This Unsatisfactory Explanation

But as Satan laughs, sure you're safe in his clutches, you remember your mother--it's your heart the thought touches.  "I'm sorry," you say, 'cause Mom did raise you right, "As much as I'm tempted, I need just 3 nights.  3 nights, a perfectly biblical time-frame, to discover why Jesus has made me fair game.  The weekend and Monday, to suss what's gone wrong, I'll be back Tuesday morning, that isn't too long."

Another harsh laugh and Lucy agrees, as he rocks on his heels, hands slapping his knees.  "Alright, it's your fabulous life you're postponing--but if I know the Big Guy, there'll be no atoning.  Whatever you've done, He's thoroughly pissed; your name's been removed from the heavenly list.  And you're not the type to suffer this humbly..." with a final sly smile, he shakes his head dumbly. 

You ignore him and bounce out the door, going straight.  You dodge all the traffic, your reaction time's great.  Even so, you're exhausted, as you slip in unseen to the Chapel of Christ where you went as a teen. 

Your old youth pastor's there, in the room at the back.  She bids you sit down, and then says, "Here's the crack.  The word in our circles is--don't ask me why--God's testing us all, and the end could be nigh.  If you want my opinion, you're one of the first because deep down I know, you've always been cursed."  And she gives you a random address and then goes, after telling you kindly to 'stay on your toes;' rolling your eyes, you roll downtown, avoiding the potholes and bits of wet ground, 'til you come to a dimly lit dark magic store, where a yellow-eyed gypsy lass stares from the door.

Before you can speak, she's brewing some tea, arranging the leaves, and waiving your fee.  She shudders and mumbles some words, fairly croons, reaches into her pocket and flings down some runes.  She shuffles some cards, you pick 8 from the deck, then she flips them face-up and mutters, "Oh, heck." 

The gypsy explains, with some disbelief, "This isn't a curse, there can be no relief. Through no fault of your own, it seems you've been picked to suffer the torments of hell... what a--"  But before she can finish her thought, you've rolled out.  You can't see the point in hanging about. 

So God's turned his back on you? Well that's just fine.  "As soon as I have one again, I'll turn mine," you say to yourself, as you hurry back home.  Satan's still there, with his head in a tome. 

"The Book of Soul-Selling," he says with a grin.  "Would you like a quick flick, before we begin?"

"Not even a glance," you say through your rage, and he closes the book after marking his page.  You're getting impatient, you want to be whole.  Satan can't be more careless than God, with your soul. "So how do we do this? The small print seems fine.  Put a pen in my mouth, I'm ready to sign."

The End

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