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Blasphemy. (Short story)

I thought you guys might be amused by this:

If god existed, wouldn’t he be bored by now? What do you think he’d be doing?


And on the Eighth day, he did Eve doggy style

Thomas T. Tank walked down the street with his hands thrust deeply into his pockets. Ignoring the people around him, he kicked at an abandoned can that happened to be lying in his path and watched it bounce off a stone and land in the gutter, not at all where he aimed it.

“Stupid life,” he scowled.

It started to rain.

“Oh, fucking great.” He felt in his shoulder bag for his umbrella, stopping as he remembered he’d given it to Sam, just before she dumped him.

“Bitch!” he shouted, to the shock of some old woman who happened to be walking by at that moment. She tutted and stalked off, putting up a rather putrid colored pink umbrella in the process.

Tom, having no such luxury, putrid or otherwise, gritted his teeth. He looked around and spotted a Starbucks over the other side of the street. Checking his pocket to make sure he still had his wallet, the way his luck was going today you never could tell, he dodged the rush hour traffic and made his way to the store.

Inside was warm and almost deserted, so he was soon seated at a cozy corner table nursing a latte, a hatred towards umbrella stealing ex-girlfriends and the person who’d invented job interviews.

The one he’d just attended should have been a shoe-in. He had all the right qualifications and experience. It was just bad luck the interviewer had been such an ass, that’s all. Some people you just hate on sight.

He took a gulp of coffee and shook his head as the cup hit the table top.

“Life sucks doesn’t it?”

Tom jerked back, slopping drink over the side of his mug.

“Fuck… I mean… Sorry. Where the hell did you come from?”

The man, who was suddenly sitting in the chair next to him, smiled. He was dressed in an immaculate and extremely expensive looking dark suit with a perfect white hanky tucked in the pocket. Tom estimated his age to be maybe early fifties, but he was still handsome, in that Sean Connery type of mature man way. Startling blue eyes bored into Tom, piercing, it seemed, into his very soul. A wavy mass of shocking white hair bounced back as he ran manicured fingers through the locks.

“I’m everywhere all the time,” the man replied.

Tom realized he was staring. The man had some kind of… quality to him. He wasn’t anywhere near gay, but if this chap had asked him to bend over and drop his pants, he probably would have. The sheer charisma rolled off him like waves at high tide.

“Sorry, God,” the newcomer said, holding out a hand.

“What?” Tom managed to look bewildered.

“God,” the man said again.


“Yep. Here’s my card.” He slid over a plain white, glossy card.

Tom picked it up.

“God,” he read. “Tel: 1. E-mail God@heaven22.com. Heaven22?” He looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, Heaven was taken. My lawyers are on it.”

“Ah. Yes. I see.” Tom put the card down, very slowly.

“So then,” God, as he’d introduced himself, leaned on the table, getting latte on his sleeve. “I understand you’re in need of a job.”

“Maybe,” Thomas answered cautiously. He wasn’t sure what to make of this person, but with rent due, and no current way to pay it, he was slightly more desperate than usual.

“Excellent.” He picked Tom’s coffee up and took a sip. “That’s a good latte, I knew I shouldn’t have allowed the devil to corner the hot beverage market. Anyway, I have a position going, if you’re interested?”

Tom looked at his drink as it was replaced on the table.

“Well…” he said.

– Read the rest (Free) at www.tomecity.com

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