Sunday, July 17, 2016

330. Confusion

We were having a nice stroll, the Galilean and I. That’s becoming one of C.W.’s favorite shapes. He’s now shortened both the length of his robe and his hair, but he is still eminently recognizable. At my request, he lightened his skin tones. It’s not advisable out in “fly over country” to be seen in public as a dark-skinned middle-easterner. Other than that, he was in his normal character.

We were walking in a landscaped area at our country place, a quiet spot we call “The Grove.” They made molasses there back in the day and there is a legend that a civil war unit once camped there before burning the farm for some malfeasance or other. It is a peaceful spot now and he likes it.

He was smoking one of my cigars and about to finish a Dos Equis beer. He took a long swig and began looking around. “Don’t throw that bottle down out here,” I said. “Remember what happened last time.”

“She thought you did it,” he said. “And besides, it didn’t hurt her lawnmower.”

“No, but it ruined a tire.”

“Collateral damage,” he said. “Can’t be helped.”

I said nothing.

“There’s going to be a lot of that if your species continues on its current path.”

“Why is that?”

He looked around. “I need another beer,” he said. “You want one?”

“Sure,” I said, and sat on a piece of antique farm equipment until he returned with two bottles.

“She’s rebuking me again, Mrs. Big Dope is,” he said.

I ignored him and he sat beside me. He said, “She doesn’t like cigar smoke in her kitchen.”

“I could have told you that had you asked.”

“On the topic of rebuking,” he said, “wasn’t I pretty clear about divorces, when I visited earth the first time?”

“You were against them as I remember.” It's best to play along when he is like this.

“Explain this fascination your voters seem to have to have with someone who’s had two,” he said.

 “I can’t.”

“Loving money,” he said. “I told Paulie to be real specific about the dangers of that. Why wasn’t he?”

“I think he was.”

“He warned about coveting riches?”

“Best I can recall.”

“Did he include the part about piercing themselves through with many sorrows if they erred.”

“In all the versions that I have read.”

“Good,” he said. “Paulie tended to get distracted when Timothy was around. ‘Pierced with many sorrows.’ I made that up myself.” He paused, took a sip of beer, puffed his cigar and blew smoke rings into the grove.  “Many sorrows,” he repeated, savoring the phrase. “There,” he said. “Is your collateral damage. It seems that too many of you are set to vote for a man to run your country whose only qualification is that he loves money.”

“They also say they like him because he speaks this mind.”

When he spoke his mind ...
the conservatives crucified him. - C.W.
He rolled his eyes and sighted. “Oh please,” he said. “That last visit, I spent half my time driving demons out of people who spoke their minds.”

I thought on this. He continued. “You know I cared a great deal for the poor and meek,” he said, “and the peacemakers.” He tilted his beer up and took a swig. “And those who mourn, the merciful, and some others. I think I specified eight in all. I have trouble remembering. It was hot as hell they day I spelled those out.” He drank more beer. “Eight, I believe.”

“I think you have it right,” I said.

“This guy, the one with the orange face and yellow hair … he and his bunch hate all eight, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “But they don’t stop there.”

“Well,” he said. “At least the followers I have left here among your species will denounce him soundly.”

That got my attention. “Uh,” I said. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“I have some bad news for you.”

“Crap,” he said. He stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth. “You might as well tell me.” He stopped and held an empty bottle before me. He spoke around the cigar. “But it’s your time to get the beer. You go fetch us a couple of cold ones and I’ll sit here in the garden alone.”

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