Second Coming 1

God was bored.

Suddenly he had an idea. The perfect way to show those puny humans the majestic power of His mighty hand.

He would create a perfect image of the Virgin of Guadalupe in an ice cream stain running down the side of the vending machine outside that Amoco station at the corner of Maple Road and Grand Avenue in East Trenton, New Jersey.

That ought to bring those wayward humans back to the path of righteousness again. That ought to make believers out of them, at least a few of them. Mainly the really psychotic ones.

He smiled down at the first bimbo angel, who was even at this moment sucking deeply on His Holy Root.

"You like that, huh Yowie?," she said, her translucent hands reaching down to caress his Divine Orbs.

"How many times do I have to tell you people? My name is Yahweh.

Yahweh

."

"I thought we were never supposed to call you that. I thought you were supposed to be like Clint. You know, The Man with No Name," the first bimbo angel said, taking her mouth momentarily off His Holy Root. Her soft silver breasts brushed against His Divine Thighs, and the white feathers of her wings tickled the Immaculate Flesh of His Groin. He dearly loved those feathers. They ranked among the greatest of His inventions.

"I forgot about that rule," He told her. He had even forgotten why He had made it up in the first place. He must have truly been one Testy Son of a Bitch in the old days.

"At least we got a smile out of You, Yowie," the second bimbo angel said, rubbing his Numinous Shoulders as she played her tongue in and out of His Holy Ear. "Your Holy Root must be starting to work again."

"I just had an Idea, that's all," He told her a little sadly. Then He grew more animated as He told them about His plans regarding the gas station in Jersey. It was going to be almost as good as the crop circle He had made last month in that wheat field ten miles west of Stonehenge. It had been a perfect image of Mickey Mouse, right down to his Michael Jacksonesque gloves and lack of pants. He had even strategically placed a few footprints in the wheat so that it would look even more like a hoax. That way only the truly faithful would be able to receive His message. It had even gotten coverage on

Unsolved Mysteries

and in a Friday night special on Fox. It was next to impossible to get press coverage like that nowadays. Of course the boys down at the Committee for the Scientific Investigation of the Claims of the Paranormal had debunked it in no time. As usual.

"Yowie, what about the old days?" the second bimbo angel asked Him. "You know, the parting of the Red Sea, the Seven Plagues, the Angel of Death, stopping the Earth. That's the kind of stuff that really impresses them. That's the kind of stuff they write books about. Lasting books. Books that sell. Miss Chastity here and I do really great Angel of Death impressions. Just give us the Word. Sic us on 'em. They'll start believing in You again. They'll be sucking up to Your Holy Ass in no time. We'll be back on the bestsellers list before You can whistle the Battle Hymn of the Republic, or at least Dixie."

"Nobody reads anymore," God told her, reaching around behind His back to tweak both her silver nipples, thanking Himself (i.e., God) for the flexibility and dexterity His omnipotence provided Him. The first angel continued to swirl her tongue around His Holy Root, but to no avail.

"Besides," He said, "there's no fun in playing with them like ants. OK, maybe there was at first, a little. But I'm not a sadist. At least not anymore. They have to worship Me of their own accord. Besides it's more fun to watch what they'll do if left up to their own devices. Why create a world if it's not going to surprise You? Why bother at all if You're just going to control everything?"

He supposed things had started going downhill when He decided to play that cheap burning bush trick on Moses. But hell, if you could have seen the look on Moses' face. Simply priceless.

The second angel replaced the first angel on His Holy Root, taking its head deeply into her mouth. The first angel flew beneath Him, enfolding Him in her wings and burying her face in His Holy Buns.

But still to no avail.

His Holy Root was not composed of flesh, but rather of spiritual essence. And that was the main problem. That and His growing boredom with all things heavenly.

He briefly considered indulging His Other Half, playing Old Scratch again, maybe calling up a few demon chicks. But it would be no different. Cloven feet, a pointed tail and an ersatz goat's member were no substitute for the real thing.

The feel of flesh. He remembered it from his one journey among his subjects. The feel of Magdalene's mouth, better than any angel's could ever be. Of course, she had been a pro. There was no substitute for experience.

He remembered the look on poor Adam's face when he had first discovered the dangling piece of flesh that He had placed between his legs. Was better use ever made of a rib? Oh yes, gentle reader, it was all true, what you read in the Bible, every last bit of it. The dinosaurs, the trilobites had all been fossils He had carefully planted to fool the nosy humans into believing that the world was an ancient thing. To make them forget about Him and just go on about their business. They were so much more fun to watch that way. Same thing with the crystal spheres. He had moved them way back in the heavens to make room for the pulsars and black holes. Not to mention the superstrings. Just as soon as some lunatic scientist down there thought up some crackpot theory, He would make it so. Any idea, no matter how ridiculous, was immediately implemented. He wanted His people to think they were smart, after all. To think that they could divine the Mind of God. He valued arrogance above all things. Except maybe for a root of flesh, for His very own.

"OK, that's it," He told the second bimbo angel, who was still frantically bobbing her head up and down on His Holy Member. "I want to take the saucer down again."

"Not the saucer," whined the first angel, taking her head out from between His Divine Buttocks. "That's the third time this month, Yowie."

He understood their reluctance. It meant they would have to lose the wings, the silver tresses, the torpedo breasts, and don the hairless, wasting bodies of the aliens first made popular in Spielberg's

Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

But what the hell, you had to give the folks what they wanted. Nobody believed in angels anymore. But aliens were a whole different kettle of fish. Besides, He kind of dug the big dark eyes. And the three fingered hands.

"We're going to take Goldberg again," He told His crew once they were safely inside the mother ship.

"Not Mrs. Goldberg," His crew whined in unison. Leah Goldberg had been blabbing about her abduction experiences on Oprah, Montel, Jerry Springer and just about every other talk show willing to squander precious air time on her incoherent ravings.

"I'm going in again, guys. Just like with Mary. Only it's going to be Goldberg this time."

"You've got to joking, Boss. Not Goldberg. Who's going to take You seriously as the alien love child of Goldberg? We've got to do better than that. How about the Angel of Death number? Why won't You at least give the idea some thought?" the first angel, now alien, pleaded.

"No, I've made up my mind," He told them. "It's Goldberg or bust." He wanted a Jewish mother again. And Goldberg's 40DD hooters would be delightful to suck on for a few months. He hoped she belonged to the La Leche League. Plus he could use the chicken soup and the guilt. It might shape Him up.

****

Goldberg was sitting alone at her kitchen window, reading the paper as always when they brought the saucer down. They shined the beam at her, and as usual she began to walk toward the mother ship as if in a deep trance. They were always amazed at that. It wasn't as if the beam were hypnotic or anything like that. It was just a glorified flashlight. They supposed everybody had been watching way too many Spielberg movies.

Goldberg kind of floated across the lawn before being hauled in by the tractor beam (which indeed was real - omnipotence did, after all, have its own rewards).

She practically strapped herself to the chrome table and spread her legs in the stirrups. She licked her lips in anticipation.

Bimbo angel number one, still in her skinny, bald alien disguise, brought the tip of the orgasmoprobe to Goldberg's crotch and inserted it between her nether lips. Goldberg's whole body shuddered in response.

The Big Guy shuddered too, whether out of sympathy, empathy or horniness He could not say. He envied Goldberg the pleasures of the flesh. But soon He would be joining her in that. He too would know the joys of gushing enemas, if not the very G-spot itself (depending on the luck of the chromosome draw). The Holy Root began to stiffen for the first time in months, despite its present lack of corporeality.

Goldberg was moaning now, her soft flesh clutching the orgasmoprobe, her wet juices spilling onto the glistening perfection of the chromium table.

God was with her then. He wore her flesh, felt the pulsing walls of her dark passage as they contracted enthusiastically around the orgasmoprobe.

He was in the probe itself, in the walls that formed the inner spaces of the ship, in the very air that surrounded them. He was, in the final analysis, just as capable of omnipresence as of omnipotence.

But most of all He was in the genetically engineered sperm that swam toward Goldberg's succulent, waiting egg, His other body having by now dissolved back into the ether.

He hoped they wouldn't nail Him to a cross this time. That had really smarted. (Well, OK, maybe He enjoyed it a little.)

No, this time He planned to keep His mouth shut. Let the ants go about their sordid business unmolested. Hell, He had a little sordid business of His own to do.

It was a brand new millennium, and...

This was going to be party time.