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the lost series


we’re gonna make this short and sweet. we at messy magazine have uncovered a ton of awesome work that we couldn’t wait to share with you guys. and really, summer season is magazine season. So how could we let you go all those months hanging around the pool, er office, without handing you something that will give you weird tan lines when you pass out on that reclining chair? or in the case of this summer, something you can use as a blanket. the following submissions are radniom and extraordinary. we love them. we are sure you will too! enjoy!

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-chuck landskroner


s y a lw a re a ey th s. it d e cr e vi o m e these paragraphs are lik le o e p e m so , m e th to n io nt e tt a there. some people pay w e vi re rs e th o le hi w y, fl e ri b m e th don’t. some people scan , se o o ch u yo r ve e ch hi w . b m co them with a fine tooth . ut o us g in ck e ch nd a re he re a u we’re glad yo messy magazine is an online, theme inspired publication focusing on the creative community in, around, and outside of Cleveland, distributed from Cleveland. We showcase literary work, art, music, film, photography, DIY, you name it. messy magazine is a submission based publication. We welcome submissions, thrive on submissions, and are comprised of submissions. Without you, what do we have? Just some bare pages. And what’s so entertaining about bare pages? Nothing. All joking aside, we’d be happy to see and promote your work. We promise to pass

them along and spread the word. And send some jokes. Everyone always needs a new joke. messy magazine is Vanessa Aron, Lauren Kirk, Genna Petrolla and Michael Stidham. Ownership and copyright is that of the artist submitting. All reproduction rights are that of messy magazine. No reproduction in full or partial permitted without written prior consent of messy magazine. All content © Copyright messy magazine, 2009.


i am so close to you

-zack jones

Yet… still as the minutes fall sluggishly So… does my mind and fingertips twitch electric angst Far… into the backreaches of my sanity Away… I cannot hear your voice I cannot sleep I cannot hear your voice If I could call myself the Odysseus of the Jersey Shore, and O I’ve passed the Sirens by I’ve passed the Sirens by I wouldn’t expect much more than To see you once again After my month of twenty years Let’s not be hyperbolic, I only want you And I know you’re still there I’ve shared a piece of mind If only for morphine to my missing And you could call me half a hero We’re connected through the wires, the future Those digital gods who allow me know you Cripple my senses And yea, they will be freed when I reach that destination In (a little) time…

she...

-mike barna  

She slipped inside of a rabbit. When she came out she was never the same again. “I’ve seen this before; in my dreams. I’m not the same as I ever was. I quit.” This burned a hole through nothing, leading to nowhere. Never to return.  This happens every day. Who knew? She knew even if she doesn’t. “This is beautiful” she said; remembering what never happened, forgetting all that had. “I’ve never see this before.” She awoke.


-katie french

deviant

my story

-angela reagins Never say Never That there could be a happily ever, ever, ever, ever…. AFTER the love is gone, AFTER you’ve been wronged, AFTER you’ve gave up hope and you could trust no one Who will one day rescue me So my heart will be free And I can live happily …..ever, ever AFTER I thought he was Mister Right but turned out he was Mister Wrong My heart said he belonged AFTER I fell in love so quick and I found myself again love sick Does true love exist? My prince charming is out there somewhere and we will be together forever and live happily ever, ever AFTER???

Living happily ever after may seem like a happy lie to some depending on who you ask. I’d much rather believe it has the potential to be a happy truth. It’s better to believe that love is out there somewhere, near or far, within our reach. That happy lie can make what seems like a stark reality for some BELIEVE. Believe that with the ups and downs one may encounter during dating trial and error that you may still one day find that perfect mate and live happily ever after. Who wants to go through life thinking you will never find love or you are destined to live a lonely miserable life. I’ve had my share of disappointing experiences but I do believe happily ever after can be a true obtainable ending instead of a happy lie. How will your story end?


my first kiss: a memoir

-michael george

I stick the Q-tip brand cotton swab deep into my ear hole. I go deep and hard enough to nearly cause an eargasm. I discard the Q-tip with yellowed cotton tips into the waste basket in the corner of my bedroom, next to my messy desk.

their own. Now they wax philosophical with discarded Q-tip brand cotton swabs who wax back with waxed ends. Nestled in this lively vertical stack of garbage is a leaky pen. This pen is the type who adds little to original conversation, only reminiscing about his pre-garbage can life. He attempts to regale the assembly with stories of stories he’s written, phone numbers he’s jotted, signatures he’s signed, and letters he’s penned. The crumpled grocery receipt tells the pen he is more like a broken record than a broken pen.

The Q-tip is lying on top of some threatening letters that say “This is a shut off notice” and other warnings in similar veins. Paying bills, like cleaning earwax, is a battle that does not end until you are Resting I.P. in your grave. A cemetery is where we throw people away. Sometimes the doctor gives warnings to people: “Start eating healthy and exercising, or you will die, this is a shut off notice.” If my habits aren’t Desk and bedroom trash is much more eloquent than the cretins changed soon my epitaph will read, “Here Lies A Man Who that inhabit kitchen trash cans. The millions of conversations that are simultaneously audible from every individual coffee Died Because He Never Changed His Habits.” grind becomes a distorted and constant murmur that puts all Below the discarded threatening letters in the waste basket on edge. On top of that, there are banana peels bragging are some Kleenex brand tissues full of dried snot from last about beating syphilis, a can of beer that tells everyone week’s sinus infection. They huddle together and talk about he belongs in recycling, fast food wrappers that hate their subjects they cannot change, like the economy or the mind lives, a lonely toe nail that recently arrived via dust pan, of a quarreling lover. The tissues are soft on the outside with and a gang of lecherous and surly peanut shells, assaulting crusty hard cores that give them their own personalities. and insulting everyone they see. Not a great place for a Before use, when they were stacked together on top of each romantic getaway, like Niagara Falls, where I had my first kiss. other in a box, they were too uniform to have opinions of


calla lilly for gayle

-chuck landskroner


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-christopher rivituso “oh, how I find my way” what are you doing tonight? i’m ticking away at eleven cents a minute--and grotesquely content. i have a fountain of dr. pepper and easy access to sedatives. what are you doing tonight? my back hurts and i don’t want to get out of bed.  it’s cold outside and i’d rather sleep alone.  no company for this misery; it’s a double, but it’s mine. what are you doing tonight? i’m lying to myself and anyone who will listen. i say “i love you” and “how about that!” and “i’ll do it tomorrow”--tiny whispers in a dark room, or things that go bump in the night.

-andrew morrell


dirty socks

-amy kravochuck I miss that you never snored Or vacuumed. Just checked for bad guys in the living room. I miss the sound of sing-songs And even shattered glass On the linoleum floor. Broken guitar strings. I miss your girl hair On the bathroom sink And your socks all over The fucking floor. I miss the same piano song For the eight billionth time in a row. Floor beds and wedding soup. Breadsticks and harmonicas. I miss the duct tape all over your Big dumb hands. I miss that corner of the couch. Freezer burnt broccoli and cigarettes. I miss the matenience guy and The noisy neighbors. I miss our late-night dates to the grocery store.

I miss outdoor rock concerts and Ice sculptures. I miss the ten-story-tall bookshelf you built for me. I miss the same Christmas movies Over and over again. Russell Reising and the library. I miss your blow up bed and your Partly-cloudy disposition. I miss reading to you and burning all your incense. I miss that oversized dry-erase board and All our unpaid bills. I miss how you always left the fucking stove on And I really miss bitching about it. I miss pretending to listen to stories about UPS. Candle wax and fake bacon sandwiches. I miss the way your natural soap made you Smell like a baby. I miss how you played with your junk all day long. I miss your over-reaction to everything and Your Miller-Lite bandanna. Roseanne and Mickey’s Malt Liquor. I even miss you farting in bed.

-christopher rivituso

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“in which our protagonist reflects upon the questionable significance of holistic nourishment” anxious, but wary.  full of desire, but deadened by apathy. the alien makes his nth visit to that place; finds more of the same.  oh, how the grey flesh yearns to be touched, to be validated, to forget the cold sterility of light years in flux. but this is no place for redemption or nourishment, this is a seat at a buffet of rotten food. this is a place as dead as any other.  and you must pay what you weigh to cross the chasm.


rock n roll saved my life, not cleveland -jason mcginty

I was born in the “Rock n Roll Capital of the World” & although my affinity with good music exceeds everything I know, I’m not necessarily proud of it. The city stinks, as the weather usually proves, the Rock Hall is damn stupid looking, I almost wish music would die anyway & on top of it all, the ceremonies aren’t even held in Cleveland. Just another gimmick & that’s lame. It’s almost as if it was put here just to poke more fun at my hometown. Kind of like giving the fat kid a really cool shirt that doesn’t fit him. Who could ask for anything less?

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-andrew morrell


letters to nohbody

-adam carroll

“Damnit!” he shouts in a whisper. “Why do they always run away when I need something?” He paces back and fourth in the cold, dark, damp, bombed in restaurant basement. His steps are swift but deliberate, carefully side stepping the four slender beams of light that shine through the rubble. After a lap or two he rest in the nest style bedding he’s made in the farthest, darkest corner of the basement. With his left leg stretched out and wrapping his arms around his right knee, he wonders to himself. ’Do ‘ya think they ever shot a midget out of a submarine torpedo tube?’ Scratches and a few squeaks shake him from merry mindful musing. He rolls over onto all fours “¿Philippe? ¿Philippe, es eso usted? Percy is that you?” he snoops around for a minute on all fours like a senile bloodhound sniffing his own urine, or chasing the invisible fly. ”Damn mice.” He mutters. His demure slouches a bit as he sullenly slinks back to his bedding. Resting on his side he curls up into a three quarter fetal position (it is to be said though that he is not sucking on his thumb) and nestles back into his hopeless abandon like a new log on an old fire. One may assume, from looking at this display, that a nineteen year old man has been reverted back to an infantile state. “How long has it been?” He thinks to himself “one week…plus…hmm… ok, yeah and that…shit almost three, no, no three almost four months. Well three months and this is the fourth month. Yeah that’s it I’m in the fourth month. What the hell difference does it make I need to get out of here. I gotta go. I gotta run. I gotta do sumthin. Christ I’m gonna die down here or up there so it don’t much

matter. Maybe I should go at night. When its dark out they’ll have all the blackout curtains drawn and fewer SS out too. Just run away to someone occupied village where I’ll hide out with the locals, learn to speak French, make wine and maybe eve- oh why do I bother? What the hell’s wrong with you, me, who ever I am? For Christ sakes I don’t even know any more?” For the past three months or so he has been hiding out in the basement of an abandon restaurant in a small town in France. Separated from his battalion during a German air raid he found refuge there. When he woke up after a blast that knocked him, along with a wall, into the cellar, he realized his men were either dead or gone. Hearing nothing but German voices from the streets above he decided to wait until the allied troupes came back for him. Yet now as he enters into the fourth month of hiding he becomes impatient. Staring at the typewriter in what used to be the office of the restaurant, the shadows of his mind begin to argue again. His mind, melting like a candle in hell, he arrives at the conclusion that he who dies alone knows not of love; but that of hate. While those who die in company are familiar with compassion. “Still,” he says aloud, as if the voices in his head had snuck out during an eye blink, “the company of Germans is not that of compassion”. Tossing and toggling the differences between the words of compassion, kindness and caring in his head, he arrives at the conclusion that caring is creepy. As he reached this so


called epiphany his mouth slowly spoke the words without sound. So soft and smooth were his lips at that moment that it seems as if the words themselves had been laced with Novocain to numb the mouth as he transcended his ideas into a new world. ‘Caring is Creepy’ he mouths it once more. Suddenly he snaps back from a momentary mental relapse into the world of deep thought. “Caring is creepy,” he says aloud this time, “that much is a German proverb, or at least a Hitler lullaby”. The time begins to take precedence of the mind once more; three months past begins to be mentally drawn out into eternity. “Three months of me, myself, and I - and the damn mice. Christ, for the last two weeks they’ve been speaking back to me. I can’t let my last words be to a rat…mouse… I need to go.” His thoughts are interrupted by the German soldiers walking and laughing on the street above. His eyes roll upwards and follow the voices as they pass over him. The idea of turning himself in begins to warm up to his frontal lobes. “Maybe if I just walk up one night begging for mercy they’ll show some pity on me. I could bring some of the wine from the cellar down here. Oh, yeah…wine… good, I can get ‘em all liquored up; it’ll be just like prom, well except for … ugh…”

mouse “we are, after all, you. I mean in all honesty if you starting to forget that were merely manifestations of you troubled thoughts, you may want to end it now.” At this he stares pensively at the second mouse, to which it should be said has a British accent. The mouse is right he thinks; or that is to say, he is right – it needs to stop. He struggles to get up and search for the last sheets of paper in which he as saved for this very moment; his final words. Mumbling to himself with his head hung low, over the papers whereabouts, he remembers the typewriter in what used to be the office of the building. Dusting off the debris and rubble he sits down and aligns the faded paper with the machine. Almost as if straight out of Pavlov’s pet shop, the mice follow after him. He stares off for a moment before glancing at the mice. “Which one of you is better and grammar?” he exhausts a deep sigh, “where do I even start”

The British mouse offers the suggestion of omitting the rodent conversations from his story from the letter and the Spanish mouse, Philippe agrees adding “El mundo y tus familia no “Que pasa?” he looks down at the little mouse by his left necesitan saber que una loca tallega sus eres.” knee. At this he bows his head and begins to let his fingers dance “Where have you been?” he inquires of the mouse, “I had lethargically along the keys of the typewriter. a question for you.” Dear Nohbody, with an H. it’s been three months now and “Estai duermiendo. Largo noche aier con los cockaroches I’ve been without contact of any other humans. Three months francies; putos barachos.” now that I’ve been stowed away in this basement. Confined and condemned to canned food and boiling the alcohol “Ah, I see. I can’t recall the question I had for you” the slight out of wine for something to drink. I came here to France realization of the fact that the mouse is not actually talking to fight the Nazis and to become a hero, but a coward I to him slowly sets in. “I’ve really flipped the script” he thinks find myself now. Under SS ambush, I lost my troupe in this to himself. abandoned basement in some small town that I don’t even know the name of. The Germans obviously control the town “You do realize that just because you don’t say things out- now because all I hear is German and French spoken in the loud doesn’t mean we can’t hear you” interjects the second streets above. The entrance to my shelter was bombed in,


but I think I can dig myself out. And I may just do so tonight, so here I write what could be my last letter. The provisions have kept me alive by the technical terms but that’s not the way I feel. By day, I confine myself to the lowest darkest depths of the basement only to have mock conversations with myself and the rodents. I’ve written many letters in the past to my family and friends knowing I would only end up burning them for warmth, but it helps. These are my last pages which I have saved for what I am assuming to be my last words. I don’t write for glory or shame but I write because of love and love lost. I write this letter in hope that it makes its way back to the states, but this is to whomever may find it…I never meant to disgrace my country or my loved ones, this was all a mistake… I’m sorry While his fingers begin to tremble he pauses from writing. The loan tear that clings to his cheek for its livelihood loses its liquid grip and plunges to the page, splashing sorrow amongst the emotions of type with the force of a thousand broken hearts. His fists slam the table as he jumps up. A stifled shout of agony is choked down like hidden fish bones between the sobs, while he begins a quick pace. “What am I doing, what am I doing, what I doing? Ohh g-o-d I-m going to d-i-e! I’m going to die for Christ-sakes I’m going to die!” He collapses back into the chair a broken man, slow and sullen he turns back to the typewriter. He proceeded with the letter at a pace that would assume to not even be considered pace. Each key on the machine seeming to weigh a million pounds, he deliberately spells each word out as if buying time back from death. I knew war would not be pleasant, but I am no longer in war with another, but war with myself. The longest time now I’ve been without someone to talk to, to sit by my side. Not a soul to whisper I love you in my ear. The true meaning of lonesome. I think God has left me as well. I dream of my mother telling me to hurry home for dinner, or my girlfriend nagging me to quit singing. Sometimes I even imagine my

Sgt. coming down here and commanding me to charge an enemy foxhole. And I would! I would gladly. But I have no one. Every other night I hear some Germans above me, playing cards from the sounds of it, around nine thirty in the evening. Tonight I’m going up. I’m going up to meet them. It may be suicide but it’s better than being down here any longer. For three months I’ve hid down here in fear and shame but tonight marks the fourth month and I cannot stay any longer. I’m going up with God in my heart and wine in my hands. I will try to beg for mercy and be friendly; I will go with open arms and pray for the best. But most of all I just need someone to tell me I’m still alive, even if it’s by telling me I’m going to die. My mind has gone weak down here and I no longer trust it. Whoever finds this letter, no matter which side you fight for, the color of your skin or what God you pray to, please, I beg of you please, tell my mother I love her. May God bless you, and I pray that you have someone by your bedside when you pass. No one deserves to die alone. Thank you, Private First Class of the United States of America’s Army, William B. Perry As he finishes the letter both shock and denial seem to set in. He pulls the paper out and looks it over, but so automatically he doesn’t notice anything about it, typos included. Folding it he places it in his top pocket and looks around for the mice. Saying good bye in their absence he makes his way to the rubble. The mice watch from a crevice in a wall as he digs his way to the top of the bombed in wall. As rocks fall from his feet the mice scurry to his bedding. Awaiting his return for dinner scraps they glean at the rays of light that pour in from the new opening. They hear no voices, but that of William, then a large bang. The startled mice burrow into the bedding following a long pause of silence after the shot. German laughter fills the void while the mice patiently wait, for nothing.


niwrad

-john steele

jesus is a smart ass.

-aj carroll

Shortly after the hour where logic goes to sleep, the barroom philosopher orders another round and steps outside to enjoy a cigarette. With whiskey still clinging onto the dense salt and peppered forest of hair that shrouds his lips, he steps into the ally next to the bar. Snaking past the small congregation of huddled smokers he leans against the wall and begins to incinerate his early ticket out. ‘Look at them all,’ he thinks to himself ‘standing there in all their glory; their ultra light cigarettes with extended tip filters, and extravagantly light beer that has less hops than a quadriplegic bunny, screaming for the attention that their parents displayed only to their stock options and office

fuck buddies; desperation bleeding from their words like a waterfall into a cup, reckless and ignorant. Why can’t they just die already? Or run away to the Dakotas where their shallow souls may sense some sort of acceptance amongst the nothingness of the planes. The last bit of culture they ever encountered was what the plastic surgeon scraped off them right before their last enhancement. How could he make these people? What an asshole.’ He stands there, leering through the bellows of smoldering cancer that loom over his head; and listens to the girls. “No, MY boss is sooooo hard on me,” says the nearest boxed blond with the largest upper enrichments “He thinks


just because I’m a girl, that I can’t ’roll with the big dawgs’. I’m like what-ever. He’s soo pissy sometimes too-“ “Shaa, my boss tries to do me like every minute of the day,” says the brunette whose lips have more botulism than a third world food canning plant, “which, at my last job was ok, because my boss guy wasn’t all that bad for an old dude, kinda like in that Hugh Heffner sorta way, but now it’s a friggin’ grandma bull dike that’s tryin’ and it’s sooo… just, eahhhh, gross.” ‘I got to get the hell out of here’ he mumbles to himself as he puts his cigarette out with his shoe heel. He steers his way through the faux sunburnt, silicon, sex-toyed, soon to be spinster women, and v-lines back to his liquid solace. He orders another round and slams all three fingers of what he had left before the bartender could even comprehend him. “Impressive,” the bartender says, as he pours another. “Fuck,” as the man looks at his pager, it’s God, “Hey pal I need to cash out, the boss is calling me.” “At this hour? Damn! What do you do?” “Therapist. Personal.” “Isn’t that a nine-to-five job?” “Not with this one it’s not. “Who’s so important that you’re going to split at this hour for, especially with all the tail in this place tonight?” “God waits for no one my friend.” “You call him God? Wow, maybe you’re the one that needs the help.” “Trust me - everyone does” he says to the disbelieving bartender as he hands him his credit card. The bartender raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Sorry sir but we don’t accept Discover here” “That son of a bitch, nobody takes his shit.” God thought it would be funny to use Discover credit card for the expense account. ”here try this one, and I’ll need a receipt.” After signing the check he grabs his Lucky Strikes off the bar and heads back out. Making his way back through the swamp of silicone he hates himself for loving what he loathes; sweet

sexy women, how he hates them. “Human nature” he thinks to himself, “human fucking nature. That bastard thinks he’s sooo funny” he shakes his head as if to loosen the thoughts and makes his way down the street to his car. When he looks up he sees that there’s a new car where his was. He removes the keys from his pocket and sees that they too are different. Just to be sure he clicks on the alarm button, and sure enough the shiny new pink Prius hybrid squeaks like a raped mouse. “You mother fucker,” he yells to the sky, “honestly, honestly, your suck an asshole!” He opens the door and gets in. Wondering to himself why he continues to talk to God knowing full well that since the heaven network started showing marathon reruns of The Real World, God ignores a large majority of his old routine, particularly prayer mocking (he finds them comical). He puts the pedal to the floor and hears the engine squeal like an infant pig that’s afraid of mud. Pathetic comes to mind. He races down the main road as fast as the nine volt will take him. Blazing past the pedestrians at a whopping twenty-two miles an hour, wallowing in a pool of self-pity deeper than the Mariana trench. When he pulls into the parking lot, of what is possibly the only Jewish fetish strip club/bath-house “Sodomy and Gomorrah”, he sees his spot open. He pulls into the adjacent garage and sneaks into the club from the front (for obvious reasons, the rear is much more popular). He makes his way upstairs to the G.I.P. (Godly important people) room and winks at the waiting girl. She smiles and follows him behind the partition to the far corner of the room. She turns him around to face her and she smiles, then slams her knee into his crotch harder than a million midget drop kicks. As he keels over in pain his vision fades to white, then with the pain quickly dissipating, he reopens his eyes to find himself in heaven. With St. Peter flirting with some girls by the gates, they wave as they walk past through the employee entrance. St. Catherine of Alexandria is behind her cloud shaped desk (it’s actually Styrofoam, Heaven’s a big fan of the stuff. It’s eternal - almost) and smiles gently at the transport angel and greets her softly. They make


idle chitchat for a small bit, before the glee falls so swiftly from her face it can almost be heard. She looks up at him and scowls while he glares at her with great malevolence. They’re not friends. She wouldn’t put out once, thus he was forced to make some crude comments about her position as their secretary and the raunchy activities he would perform on her sister. But the show must go on, so she buzzes God, waits for his muffled reply, then motions for him to go with God. (The saying is much more literal in this sense.) As he turns to walk away he pauses and yells over his shoulder, “By the way you need to fix this expense account, this card never works – anywhere.” He makes his way down the hall and laughs to himself about the irony of a therapist visiting a patient. Strutting into God’s office he turns off the TV and makes his way to the desk. “Hey man it was almost over!” “Shut up,” he says to God. “Are you ready to admit you were wrong?” “Look I’ve been thinking, I may have figured out a way around this where everyone’s happy…” “No, you look,” he interrupts. “It’s been two thousand some odd years and you still bitter because someone trumped you. Get over it” “Not someone, my son, my own son…” “Don’t try and give me this sentimental bullshit, you’re the one that told him to die because you lost a bet. How can you justify your actions?” “He wasn’t even getting the point across. It’s just like any other job.If you don’t perform, you get fired.” “Don’t try and blow that smoke up my snatch [he has vagina envy], you didn’t give him a chance. You have no right to continuously let people believe that Jesus died on the cross for their sins. It doesn’t even make sense. People deserve to know that the only reason he did it is because you told him to. That’s it - end of story.” “But think about the destruction that would ensue if I were to consent to that; those poor innocent people. If you really think about it I’m saving everyone a lot of grief.”

“You lying sack of shit! Don’t feed me that hypocrisy. I,…I,…I just don’t understand why you even bother to employ me if you’re not even going to try. Is this just funny to you?” “Well quite honestly it’s the only chance you have of getting into heaven.” “Oh, ok, I get it, great more jokes. Look here’s what’s going to happen, I’m going to go back to the bar, I’m going to drink my body weight in whiskey, and then take home one of those Playboy-Barbie wannabes and spill the beans as I’m defiling her in every way possible. Now if in this course of time you decide you need to talk to someone, start with your son and apologize. Then and only then may you look down and see if I’m finished, if I am please call.” “No, no you’re not. You’re going to stay up here. I’m the ‘all mighty’ and I say so.” “Then act like it, admit you’re wrong.” “Why do you continue to question my motives and ethics? There mine. I’m the creator of all, heaven and earth, kingdom blah blah blah. I make up the rules, so who are you to say what’s right and wrong? Ethics and rights are my department, so let’s move on to some other issues I’m dealing with, like-“ “You’re acting like a child, and you know it.” “Look, just because you don’t agree with me doesn’t make me wrong. You’re so soon to forget who gave you your abilities.” “And did you not make me in your image and therefore-“ “No I didn’t that’s bullshit and you know it. Wh-” “Regardless you found flaws within yourself and you employed me. I was perfectly fine with my last job.” “Yeah! I’m sure listening to my minions really thrilled the hell out of you” “You need to address this” “No, I don’t. I’m perfectly ok with the whole Jesus thing. I find it rather amusing to be quite honest. Christianity? It’s fucking hilarious.” “That doesn’t change the fact that you owe a lot of


people explanations.” “How can you not get past this? They don’t need anything. They wouldn’t know what to do anyway. They can’t get one religion straight no matter how many people I send down there. So why, after all these years, should I stir the pot up some more. It’s not sensible. They can’t even get the dates right in any of the religions they’ve created. They keep picking astrological hodge-podge. I mean come on, Easter? Half the time they celebrate it before Passover, and even then it wouldn’t make sense. Not one of the Jews that Moses freed was literate. The Ten Commandments were hieroglyphics of porn, Peter and I laughed our asses off for years over that one.” “Well maybe if you’d send down a messiah who was literate himself, he could have written it down correctly. Then that would eliminate a large amount of troubles for your little peons.” “Moses wrote them down eventually.” “And Jesus? What did he ever write down? Yeah, that’s right, nothing. Absolutely nothing, and then he did what he thought was best and your pissed.” “What he thought was best? Are you serious? That little bastard screwed me from day one with his peace and love bullshit, and then completely iced me with his ‘I’m dying for you sins’ line. What-the-fuck ever” “What did you expect? You took advantage of him, he found out, so he played you. He’s your son; it’s not hard to believe. And it’s not as if he spat fire and spread plagues for no reason. He did draw a whole lot more votes in your direction, even if it’s not exactly how you envisioned it still works out. I mean granted, it did start an ass load of wars, but since you started the whole Armageddon rumor that’s all they’ve been doing is getting ready. And I know that human welfare is the last thing you actually care about, so don’t even try and pull that one.” “let me be very frank with you and spell it out I – A-M – G-O-D, I can do as I please, so with th-“ “And back again to the ‘ItDoesn’tMatterAndYouKnowIt’ section of the debate. I mean honestly you wouldn’t even be

arguing this if you were right.” A visible sense of agitation resting on Gods face as he leans across the desk and takes one of the cigarettes. “And I better get a pay raise if you keep stealing my cigarettes” He lights it and takes in a long deep drag. With his eyes semi-closed, as if searching within the inhaled cloud of smoke he releases “Come back in a week, regular time.” “Are you going to invite him this time?” “Maybe, we’ll see. I need to think about it. I’ll page you” “Alright… well… I think we made some progress here. By next week we can start work on your fear of heights and midgets.” They both chuckle. Walking past God, in his Brookstone back massaging lounge chair, he pauses and hands him the remote. “Sitting too close is going to make you go blind you know” and walks out the door. As he makes his way to the gates he shouts to the girls that are flirting with Peter “He’s lying to you, he can’t let you in if you’re not already on the list” St. Peter just shoots him a scornful look as the transport angel rears up to knee him in the crotch. When he opens his eyes he’s in the fetal position back at the club, attempting to squeeze his testicles out of his stomach. Once he gets himself in order he heads out to his car. “What a dick” he mutters as he sees the same pink Prius now covered in stickers for the GOP. He chuckles and drives home.


the lost series


issue 4point5 'the lost issue'