[ WP ] Faking Your Demise ( replies must be 1,000 words or more )

It's about four in the afternoon and I'm on the veranda of my hotel room, hunched over the bottle of sambuca I've been slamming for the past hour. This plastic chair is too narrow for my ass. And the accompanying table shudders with each breeze, so I have to hold the bottle. Shitty plastic patio furniture. Shitty Rome hotel. Shitty luck all around. 
 
 A sudden rap on the glass door behind me. I'm startled into some semblance of sobriety. It's Martin. Thank God. Or not. Nevermind. I really ought to stop saying that. 
 
 He slides the door open. `` My friend, *you* are in the shithouse.'' 
 
 ``'ello, Martin. Glad you could make it in time to chide me. How'd you find me?'' 
 
 He ignores my question, and instead condescendingly gesticulates, dancing around me like an imp. `` And, my friend, you're trapped. Fuckin' trapped. He's fuckin' sealed you in there, so that He knows where to find you. And find you He will; He'll just follow that shithouse smell. Worked for me, eh?'' 
 
 I stumble out of the chair, through the door, and fall onto the sofa with a long and earnest WHOOSH. Did that come from me or the cushion? `` Martin, what the fuck? I mean, how'd this even happen? I've never even believed in a god, and, up to now, that's worked out fine for me. For Him, too, apparently. Now He wants me gone?'' 
 
 `` Fuck, Diz! You convinced *the Pope* of His fallibility. The goddamn *Pope*! Fuckin' marvelous coup, I'll grant you that, but what'd you think was gon na happen? Did you think about that? Huh? What'd happen if, you know, God exists?'' 
 
 `` That's just ridiculous. Of course n --'' 
 
 `` Fuckin' *of course*'of course not'! Why would you ever consider that you're wrong?'' 
 
 `` I --'' 
 
 `` It was rhetorical. But the answer is''Cuz you're a bit of a jackass.' Runs in the family, I guess. You and your brother, man, birds of a fuckin' feather. You two got different strokes, for sure, but the score's the same. If there'd been one less of you two, this'd be nothing. Would n't ever've happened. And I guess that's what He's aiming for.'' 
 
 `` How the hell was I to know Peter'd actually bring my argument before the Pope? It was just an idea, Martin. That's all. Had no bearing at all on my life. Just a thought experiment and some excerpts from the Bible. Peter's a scholar, too. I thought he'd contradict it, pick it apart, and I'd get back to better things. *FUCK! * Can he help me, you think?'' 
 
 `` Peter's doing the same thing you are, Diz. Watchin' his ass. Only he's a cardinal, a true believer! You never spoke to God in your life. That door shuts at a certain point, you know. He ai n't gon na hear you now. Peter can apologize, prove his intent and shame through prayer,'cuz God listens to him. Peter does n't have a fuckin' *death sentence* over him, and he's not aiming to earn one by abetting you in avoiding divine retribution. Scratch that -- this is n't a death sentence. This'll be a retraction, an apology from the Almighty Editor. And the best part is, *you made this possible*. Hahahaha! You proved Him fallible, and now you get the big payoff for your big fuckin' brain. SURPRISE! God's a smart sorta cat. He admits his mistake in creating you. He erases you through all time. And -- this is the shit that makes my brain hurt but is also *fuckin' hilarious* -- the proof is gone and He's infallible again. You know, for all intents and purposes. And I can say that, *knowing* I wo n't know that any more. Or wo n't *have* known. I dunno, fuckin' tenses.'' 
 
 `` Okay, Martin, do you have a plan or what? Because you're here, and I did n't call you, and if you came to heckle me and giggle at my imminent nonexistence and discuss the intricacies of grammar, I'm gon na hit you. *Hard. * How'd you even find me?'' I do n't really care. Martin's the sort of man who has his ways and, more often than not, you do n't want to know what they are. I am curious, though. 
 
 He waves me off. `` It's not important. I mean, I could tell you, but it's really not important. What's important is this:'Come with me if you want to live!' `` 
 
 Fucking joker. Really? Now? `` Right, cut the shit and tell me! Is n't time a factor here?'' 
 
 `` Sure sure, fine. You need to kill yourself. Cakewalk, right?'' 
 
 `` Ummm...'' At this point, I do n't know if I'm confused because I'm drunk or because I'm frothing with rage at this `` plan''. 
 
 `` Yeah, you're asking,'What's the difference', right? It's not you He's after, but your soul. That's His window into all of us, all He sees.'' 
 
 `` Oh, the soul that I could've sworn I did n't have until two days ago? Well how the *fuck* am I supposed to do that? Suck it out with a vacuum cleaner and corner attachment? Where is it, even? In my head? In my gut? Is it my bile?'' I drunkenly wave the sambuca bottle over my head. `` I'd be glad to pour this shit down my throat till I puke green!'' 
 
 `` Ease up, man. Easy. There's a procedure. It's a bit... involved, but as long as you keep your head down, it's doable. You'll need to find a... surrogate.'' 
 
 This sounds like Martin's clever way of saying `` victim''. Sly bastard. `` Surrogate?'' 
 
 `` Okay, so it goes like this: You swap souls with someone. Then you kill him. Or, you know, have him killed. Or her. Whatever you like.'' 
 
 There we go. That's a Martin plan for sure. `` Sounds... rough.'' 
 
 `` No way around this, man. You could take your comeuppance, I suppose.'' 
 
 `` But wait -- I'll still be here and He wo n't be infallible. Wo n't He realize He's failed and come looking again? 
 
 `` Yes, but He *is* fallible. You proved it, right? Ca n't change that, only erase the knowledge of it, right? So He needs the origin of that knowledge. You're Patient Zero in this scenario, if you know what I mean. If He ca n't find it... well, that's a tough titty He'll have to suck on for the rest of time, I guess. That's the beauty of this. If you're carrying a soul that is n't yours, *He can never find you! *'' 
 
 `` I'm lost. Who will I be if I wo n't have *my* soul?'' 
 
 `` You'll be you. More or less. Shit, I dunno. This ai n't exactly something I've had a ton of experience with. I'm not a wizard or a priest. Shit, I'm not even Catholic! But I know a guy. More of a shadow. Name's Vesuvio. Used to be real tight with the Vatican, worked in their library for a stretch before he was excommunicated. As far as facts, that's all I know about the man. And that he can do this. But, like I said, you'll need a surrogate. You're gon na get just one meeting with Mr. V, so you'll have to come prepared.'' 
 
 `` Where and when?'' 
 
 Martin rises to leave, patting the wrinkles out of his slacks. `` Sundown. He'll come here. He knows where you are. He knew even before I showed up. Been following you. Very interested. Actually, he picked me up at the airport. So not just interested, but real fuckin' eager.'' 
 
 `` I'm flattered and increasingly nauseous.'' 
 
 `` You better be, man. This is a hell of a trip. So you got three hours to talk a stranger into coming home with you. Make it a bum or something, Diz. Do n't waste a pretty girl on your sorry ass.'' 
 
 
 
 *It's late/early and I need sleep. Part Two tomorrow. Maybe. This answers the prompt, so I do n't feel obliged to continue. I might anyway. * 

