ROGER'S FABULOUS VOYAGES, PART 2, CHAPTER 11. (standard:humor, 2248 words) [11/12] show all parts
Author: Danny Zil	Added: Jun 14 2012	Views/Reads: 1894/1372	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Roger meets Mel the Archangel in the Afterlife.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“You died recently?” 

“Pretty recently.” 

Mel leaned over and sniffed him. “Yeah, yer still pretty fresh. In that
case, you'll be headin to Purgatory.” 

“Where's that?” 

Mel pointed with his pipe. “Straight down the road till you hear a lot
of screamin an groanin. You can't miss it.” 

Roger swallowed. “Screaming and groaning?” 

“That's right, mate. You lot has to be punished, you know. The things
your mob get up to,” he said, tutting and shaking his head. “Wouldn't 
treat a goat that way. Still, some of you do. So you've got to be 
punished.” 

Roger glanced fearfully down the road. Was that just a hint of screaming
and groaning he heard in the distance? 

“Couldn't I stay here a little while and talk to you?” he pleaded,
trying to edge out of his mind what the hint had threatened. 

Mel puffed on his pipe and considered this. “Alright,” he conceded
eventually. “But you're only puttin it off, you know.” 

“Thanks,” said Roger then glanced uneasily down the road again. 

“Hey, don't look so worried!” Mel said encouragingly, patting him on the
back. “I know your story. You haven't been a bad lad. You don't have 
much punishment to come.” 

Roger brightened a little. “I don't?” 

“Na. They're just going to pull one of your balls off then yer square.” 

Roger turned pretty white, pretty quick. 

“Only jokin, Roger, only jokin!” Mel said, laughing and slapping him on
the back again. “Say, you turned white quite well there. Had a lot of 
practice?” 

Roger nodded. “Quite a lot,” he admitted. “Turning white, flushing,
swallowing nervously, that sort of thing.” 

Mel reached into his robe and drew out a gold flask. “Here, have a nip
of this, mate,” he said. 

Roger took the flask and drank some then started coughing. “Good grief!
What was that?” he asked hoarsely, eyes watering. 

“That is pure rum an holy water,” Mel told him, gazing admiringly at the
flask and then taking a long nip himself. “Aaahh, nectar!” he said, 
wiping his lips with the sleeve of his robe. “An Angel in Relics and 
Caterin gets me it,” he explained then something occurred to him and he 
frowned. “Say, you're not a vampire, are you?” 

Roger shook his head. 

“Good job,” Mel said, putting his flask back into his robe. “Otherwise
you'd be rollin about the ground, clutchin yer throat with smoke 
belchin out yer mouth.” 

Roger leaned back on the bench whilst he recovered from the drink. He
and Mel looked at the scenery awhile in silence. Although Roger was 
becoming resigned to the fact that he was dead, he was growing more 
curious about the life and death scenario. And here he was, seated next 
to someone who could supply the answers. 

“So how did all this start, Mel?” he asked tentatively, his voice still
a little hoarse. 

“The rum prob'ly went down the wrong way,” Mel answered. 

Roger glanced at him. “No, not the coughing,” he said. He waved his arm
around. “All this...Purgatory, people, everything.” 

“Oh I see. You mean life, death, the after life. All that guff?” 

Roger nodded. 

“That was Big G and the other Gods,” Mel told him casually. “They
invented it all.” 

Roger's eyes widened. “Big G? You mean G--” 

“Graham, that's right, Big Graham. He's a God. Him an the other Gods
done it all. Clever, innit?” 

However the unexpected revelation that there was a multitude of Deities
instead of just the one, temporarily eclipsed in Roger's head the 
stunning marvels of creation. 

“You mean there's more than one God?” he asked weakly. 

“Lots more,” Mel said conversationally. “Let's see, there's Graham or
Big G as he likes to be called, He's got Universe 1. That's you lot – 
Earth, Mars, Albania, etc. Then there's Derwent the Sordid, He's got 
Universe 2. Right bastard He is. Who else is there? Oh yeah, Maybeline 
the Undecided, She's got Universe 3. Daft Henry's got 4 an He's also 
helping out in 5 cos Titterington's only part time just now on account 
of His ankle.” 

Roger was stunned. “You mean there are five Gods and they each have a
Universe of their own!?” 

“That's about it, sport,” Mel said, nodding. 

Roger sat in silence awhile as he digested these revelations. 

Mel puffed away contentedly on his pipe. 

“So what about all the people? Did the Gods invent them as well?” 

“That's right,” answered Mel. “Happened on a tuesday afternoon if I
remember right. All the Gods were round Derwent's place. Supposed to be 
playin cards they were but Maybeline was late – prob'ly couldn't decide 
what to wear as usual. Anyways, they're all sittin round waitin for Her 
when Derwent suddenly has this idea. ‘Look, Gods,' He says, ‘We're all 
sittin here with a Universe of our own. Billions upon billions of 
square miles we've got, good farmin land some of it an there's fuck all 
happenin. Let's invent some things called people, make up some 
complicated rules for them to live by an take it from there.'” 

Roger frowned. “Are you telling me that the only reason people came into
existence was because the Goddess Maybeline the Undecided was late for 
a card game!?” 

Mel nodded. “That's about the size of it, Roger. Bit of a come down,
innit? I mean when you think that the only reason you're here is 
because some bint couldn't decide what to wear, well, it's a bit 
deflatin.” 

“It certainly is.” 

“Anyways, the other Gods agreed an that's how it all started. So Graham,
sorry Big G, goes back to Universe 1, invents people an sticks them 
down on Earth but he gets the design a bit wrong to start with – you 
know, too much hair, too much skull, not enough brain, eyes too close 
together.” 

“You mean the first people on Earth were social workers!?” Roger asked
in astonishment. 

Mel laughed. “Not quite – they were more advanced than that!” 

They both laughed. 

“Where was I?” said Mel. “Oh yeah, Big G tryin to get the design right.
Well a million years go by an He's getting it better – they're startin 
to look like people but then He has to go away to a conference. Derwent 
the Sordid's lookin after the place for Him an what does He do? Only 
goes an puts big bleedin dinosaurs on the planet just for a laugh! By 
the time Big G gets back, the dinosaurs have killed an eaten everyone!” 


“Good grief! What happened then?” 

“Big G went nuts! Made Derwent get rid of the dinosaurs right away.” 

“Ah-ha! So that explains why dinosaurs mysteriously disappeared from
Earth all those millions of years ago!” 

Mel nodded. 

“So what happened next?” Roger asked. 

“After the dinosaurs? Well Big G got better at designin people an after
a few million years there's lots of perfectly formed people roamin 
around. The trouble is though, they're all worshippin trees or 
mountains or Cleopatra's clit or stuff like that. So they've got to be 
put right. Told all about Big G so they can worship Him.” 

“So how did He do it?” 

“Sent down one of His lads. Jesus, His name was. Nice chap. Did some
joinery for me, breakfast bar, garden shed, that sort of stuff. So He 
sorts them out, puts them on the right track an then what happens?” 

“Lots of different religions start soon up afterwards,” responded the
for-once astute Roger. 

“Exactly!” said Mel. “You start havin Holy Wars an kill each other off
for the right to worship your own version of Big G. Then the arguments 
start as to whether Big G's lad actually lived among you or not. Shit, 
He even left some of His clothes around for you to find but what 
happens then? Even more arguments about whether they're actually His or 
not. What the bleedin hell did you expect, labels on them sayin 
‘Cohen's – Robe Makers Of Bethlehem'!?” 

Roger sniggered. “You can't really blame people for disbelieving
though,” he said. “I mean, look at all the suffering they have to go 
through.” 

“Sufferin!?” Mel retorted, eyebrows raised along with his voice.
“Sufferin? You bastards don't know what sufferin is! You lot have it 
easy compared to Derwent's mob – they don't get any fun, none at all. 
Look at all the things your mob have got  to amuse you – booze, drugs, 
big bouncin tits to play with, 3d computer games, cut price holidays to 
Mars an still you moan, fuck how you lot can moan!” 

To Roger's amusement, Mel laid his pipe on the bench and stood up to do
his impression of a ‘suffering' human. 

“Oh, I'm constipated!” Mel moaned, holding his stomach and arse, “God
must hate me!” Then he held his groin. “My willy's too small – she'll 
laugh at me!” Then he held his side. “I've a pain in my side – it's 
probably cancer, there must be a curse on me!” 

Roger laughed and Mel picked up his pipe and sat down again. Just as
Roger was about to ask something, a bare-chested man came running along 
the road from the direction of Purgatory. He was wild-eyed and panting 
and he clutched at his shoulder where an arm had been torn out. When he 
saw Roger and Mel he cut off the road and started running across the 
fields. 

“Waste of time, mate!” Mel called to him. 

The man turned and tried to make an obscene gesture then remembered he
only had one arm. He turned and ran off over the grass. 

“Waste of time tryin to escape,” Mel remarked to Roger. “They'll get him
shortly.” 

Roger shifted uneasily at this Purgatorial reminder. “So what's it like
in Derwent's Universe?” he asked quickly, trying to recapture Mel's 
attention. “Is it bad?” 

“Bad?” said Mel, “It's fuckin awful! His lot have no fun at all. No sex,
no tv, nothin. Sorry, tell a lie, it stops rainin shit there on Friday 
nights so the bodies can be cleared from the road sides. “ 

“Sounds horrible,” said Roger. 

“It is. Some of the people there have big slimy slugs growin out their
ears an the slugs eat them.” 

“The slugs eat them!?” 

Mel nodded. “They have to work hard as well – twenty hours a day from
the age of five with half a day off every fifteen years. Hardly any 
pay. Huge horrible monsters roam round the place rapin them. It's a 
miracle if they're only workin up to their waists in shit. An if they 
complain, if they so much as take Derwent's name in vain, by hell 
they're in trouble.” 

“What happens then?” 

“They lose their half-day.” 


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