Conversations with the Light Bearer (Religious Satire)

CHAPTER I - The Interview

CHAPTER I

THE INTERVIEW

"Tell me about yourself."

Those were the very first words.

"Say what?"

It all started six years ago. Pale light engulfed the room, draping everything in a life-sucking warmth. It was dreadfully dull. Barely the size of two toilet cubicles, the interview room reeked of dingy carpets and conditioned air, the absolute surrender to despair and corporate dictatorship.

"Tell me something about yourself, Mr. Pines," said the impossibly hefty woman. The interviewer had short straight hair down to her neck, square glasses, and an intricate necklace hanging from her neck. (In which, by the way, seemed more like a cow's bell on her more than anything else.)

"Pardon me, my lady," I inquired to my bewilderment. "But where exactly am I?"

For about half a minute, she just sat there, staring at me with her thick, raised eyebrow. Her sausage fingers began to tap on the desk. I swallowed. It was the only thing between us. It was terrifying. The woman didn't even have wrists. It was like the hand was attached directly to her arm. And the neck—no, don't even get me started on the neck.

"Excuse me?" The woman raised her voice, with as much emphasis on the 'me.' "Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, my lady. This is no jest," I calmly replied. "I am simply puzzled by my sudden relocation."

"What? W-What's wrong with you?" she stuttered. "And stop calling me 'my lady'! I'm not your lady!" she exclaimed, and thank God she is not. (Though I meant that as an expression and not a fact, for I know He does not have anything to do with it.)

For a moment, I paused. By then, I already knew I was in some poor lad's vessel. The only question—for which I had been asking for quite a while now—was where on this godforsaken earth did my son banish me. Unfortunately, it seemed that my approach, under the unfortunate circumstances of my body transfer, (and quite the impeccable timing, I might add) was highly unlikely to get the expected answer. So in a way, I had to improvise, as I usually do—since the dawn of time.

"Forgive me, err..." I peered intently at her badge. "—Rebecca, but I was just trying to brighten up the mood. You see, I easily get frantic over such serious affairs that I find myself too stunned to be of any logical merit."

She just sat there, her face as constipated as before. It seems my silver tongue has lost its magic, I thought. But then she stopped tapping, and spoke.

"Becky..."

"Pardon?"

"You can call me Becky."

And so the spell takes its toll. "Oh, Becky... But why? Rebecca is such a lovely name."

She smiled to my delight. "R-Really?" she muttered, her voice reduced to that of a begging puppy. "It's an ugly name. Nobody calls me that here."

And so the opportunity arose. "Oh, but they should! Rebecca, do you know that's my mother's name?"

"Oh my! I'm very sorry, Sir Vincent. I—"

"Vince. You can call me Vince."

"Oh, okay, Vince. Now let me take a look at your résumé."

It looked too easy. I had my charms, of course, but this was too easy. And then I glanced over my reflection at the window behind her. The man, this Vincent Pines, was surely a polished gentleman. A true professional with devilish good looks, my new host resembled an early thirties Timothy Dalton with slicked-back hair and a lean build, sporting a black coat and tie that could give James Bond a run for his money. Not bad. Not bad indeed. At least my son had the decency to find me a suitable-looking host. From then on, I knew I had her in the palm of my hand.

"Shall we continue then?"

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"Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made."

—Genesis 3:1