In Search of the Point

Part Two: Zentropy and the Art of Pearly Gate Crashing

by Scott Hefflon and Jeff Pare (extra duck sauce provided by William Ham)
Illustration by Rob Zammarchi

“What the hell just happened?” Duiszk croaked.

“It’s a bitch, ain’t it? You get used to it after a while. We’re serial characters. That was an issue lag.” Fejod explained, whittling a happy tune into the shape of a tree.

“Ugh, did you do that?” Duiszk croaked a little more.

“No. There are some forces beyond my control. That’s why we’re speaking indentedly, if ya know what I mean.”

“Not really, but when’s that ever stopped you.” Duiszk croaked again, cleared his throat, then continued, “Wasn’t someone at the door?”

“They probably left. No one except a collection agent or Jehovah’s Witness would wait a month for us to answer the door.” Fejod twiddled his digits.

“So now what?”

“Now we wait for something to happen.” Fejod finished with a flourish. Time passed.

Duiszk woke in the middle of the night and was instantly bored. He awaited the inevitable lumber feeling, or perhaps, large, nasty drill bits to make him Swiss Duiszk, but nothing happened.

“Whattafa?” Duiszk muttered to himself.

He waited patiently for his voice to realize he was awake. Finally, it did, and together they went into the other room to see what was going on. They discovered, simultaneously, that nothing was going on. They pondered quietly among themselves that maybe nothing was happening anywhere. How dull. They decided to leave the philosophical nonsense for another story, and embarked upon “The Quest for Fejod.” Putting things in capital letters usually made dumb, little things seem important, but not this time.

“God, why is everything so dull?” Duiszk asked hypothetically.

Neither Hypothetically, nor God, answered him. With a small shrug, Duiszk walked into the living room. Duiszk, his voice, and the small shrug collided with a wall of still air. Duiszk gathered himself together and pushed slowly through the unmoving air. It had become incredibly bored hanging around playing cards and old board games, and became excited as Duiszk and company passed by. When they had passed, the air found itself bored again and began wandering how much effort it would take to ionize. Duiszk found Fejod sitting depressed in a chair. Only the top of his head protruded from the upholstery.

“Wow, he really is depressed.” Duiszk thought to himself. He agreed with himself, and asked what they should do about it.

“Well…” He reasoned. He got no further. Evidently Fejod didn’t want reason to do anything, particularly reason. Duiszk decided to be dumb instead. Things usually turn out much better when you don’t think about them too much.

Meanwhile, somewhere in occupied Wisconsin, a greengrocer stubbed his toe and invented a new curse word. To kill the pain, he drank so much that he fell asleep on his own guavas and awoke to find that someone had stolen the word and brought it to the patent office before he could. This has nothing to do with the story, which itself has nothing to do with the story, but we couldn’t let it pass without note.

“What’s going on, Fejod?” He asked the top of Fejod’s head.

It was a dumb question considering that it was rather obvious that nothing was going on, but it would have been dumber still if he’s asked someone named Bill the question instead. Fejod gave Duiszk a nod. Duiszk put it in his pocket for later.

Fejod said nothing, and then said, “Nothing.”

He wasn’t quite as depressed anymore. “What’s the matter?” Duiszk asked his truncated roommate.

Another vague question. Fejod ignored the question, and eventually it skulked away. Fejod decided against his better judgment to converse with his only friend. He told his better judgment to take a hike. It left shouting threats and bad omens as it clumped noisily along a scenic path. Fejod sent a temper tantrum out to chase it for a while, and then settled back to talk to the person he only rarely had to strike dumb.

“Jesus, you have no concept of the implications of my thought process.” Fejod sighed.

Duiszk cocked his head to one side and headed his cock to the other. He tried to chew at his thought, but couldn’t seem to grasp it. Rather than admit his dental ineptitude, he thoughtfully munched on his tongue instead. Meanwhile, Jesus was trying to absolve Fejod of his troubles. It had always worked in the good ol’ days, but now Jesus was swelling up like a blowfish. Fejod became cross with him and fastened him to the wall with push-pins. Duiszk forgave Jesus his transgressions and smoked a doobie with him. While they got righteously stoned, Fejod created a buffet of pizza, garlic bread, a fine vintage of Jolt cola, and enough vodka shots to obliterate the Russian Army. Jesus felt badly shown up, and asked his Dad if he could come home now. He got his Dad’s answering machine, and quietly swore at him. He griped about having a Father that was always out on business, and stranding him in bad neighborhoods “for his own good.” He was anxious to get home because he was throwing another party in his Dad’s house. St. Peter was supposed to be doorman: checking I.D.s and keeping all of Satan’s hell-raising buddies out. St. Peter was invariably high and trying to play Zeppelin tunes on various instruments he couldn’t play. He was always trying to scoop on the new angels who hadn’t gotten used to the wings, mini-skirts, and plexiglass platform heels (inside of which swam bush tetras and bits of Hebrew National rye bread – an inside joke) yet. He was constantly strolling through the gardens or wandering through the palace looking for a free bed. Wherever he was, you could count on him not being at the door to prevent gate crashing.

Jesus was worried, and rightfully so. He resigned himself to his fate and offered to shine their shoes. Fejod declined and helped Jesus pry himself off the wall. Fejod tried to apologize, but Jesus forgave him before he had gotten a word out. In the beginning, Fejod and Duiszk thought Jesus was a self-righteous twit. Now, they sympathized with him, and invited him into their culture. Jesus submitted and partook of the ceremonial liquid of life, the blood of his new friend’s veins, and basically, some damn good vodka. With few formalities, they embarked on adventures that altered the future of mankind, forced the rewriting of the Bible, complete with author’s notes, began a best-selling series of sci-fi comedies entitled “The Holy Bible: The Sequels,” and even started a long-running TV show with movie adaptations starring Bill and Ted called ” The REALLY New Testament.”

Suddenly, Fejod changed his mind. With this came the inevitable change of reality. It was a few seconds behind, either because of a hectic schedule, or whoever the Master of Reality is is actually not entirely bright. Nonetheless and none the more, it changed.

“See what I mean about implications?” Fejod asked.

Duiszk nodded noncommittally. He disliked being committed, and didn’t want his nod being misconstrued or strued in any way. It was just a nod and it probably didn’t know any better. He gave it the benefit of the doubt, but it already had plenty. He nodded doubtfully, to alleviate some of the backlog and it seemed to be the right thing to have done. Fejod picked up the phone and ordered a winged chariot to get Jesus home, but was told it would take half an hour for it to arrive. Fejod damned them to Hell, but none of them had any vacation days left. He hung up on them instead. He sent Jesus home by simply ignoring him and, therefore, causing him to cease to exist. It gave Jesus a bit of a complex, but he got over it.

Fejod turned to Duiszk, and Duiszk, in turn, turned to Fejod. “Let’s drink some coffee,” Fejod suggested.

Duiszk agreed.

(to be continued…)