c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-26)
It was a rainy afternoon in the home office. I had finished assembling the final manuscript for my most recent project, which was a volume about biker culture, and spirituality. A storyline that blended two important sources of inspiration from my own childhood.
“Fishtail Redman – Gasoline Dreams and the Word of God”
But after finishing this project, I lapsed into a normal period of creative ennui. With no specific goal in the aftermath, my temporary joy of accomplishment faded quickly. So, I sat at the desk, pecking away at keys with no purpose in mind. Scrolling through news reports, culling ideas, hoping for some sort of epiphany to appear, in an act of divine mercy. It was in a sense, a familiar visitation of ‘writer’s hangover.’ The price paid for having poured myself into a task which now, left me feeling spent, empty and dry.
But as I puttered away at doing nothing useful, an odor of sulfur filled the room. There was a flash of electric blue, as if something had shorted out in the household breaker-box. Then, a sneering, nasty voice with the timbre of rattling chains filled my ears.
“RRRRRRRRODNEY! RRRRRRRRODNEY! DO YOU HEAR ME, MORTAL MAN? BOW DOWN AND ACCEPT THE HONOR OF BEING IN MY PRESENCE!”
It was still early enough in the day that I had not touched a drop of beverage alcohol. Moreover, my senses were awake and sharpened by a pot of coffee, poured fresh from my BUNN brewer. So, I knew that any wild episode of imaginary delusion was unlikely.
I coughed once, cleared my throat, and responded in a hoarse tone of reluctance.
“In your presence? Umm... the presence of whom?”
Smoke and ashes billowed from the doorway. My uninvited guest did not find amusement in this confession of ignorance.
“IDIOT! CAN YOU NOT SEE WHO I AM? BEHOLD, THE FIERY GLOW OF ABBADON! I AM THE LORD OF HELL, LUCIFER SATAN! WORSHIP ME AS ONE OF THE DAMNED!”
I shrugged slightly, which only seemed to intensify his displeasure.
“Umm... well then, okay! Hello sir. I didn’t know you made house calls. Greetings to northeastern Ohio!”
The apparition of Beelzebub reddened with blazing heat of an unrighteous fury. Yet eased his vehemence while pondering my blasé mood.
“You have been busy at the keyboard, eh? I was told that you had composed some sort of religious tome. A strange subject for someone who has, in real terms, served me well as a sinner and backslider for many years!”
His assessment was not kind, or generous. But it sounded deadly accurate.
“Yes... that’s right. If you came here to remind me of my failings, be assured that I haven’t forgotten. There you have it, plain and simple. I admit my guilt. That is the end of this story. Will there be anything else?”
The demon king hardened his gaze. He had both fists clenched so tightly, that long fingernails pierced the callused skin on his paws.
“IMBECILE! MOST HUMANS TREMBLE WHEN I SPEAK OF THEIR JUDGMENT! DO YOU NOT REALIZE THAT A SENTENCE OF ETERNITY IN HELL AWAITS? IT IS YOUR INHERITANCE AS A FOOL! THE PRIZE YOU WILL WIN FOR MAKING SO MANY MISTAKES DURING THIS EARTHLY WALK!”
I had no defense to offer. He was right.
“Yes... I know.”
Again, my calm manner threw him off balance. He nearly began to whisper.
“You know of your own, stained soul. And yet write about Jesus and God in your book?”
My face tingled from the heat of his raw manifestation. I rubbed my cheeks, reflexively.
“I’ve had a meandering path as a wordsmith. Without any discipline with regard to subject matter, or interests. It is what I do, embarking regularly on a sort of real-time adventure. Whatever comes to mind ends up on the page. Music, poetry, political satire, the culture of my rural neighborhood, and even... the church.”
The master of hell stood his ground, defiantly. He did not embrace my explanation as literal truth.
“Come now, your words are preposterous! The church? You want to speak of the church, when I haven’t seen you go to a service in many years?”
He had hit another bullseye. I nodded in deference to his declaration.
“I have my reasons. Maybe they aren’t valid, in the long run. That is up for debate. But being raised by a pastor affected me deeply. I can’t just ignore that part of my heritage. It comes out sometimes, as with this latest novel. I had wanted to pen something in the vein of my old motorcycle tales, from the 1980s. You know, revisit the mayhem and rough humor of two-wheeled outlaws, and their way of living...”
Satan grinned with sharp fangs and a curl of his leathery lips.
“Yessss, I recall those literary experiments of yours. Lots of booze, oil, axle grease, loose women, marijuana, bare-knuckled fights, and jail! A wealth of dirty pleasures!”
I nodded for a second time. He seemed to be very familiar with my personal history.
“See, I have ended up alone, disabled, penniless, and struggling to find a reason for greeting each day with optimism. But it’s there, in my heart and mind. In the scriptures, if you like. Maybe not quite as the apostles intended, or prophets, or scholars, but it is an enduring component of my timeline. One steeped in Christ, Rock & Roll, Harley-Davidson, and the hills of Appalachia. That is my redemption. By chance, or by faith, I keep coming home again. If that appears to be an impossibility, look deeper. Dig with your claws. Find what you seek...”
He was aghast at this naked admission of culpability. I saw his glow diminish in the room.
“NO, NO, NO! DON’T TELL ME THAT BEING UNCLEAN BRINGS YOU SALVATION! THAT IS RIDICULOUS! POPPYCOCK, I SAY! NONSENSE BEING BABBLED! I WON’T HEAR OF IT!”
I spun around in my office chair, to face him directly.
“Not existing in an unclean state... no, it is my awareness of being stained that makes redemption possible. Do you understand? Humbling myself before that reality. Embracing it. Owning it. And, sometimes, even praying about it...”
I rummaged through stacks of material on my desk, until finding a tattered, KJV Bible from when I was in grade school. Still bound with a zipper to keep lesson materials inside. Upon opening the holy document, I read a familiar passage that often began my mornings at home.
Psalm 118: 22-24, “The stone which the builders refused is become the head stone of the corner. This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.”
A thunderous rush of energy shook the walls, as he wailed angrily. I nearly toppled from my chair. My head felt dizzy. An odd sensation while still being completely sober.
“MORTAL MEN DISGUST ME WITH THEIR INSOLENCE! YOU DISGUST ME, RODNEY! DAMN YOU, AND ALL YOUR BOOKS! DAMN YOU TO HELL!”
My visitor had vanished, in a plume of gray smoke. Our interaction was ended, at last.
No comments:
Post a Comment