Cure for Sanity - Chapter Seven

Cure for Sanity - Chapter Seven - The Beet Farmer



God and Satan were playing golf at God's house. He was playing mindgolf against himself, essentially, but it helped make the millenia pass.



They stood at the back tees of the first hole, waiting for the foursome ahead of them to play through. God was dressed in his usual off-white robes, and Satan wore an adorable purple and black plaid get-up, complete with a tam, topped by a fuzzy purple puff ball.



"So, what's your handicap?" God asked, taking a few practice swings.



"Me? I care too much," Satan said.



"Hmm," God said. "Mine is that I care too little."



"Should be a fun round, then."



God whacked the ball a good one, and it took off like a comet, overshooting the par five entirely, exploding the next set of tees and the foursome ahead of them.



"Mulligan," God said, and set up another ball.



Satan glared at him.



"I don't make the rules," God said.



"Um, you sort of do. How convenient for you."



"Listen," God said, leaning on his driver. "I may have set some things in motion, but I can hardly be blamed if the end result is a standard golfing rule that just happens to benefit me now. Can I?"



"I suppose not."



God lined up for his second swing. As he did so, the winds died down. He glanced back at his playmate and saw a look of resentment.



"What?" he said. :Coincidence."



Satan said nothing.



"Oh, all right."



Lightning flashed. The winds came back at gale force. Everthing except the golfing duo became inundated with a heavy rain. God shot a hole in one.



"I thought you didn't care," Satan said.



"What?"



"You just got done telling me that you didn't care!"



"About what?"



"Um, you didn't specify."



"Aha!" God said. "Are you going to complain all day?"



Grumbling, Satan lined up his shot, a respectable three-hundred yard drive that left him well positioned on the fairway where the course doglegged right.



Then God walked off, leaving him to carry both bags of clubs.




###


"It's not fair," Prail was telling Janique. "You can't disrupt his life like that and not give him a fair chance."



"Oh, no? He seems to be doing well so far. He cheated death three times, saved his girlfriend in an extremely morbid and somehow romantic way..."



"You still don't get it. You did kill him in some timelines. That only increases his power in others. Expect repercussions. His hit points are already through the roof."



"So limit them. If what you're saying is true, it will only handicap him," Janique said, "not ruin him. That's my job."



"If we were going to cap his hit points, which isn't a bad idea, I won't do it without giving him a clue. It's only fair."



"Fuck fair," Janique said.



"Movie title!" Prail replied.



"Besides, you said he was a singularity. How is he in multiple timelines?"



"We all are. That only means he won't meet himself."



"How many of us are there?"



"Infinity minus N."



"What's N?"



"N is N. However many universes there are without us. A different number for each of us."



"That's a little vague."



"I can see there's no fooling the great math detective Janique. I've got it. Be right back."



Prail popped into a marketing meeting for a new drug. "Capzasin HP" was the only thought she projected to a member of the marketing division.



"Done," she told Janique.



"Well?"



"A new pharmaceutical will be on the market, Capzasin HP. There will be lots of commercials. He'll see it."



"That's more than a little vague."



"He'll understand. I don't know if it'll make a difference. But I'm capping his hit points. If I don't, there's no telling how much disruption he could cause."



"Thanks, Mrs. Oakes."



"Ooh, don't call me that.!"



"That's your name."



"I know. Don't remind me."




###


Pex had a lot of work to do. Fun to have, in his case. He'd laid most of the groundwork. The rest he considered performance art. He's teach Prail a thing or two yet.



He closed his eyes, and was in Jerusalem, in a curious pocket that seemed to exist outside of time, at least by most human standards. After all, where are the years between B.C. and A.D.?



It was the year 20 A.B. Pex approached a bearded young man pulling weeds in a small garden.



"Don't want any," the man said without looking up.



"What?"



"Whatever you're selling, I don't want it. I can't afford it."



"I'm not selling anything," Pex said.



The man, Yeshua, stopped what he was doing and stood up, suspicious.



"What do you want, then?"



"Um, to talk, for starters. You're in danger."



"In danger? Of what?"



"Of not being born, for one thing. And not surviving childhood, for another. Finally, of not surviving adulthood."



"Poppycock," Yeshua said.



"What? You can't say poppycock!"



"Why not? Poppycock. There, I said it again."



"Because it's anachronistic, and silly, besides."



Pex wondered if he had been among the British for too long already.



"And I'm still somehow expected to know what 'anachronistic' means?"



"Look, that's not the point. Poppycock. Fine. I just sort of thought that one of us spoke Aramaic or something, at least."



"I do. Aramaic and Hebrew."



Pex considered this. It was a lot more difficult to get his head around this time and place. His area of expertise was twentieth century pop culture. Worse yet, his perceptions were filtered through the distorted lens of movies and television.



"Nevermind. You're just in danger, okay? You wouldn't believe my explanation anyway."



"This isn't some religious nonsense, is it? Or political?"



"No, not really. Personal business."



"Are you a time traveler?"



"What?"



"You know. A person from another place and time."



"Okay, yes," Pex said.



"I knew it!"



"Did you? How?"



"Well, I suspected it. It's not a concept the future owns, you realize. Plus the clothes are a bit of a dead giveaway, aren't they?"



Pex looked down, and he was still wearing jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt."



"Poppycock," he said.



"Yeah, let's get you a change of clothes."



They approached a ramshackle shanty that lay between the dirt road and the garden, Yeshua bringing a cluster of weeds he had piled up.



"You should let that stuff decay and mix it in with the soil."



"You mean like compost?"



Pex followed him to the far side of his shack, where he dropped the weeds in a pile without ceremony.



"Again, not a new concept."



They went inside, and Pex was surprised at how much cooler it was. The mud walls were pleasantly cool to the touch.



"I'm afraid I can't afford wine. I do have water," Yeshua said. "I'm thinking about taking a wine-making class, though."



"Aren't you a carpenter? They make decent money."



"No. I gave it a shot. I'm not too good with my hands. Plus, they keep ridiculous hours. I like to sleep in."



"How do you survive, then?"



"I tell you, if you don't support the Roman Empire, the job market is, uh, donkey dung. I'm a substitute teacher, but I think I'm blackballed or something. I make a little side money as a street lecturer. I own the house, and grow my own food, so I don't need much."



"Street lecturer?"



"I panhandle. But always with a good story to tell. Allegorical lessons and such. Do you know who Aesop was?"



"Greek storyteller?"



"Yes! He's brilliant. I hope to achieve that level of success some day. Are you hungry?"



"Something tells me you will. What do you grow?"



"Beets. Can't stand 'em. That's where it all falls apart. Want one?"



"No, thanks."



He handed Pex a set of sand-colored robes and had to show him how to put them on. Afterwards, he pulled out a long wooden pipe and lit if off of a small fire that sat beneath some putrid-smelling purple concoction that Pex assumed were the beets in question.



"What's that?" Pex asked.



"Hash from the Baqaa Valley. Are you sure you're from the future?"



"Yes, but I didn't expect..."



"You really should do your research before time traveling."



He passed the pipe to Pex, who had managed to avoid smoking pot while in London. He saw the misery of the alcoholics, and had assumed it was the same with it.



"When in Rome," he said, taking a long drag that resulted in him coughing up a lungful of smoke.



Yeshua watched in amazement as he went glitchy, the particles of his being distorting with bursts of static. Twice, Pex disappeared fully.



"Sorry," he said when he finally got a grip on himself. "It happens."



"I think you've had enough," Yeshua said, taking it away from him. "So, what's on the agenda?"



"What?" Pex asked.



"You said I was in danger. Is it time travel business?"



"Oh, that. Yes. Time traveling business. Someone's been sent to kill you. Well, the baby you."



"I knew it! I am pretty enlightened, you know. But I'm here already. That means I survived, right?"



"Only because you haven't been born yet..."