tell me he’s missing the big picture. He painted the big picture and hung it on the wall. It’s real not just some frickin’ abstraction that you have to peer into via hokey prayers and cheesy meditations. Tangible. Concrete. Bona fide. Substantial. For real. Got it? It’s not hard to understand. Literally, knock on wood. See? Exactly. Now compare that to sitting there making monkeyman bowel movement noises with your mouth guiding your breath down into your non-existent soul hole. Again, exactly, I don’t know either. No one does. So stop being such a sobersides and get up and get out there and start living in that material world that was so thoughtfully created for you. Are we clear here? Uh huh, great then, good to hear. Is there anything else I can help you with? No? Well. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day. B’bye.
Yo babs, the Lenny Dace here. Howzit? Sweet. |Listen, I’ve got Krishna interested in that east-west crossover thing that Yahweh’s developing with that trickster Sun-Wukong. What’s not to love? Bananas, elephants, beards, deserts, jungles, slings and arrows! C’mon, it’ll be bank–as in, box office super bank! Yeah, yeah, I know, just get into it. I’ve also got Shango available right now. Uh huh. Uh huh. Exactly, he’s itching to work with Old Man Coyote. I know they haven’t finished casting that Wily Cheaty Sneaky Pesky Trickster Man of the Old West project yet, so whatdyuh say? Uh huh. Uh huh. Gotcha. Great. And you? Morrigan? Okay, okay–no, I’m just thinkin’ here. Get her together with Cronus. I’m serious! Listen, picture it, the Castrator side-by-side with the megalithic military Mother Goddess herself?! It’s gold, baby, gold! Right, right, get back to me. How ’bout Hathor? I know, she had that thing with the thing but it’s old news. Under the bridge. Honest, it went under the goddamn bridge and floated the fuck on outta here. Nah, nah, listen–it’s over, it’s done. So? Makunaima, huh? I’m listening. Get ’em down in the jungle. Steamy sex, big snakes, human sacrifices–I like it! Let’s do a deal. Anything else? What’s that? Are you–you can’t be–how the hell are you supposed to do A Seven Gods of Good Fortune picture without Ebisu? What do you–HE’S THE GODDAMN GOD OF GODDAMN FISHING! He’s essential. Okay, wait, let me just–right, lamp this, I’ve got Moschel available, we slot him in. You don’t what? He’s the fucking Baltic God of Dairy ferchrissakes, we just get those eggheaded buttwipes to work in some kind of lucky yogurt angle. You got any better idea? Exactly, don’t worry, it’ll fly, I guarantee it. One last thing, I’m looking to set up Erzulie-Mapiengueh. I’m thinking a taught courtroom thriller something along the lines of The Verdict meets Saw. Maybe get Ereshkigal, go dark, real dark. Yeah, well, let me know. Okay, yeah, sure, lunch sounds good. I’ll be in touch.
“This where they keep it?” Wakanabe asked, shifting the pouch of Bandit to the other side of his mouth, letting that smooth wintergreen tobacco taste freshen his head.
“This is where they KEPT it,” the raisin of a man said, staring from the safe to Wakanabe to the safe and back again like it was supposed to mean something.
“I understand tenses,” said Wakanabe, “and I understand your concern. What I don’t understand was the what.”
“What what?” Raisin man said.
“What was in the safe? You know, what was capered.”
“Are you for–the sauce! The sacred
sauce!” the raisin man took a turn for the worse, went prune.
Wakanabe bent his wide load down and peered into the gun metal maw of the safe, “You keep sauce in here? Don’t it spoil? I mean, it’d be better off in a fridge, I’d reckon.”
“No no no, not the sauce proper, it’s the–it’s the recipe. The sacred recipe for the sacred sauce!”
“And which sacred sauce is that?” Wakanabe coughed his Bandit into his hand, pocketed it in his London Fog, resisted sucking another. It was early yet, not even brunch time.
“The secret sacred sauce! You know, for the Moses Burger.”
“Uh huh. That the one that leads your hunger out of Egypt?”
“Yes, that one. The sauce is very important to the whole creation. Essential. Ten very specific ingredients as handed down to our chef from the hamburger God himself, Crispy Dan Natkins!” The prune went south, looking more like pickled gristle.
“He’s that grill guy that disappeared into the desert, weren’t he?” Wakanabe grunted, starting to notice just how close to brunch time it was.
“His exodus was as mysterious as his knowledge of barbeque, but that’s not important. What’s important is the retrieval of the recipe for the sacred sauce! If it isn’t found we’re done as a burger joint! Do you understand?! DONE!!” The pickled brine flopped down onto the floor like a puddle of gravy that had been left in the sun for forty years too many.
“Don’t fret yourself, buddy, I’ll find your sauce.And the owl that filched it. Or my name isn’t Ding-Dong Wakanabe!” He stared off, feeling his detective spirit soar, seeing his future self in the future time. This would be the case that put him back on the map. And out of his parents basement.
The puddle of gravy gandered up, staring at the fat, gallant form of the gabardined shamus standing there, looking off into the distance. And for a second, nay maybe less than that, he thought he heard a voice. A whisper on the wind like a moustache in the night.
S’okay guy, this guy. This guy’s the guy. A real guy’s guy, guy.
And inside he knew it would be alright.
Because that voice was Crispy Dan.
The tears blazed of out God’s eyes like beautiful meteors, raining down onto the Earth like tiny intercontinental ballistic miracles. They touched down, they detonated, and everywhere in the sprinkle zone people was a splishin’ and splashin’ in the fantasmacism of golden salty nectarness. A child of three sprouted the moustache of an Apache that kicked a moonbooted disco maniac into dancing a light-loafered fandango that blew the doors off a barn that housed a party-rock pick-up truck that with a toot-toot-honky-honk rampaged off through a sweet bog that was chock-a-block with muck and frogs and awesome bad gas, spraying it all burping and hissing up and on and all over a dizzle dazzle of a company picnic that was ragin’ in the meadow by Snake’s Lake and the freaking CEO and his wife did the smooth banana so hard that the company’s shares jumped three point four two points and a stock broker could not believe it so much and so deep and so hard he gave himself such a case of the bone-burglars that his skull and skin doctor fell down and broke so much breeze that the air authority declared a state of liquid wind.
Needless to say, it was quite the nooner.