100. Gospels

The day began somewhere between bemusement and annoyance. I needed to talk to C.W. and when needed, he is often nowhere to be found. He does it to aggravate me.

Problem was, quotes were appearing on an on-line social network under my “page” quoting a mysterious document called “The Book of Ludicrous.” I can’t create a password on my computer that C.W. can’t hack, so I knew it was one of his capers.

I finally found him in a corner of the attic at the farmhouse in the guise of a renaissance scholar or something like that. He had fashioned a desk from an old dresser and illuminated his writing space with a small candle. It was stifling hot there, and sweat covered me but, as he looked up from his writing, he paid no notice.

“My son,” he said.

“We need to talk.”

“Of course,” he said. A boney finger motioned for me to wait. He finished the sentence, smiled, and looked back at me.

“What troubles you, child?”

“Have you been posting on my computer again?”

“Computer, what is this … computer?” he asked, a roguish twinkle in his eye.

I wiped the sweat away. “Cut the crap,” I said. “People are asking me about it,” I paused. “What the hell is ‘The Book of Ludicrous’?”

“Ah,” he said. “Your are familiar with my work: ‘The Gospel of Humankind’s Struggle as Set Forth by St. Ludicrous of Salvatia.’”

“What?”

“We are urged,” he said. “Urged by the Falloonian Elders to leave something of value with your species when we depart.” He pointed at his manuscript. “This shall be my gift.”

I glanced over at it.

“It is much better than pictographs cut into wheat fields, right?”

“So you are leaving?” I tried to change the topic.

“Not anytime soon,” he said. “It will be a long manuscript.”

”But why a gospel couched in satirical nonsense?”

He looked at me as if I had just asked how demons could inhabit pigs.

“Can you think of a more fitting paradigm for your species than a book of the ludicrous?”

I began to ponder this.

“I mean, think about your species’ habit of starting unfunded wars.”

That stopped me.

“Or,” he continued. “Pantyhose. Neckties. Designer pets. Or automobiles designed to travel a hundred miles an hour faster than any posted speed limit.”

“What …?” I began.

“I haven’t even approached the more fantastic tendencies,” he said. “Such as the belief that criminal proclivities may be assuaged by locking the miscreant in tight quarters for long periods with more advanced criminals.”

“Well, uh …,” I stammered.

“Who thought that one up?”

Before I could answer, he reached into a drawer and retrieved what looked suspiciously like a joint. He laid it on his desk and then pulled a wicked looking pistol from the same drawer.

“Observe,” he said. “Many of your species would have no problem with my blasting you away with this if you annoyed me.” He waived the pistol in my direction. "And sometimes you do."

“Put that down,” I said.

I still maintain that a
Falloonian female would find
pantyhose baffling at best. - C.W.

He did. Then he picked up the joint, observed it, and said, “But those same brethren would have me join the incarcerated for simply smoking this and grinning like an idiot.

I said nothing. He began to write, speaking as he did so.

“He who shall wallow with the unholy shall feed with the iniquitous.”

“Don’t suggest to my wife that pantyhose are ludicrous,” I said. Then I wiped the sweat away once more and left him to his work.