Chuck Palahniuk - Doomed

The angel says it’s my purpose to vanquish Satan and to rebuild God’s church on Earth. To roll back legal access to safe on-demand abortion and birth control… to righteously forbid marriage between sodomites… and to end the financial drain of welfare entitlement programs.

“You will be God’s flaming sword of punishment!” This sturdy man-boy angel, his fists raised above his blond head, he flares like an arc, a spark, a stubby bolt of divine fire. His hummingbird wings buzz. His shouts ringing loud as cathedral bells, he exclaims, “Join us, Miss Madison! Join us and rejoice!”

Meaning: I’m supposed to thrash Satan and cut funding for public television. Meaning: I’m conflicted here.

And no, Gentle Tweeter, I might be somewhat enamored of my angelic suitor and his flattering message, but I am not deaf to the draconian objectives he describes. It’s enticing, the idea of myself as a messianic figure, the hand of an omniscient savior, but not if it means I have to be a dick. In reasonable protest, I insist, “I can’t! I can’t best Satan! He’s too powerful!”

“Nay,” my barnyard Romeo says, “but you already have!”

“What?” say I.

“You’ve already once bested the Prince of Darkness!”

I haven’t a clue what my postalive, postfarmer boyfriend is talking about.

“Angel Madison,” bellows the voice from the hallway. “We’re running out of time!”

“The end of the world is scheduled for three o’clock this very afternoon,” says Festus.

According to my noncounterfeit Rolex, it’s already one thirty.

Gentle Tweeter,

From the portholes of my stateroom aboard the Pangaea Crusader , the view in all directions is clear rain pelting polished white. Everything is crashes of blue lightning like blinks of crooked color, like towering neon signs that advertise God’s wrath. These flashes illuminate the polystyrene hills and plains that stretch toward every horizon. Unbridled winds lash.

The stateroom door is still locked, but a luminous blue figure slowly enters. At first the blue is a pale glow swelling in the center of the door, bleeding through the wood; then it’s a blue stomach lined up and down with a vertical row of shirt buttons. Following that, much higher on the door, the tips of a blue chin and a blue nose appear as a familiar blue form emerges. Last to flow through the locked door is a not-appealing pigtail of braided blue filth. With that Mr. Crescent City stands among us.

Having once more taken leave of his overdosed body, he blinks, looking around at my Gund stuffed monkeys and Steiff bears. His rheumy eyes settle on the radiant golden Festus.

According to the angel Festus, God chooses a messenger every few centuries to deliver an updated game plan for righteous living. Moses or Jesus or Mohammad, this person disseminates the newest generation of God’s Word 2.0. Noah or Buddha or Joan of Arc, the messenger upgrades our moral software, debugs our ethics, upgrading our values to meet modern spiritual needs. If you believe angel Festus, I am nothing more than the latest version of God’s earthly mouthpiece.

“After you prevent today’s cataclysm,” declares the beaming Festus, “you must halt all human forays into the evil field of stem-cell research.”

“Beg pardon?” I ask.

Festus rails, “As God’s voice, you must curtail the freewheeling civil rights of women.”

Flattered as I feel at being so chosen, I’m not thrilled with the news I’m being given to deliver.

Lifting his tiny arms into the air and flailing his hands, preacher-style, my upstate boyfriend rants, “It is God’s will that all women abstain from voting and birth control and driving automobiles!”

While my pint-size Aryan poster child rattles off the rest of God’s demands—no more blacks marrying whites… no men marrying men, ever… absolute mandatory circumcision for all members of both genders… veils, lots of veils and burqas—I turn to Mr. K and make my introductions. Not even death negates my years of decorous training in Swiss etiquette and protocol. “Mr. Crescent City, this is the angel Festus.” With an appropriate cant of my head, I politely say, “Angel Festus, this is Mr. K. He’s a ‘psychic booty caller.’”

“Angel Madison means ‘bounty hunter,’” says Mr. K. He gazes upon Festus, that golden blaze, as if my upstate swain had summer sunshine coursing through his veins. Giving a deep, blue sigh, Mr. K says, “I wish I were an angel.”

It’s here, Gentle Tweeter, that the idea strikes me like a bolt of blue lightning. To Mr. K, I say, “You really want to be an angel, huh?”

“I just want to die,” says Mr. K, “and have everything be happy and painless. Forever.”

“Find God,” says Festus, “and you’ll find peace.”

To that I say, “Angel Festus, shut up.” I add, not wishing to offend, “Just for now, okay?” Already I can see that Mr. K’s blue is fading from cerulean to turquoise, from azure to French blue. Our time is running out as his not-healthy liver is winnowing the ketamine from his bloodstream. As he fades from robin’s egg to powder blue, I offer a bargain. “Take my parents a message, and I promise to make you an angel.”

“A message?” he asks.

“Tell them to stop with all the cataclysm stuff, okay?” I say.

Mr. K returns my gaze with puzzled stoner eyes. “And I’ll be an angel?”

“Tell them,” I say, “that they’re stupid hypocrites, and that they shouldn’t have not told me about Tigerstripe having a gruesome kidney disease.”

Mr. K begins to nod, his eyes closed, as if deeply comprehending my words. Eyes closed, he smiles.

“And tell them,” I say, “that I accidentally killed Papadaddy Ben by semidetaching his wing-ding because I thought it was a malevolent, rapidly inflating dog boo-boo.” I ask, “Does that make sense?”

Eyes closed, Mr. K nods sagely. His pigtail bobs in agreement.

“Also tell them,” I say, “that I only invented Jesus on my mobile phone, but it turns out that there is an actual Jesus….” Turning to Festus for confirmation, I say, “Right?”

“Correct,” Festus affirms.

To Mr. K, I say, “What’s most important is that you tell my mom and dad that I really, really love them.” Leaning closer to my blue confidant, I whisper, “And please tell them that I did not suck on any spider monkey ding-dings or do the Hot Thing with any water buffalo, okay?”

The slack look on Mr. K’s face suggests I’ve overloaded my messenger. As his soul vanishes, gradually leaching backward to wherever he’s left his physical body, the pale blue of him fades to grey. The gray goes to white.

The walls of the stateroom begin to vibrate, and a not-unpleasant hum suffuses my bed. The megayacht engines of the Pangaea Crusader have started. Outside, increasing gales scour the decks and thrum the rigging.

“Above all, please,” I entreat my fading go-between, my meaty hands balled together in prayer, “tell them to die with all the full-size candy bars they can carry.”

If we compare the ancient codices recorded by scholars since Solon, we see almost identical depictions of the end times. The so-called global Doomsday mythos depicts a beautiful thing-child leading a procession of disciples up the slopes of a gleaming mountain. The mountain rises at the center of the Pacific Ocean, and this ceremony takes place in the waning sunlight of the shortest day of the year.