Robert Asprin - E.Godz

Dov was surprised, but not by the splashy display itself. The last he'd heard, the Reverend Everything's church had been decorated to resemble the grand saloon of the Titanic, with authentic early-twentieth-century costumes available for rental by the congregation upon receipt of an "offering." What sort of costume you were issued certainly did not depend on the amount of your donation, but it was an amazing coincidence how readily the Reverend's friendly Mistresses of the Sanctified Wardrobe could discover that, if you were a parsimonious giver, the only costumes left in your size were suitable for steerage passengers. On the other hand, more open-handed donors inevitably took their seats dressed in period evening gowns and tuxedos, fully accessorized.

It really was astonishing how it always worked out that way.

"This isn't what I was expecting," Dov murmured to his host as they made their way up the aisle.

"Oh, I had a spiritual evolution about three weeks ago," Reverend Everything confided. "Rather than remind the faithful of how, while our lives may appear to be unsinkable luxury vessels designed to take us to our ultimate destination, there's always the unexpected spiritual iceberg, I realized that our lives are really more like the vast and powerful Aztec Empire. Are they not rich? Does not every person command some sort of power over his inferiors? And nevertheless, are we not vulnerable to losing everything at a moment's notice if we continue to live heedlessly?"

"So where does stuff like 'fengsama' and 'Elysians' fit into all this? Brytanni said—"

The Reverend Everything chuckled. "Oh, that Brytanni! Fengsama is a way-station to enlightenment on a path that we haven't used since last November. Elysians are a method of keeping track of your progress that is, as Brytanni herself might say, so last season. I do wish she'd try to keep up with the rest of the congregation, but she's rather a slow study. Still, a devoted follower is always a blessing."

They mounted the platform stairs together and Reverend Everything motioned for Dov to have a seat on a high-backed chair that had been painted to resemble a crouching jade idol. Dov drummed his fingers on the heads of the Feathered Serpent armrests and glanced at the choirs. There was nothing even stage-Aztec about their outfits. The choir director was still wearing a tuxedo, left over from the church's previous incarnation. The transformation was not perfect, yet as Dov looked out over the sea of eager faces cramming the crystal pews, he only saw joy, faith, and readiness to gulp down whatever words of wisdom their leader might toss their way.

They did not have long to wait. Reverend Everything took center stage and raised his arms, letting his hummingbird cape fall back. "My friends, success and serenity be with you!" he declared.

"Precious and productive be your passage!" the congregation responded.

"Hear the words that will guide you!"

"We hear and heed and hearken!"

"Now ... who wants to score?"

Dov sat bolt upright. As soon as the Reverend Everything uttered those words, the aisle filled with the bodies of the faithful, and mighty admirable bodies they were. L.A. was famous for annually exceeding its production quota of Pretty People, but the Reverend Everything's temple seemed to have cornered the market on that commodity.

It was bumper-to-bumper time on the Silicone Highway, and those who had not come forward took up a rhythmic chant of "Score! Score! Score! Score!" seldom encountered outside of football arenas. This had all the earmarks of an impending orgy, and for the life of him, Dov could not remember whether or not he was wearing decent underwear. (It was clean, yes, but that was not the point. Some men went out and got embarrassing tattoos when they got drunk. Dov bought comic novelty underwear, the sort with witty mottos like Warning: Heavy Equipment, or pictures of happy gorillas with their paws disappearing inside the fly.)

His qualms were soon put to rest by his host. The Reverend Everything made a slashing movement with one finger across his throat and the mob fell into immediate, total silence. A thread of piped-in organ music sent up a soft, soothing rendition of the theme from Fame in funeral dirge tempo to underscore the words he spoke.

"My dear, dear fellow star-wanderers, your response is wonderfully gratifying. To think that my teachings have yielded such luscious fruit! We are a product of universal love, and we are placed on this earth to seek, to learn, and perhaps to know the reason for that divine product placement. We are all One with the universe, but one is the loneliest number. One can only win us the game of life if life itself fails to score, and we all know, life scores bigtime. It is therefore our mission to discover what our own lifescore must be and then to get out there and make that point spread! To see so many of you here, come to report on your latest successes, makes me realize that in a way, I, too, have added to my lifescore through you. And you have thus added to your own lifescore through me."

He went on in the same vein for about the length of one Super Bowl commercial break before having the lined-up congregants come up onto the stage with him one by one to announce their lifescores for the week. They spoke of audition appointments granted, screenplays written, producers "not completely disinterested" in their next project, even contracts signed. He had words of praise and encouragement for each of them, words which inevitably ended with: "And do you truly value what you have achieved through our spiritual partnership?"

Well, of course they did.

"Oh, how we all want to believe that! For it is only through our continued belief in you that the veils of Illusion are parted and your eyes can see clearly the ultimate lifescore that will bring you joy in this world and serenity in the next."

Well, of course they wanted to make sure that the whole congregation believed in them.

"If only there were some small way, some token gesture you could make here, now, today, before all of us, to show proof of your sincerity, that our belief in you might endure."

Well, of course there was.

Dov watched as each successful lifescorer passed from the Reverend Everything's hands into the waiting embrace of the Temple Maidens, a bevy of Palm Pilot-bearing beauties who took the happy congregant aside and duly recorded the "token gesture" of a funds transfer into the Reverend Everything's coffers. Even knowing that a healthy chunk of those funds would wind up in the hands of E. Godz, Inc., Dov still felt a touch of moral queasiness.

And yet ...

And yet, despite the Reverend's flashy, trashy, soundbite showmanship, his line of spiritual gobbledegook that was little more than a recycled, regurgitated, retread mishmosh of bargain basement Zen and yard sale Taoism, his scarily efficient methods for fleecing the flock, Dov still sensed a great emanation of magical power coming from the congregation.

They believe this stuff! he realized. They actually believe in it, and true belief's one of the biggest sources of real power I know. Can I really fault the Reverend Everything for knowing his customers, giving them what they want, even what they need? Sure, most of them have the attention spans of kelp, but the Reverend's allowed for it, changing the packaging on the same old product as much as he has to, to hold onto his audience. He's sharp, they're happy, and E. Godz, Inc. shares the profits, but ...

... but do we really need to get rich like this?

Do I need to become the head of the corporation by getting someone like him as a backer? Even if this whole thing didn't smell funny, would I want to owe anything to the Reverend Everything?

The services were still in full swing when Dov crept up behind his host, murmured something about an emergency call on his pager, and slipped away.