Tonight, I went through the vault and pulled out a goody for ya. This is a short story that combines one of my favorite things to talk about, entertainment, with religion, which I’d sooner go skydiving with a lead ballon than talk about in public.
This short is actually the basis for a script that I’m still working on, only heavily retooled. If the subject matter rubs you the wrong way, what can I tell you? I never thought people would be reading this blog in the first place. This can just be some light and fun Sunday morning bathroom reading material for anyone willing. I think it would be a great thing to watch before going to church, if your plan is to burn the church down. Also, if this seems like fan fiction, written solely to stroke Kevin Smith’s ego, you’d be correct. I’m a big fan of Mr. Kevin Smith and was on a big Dogma kick when I originally wrote this.
Also if the viewpoint of the story feels confusing, it’s because I always intended for this to just be a scenelet. A piece of something bigger, and one day, it very well may be. Only with some major changes.
It was a night like any other inside Abraham’s Bosom, Heaven’s only gentlemen’s club. Hemingway tended bar, Ghandi was picking fights with townies, and Joan of Arc was limbering up on the second stage. The manna was flowing, and there was enough bread and fish to feed thousands. However, the real action inside Abraham’s Bosom isn’t up front, it’s in the back. Through the beaded curtain, past the jukebox and down the seemingly endless hallway stands Richard Nixon, guarding a blue door. Any attempt to pass that blue door was met with a growl and Nixon’s size 13 to your ass. However, this night was different, because the Boss was in town. He was currently holding a meeting, inside that very room.
Inside the back room, sat a mahogany desk, with a high-backed, leather chair behind it. On the desk sat a name plate, with 3 letters printed on it, which spelt the name that the boss answered to. I can’t tell you exactly what the boss looked like, because there was only a single bare bulb providing light. I can tell you that only He can pull off the robe and sandal look night in-night out, and look just as fresh and clean as He did in the Beginning.
Across from him, sat a man who looked to be as full of life as one could expect, considering he was dead. It was Mad Max himself, Mr. Mel Gibson.
The two sat in silence, until Mel broke through, ”So, what should I call you? Big guy. Mr. All Mighty, G…”
“Alpha, Omega. Whatever works. So, do you know why you’re here, Mr. Gibson?”
Mel leaned back, with a shit eating grin plastered on his face. “I assume it has to do with some kind of medal or award ceremony of some kind. For service above and beyond, that sort of thing.”
The boss sat back in his chair, and took a long, hard look at the man sitting across from him. He studied Mel’s face, as if he was thinking back to the day he created Mel, out of nothing but a stale pretzel stick and some olive oil. “Now, why in My green Earth would I do that?”
Deflated, Gibson gave his interviewer two puppy dog eyes and a playful grin. “I’m sure you probably saw a little movie of mine…The Passion of the Christ. I figured you were a fan.”
The sound of sandals tapping against hardwood filled the room, as the boss bellowed, “A fan? Do the words international merchandise rights mean anything to you? How much money did you make off of my good name, while you paraded that film around. You would have marketed your own special line of Easter eggs, if you didn’t think it would hurt the overseas gross.”
Visibly hurt, Mel leaned close, “Aww, c’mon mate. I donated countless dollars to the cause. For Christ’s sake, I built a church!”
“In your backyard! I read in US Weekly that a man tried to pray in that church of yours, and you sued him for trespassing. Then, you fed him to your pet wombats. You’re a sick man, Mr. Gibson.”
“So, you didn’t like the movie?”
“I can’t tell you for certain, because I fell asleep two hours into the damn thing. What was with that 12 hour runtime, anyways? Were you trying to make a Showtime mini series? Why was the whole thing in Aramaic? Even I haven’t spoken Aramaic since the Renaissance!”
Mel had endured enough. He slowly stood, brushed his pants off and turned away. “Everyone’s a critic.”
“Sit down, Mr. Gibson. I’m the least of your worries right now.”
At the Boss’s command, Mel sat. He could hear the sound of footsteps approaching from outside He heard Nixon arguing with somebody at the door. Next, came a loud thud, then the door swung open. The dim room was bathed in a pool of white light. The words that came next struck fear in the heart of the once proud Australian.
“Jim Caviezel! Jim Freaking Caviezel? That guy wouldn’t last three minutes in Bethlehem. You’d think dying for all mankind would warrant me an A-lister! Instead, I get stuck with this no name. What happened? Was Carrot Top busy?”
Mel rubbed his eyes for a second, then took a deep breath, “Mr. Christ? I take it that you weren’t entirely happy with how you were depicted in my film.”
Jesus looked to his dad, throwing his hands in the air out of sheer frustration. “C’mon, dad. Please tell me I can smite this guy. I mean, c’mon. When me and the Disciples were walking up and down the desert, barefoot, by the way, the only thing that comforted them was looking forward to the movie. That’s what I told every last one of them. Just wait for the movie. Then we’d all feel justified. Instead, we got stuck with you.”
Gibson choked back a lump in his throat and hurled out another question to his accusers. “With what I’m hearing, I doubt there’s anything I could have done to please you. Have you two ever liked any religious film?”
At this question the Father and the Son replied in perfect unison, ”Dogma.”
Mel was at a loss. “Dogma! You’ve got to be kidding me.”
God looked ready to bomb this guy with a few plagues, right then and there. “Easy, Kangaroo boy. Dogma is the only film that’s even came close to telling our story correctly. Plus, it’s the only one that’s tried to add a little charisma to us and the church.”
Jesus chimed in, ”Plus, it had Matt Damon. Now there’s a leading man.”
God rolled his eyes and went back to giving Gibson the stink eye.
Gibson was dumbfounded. “Got your story right? There was rubber poop monster in it. They cast you as a skee-ball playing woman. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
God slammed his hand down on the desk “So, a few creative liberties were taken. And how do you know the poop monster ain’t real? I work in mysterious ways, remember.”
Mel had heard enough. “If I knew I’d have to put up with this, I would’ve done Lethal Weapon 8 like my agent wanted, instead of doing your bidding. Just tell me one thing. Did you like any of my films?”
God began to lay off, just a bit. “I’m more of a Bruce Willis guy, but the 33 year old virgin over there cried at the end of What Women Want.”
Jesus was pissed to hear his secret shame announced like that. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You’ve forsaken me? Again!”
Jesus gave Gibson and God a few more dirty looks, before storming out.
Gibson’s spirits finally seemed to rise, “Kids, eh. What can you do? I had 12 little Aussies, myself.”
God looked annoyed to still be suffering through Gibson’s presence. “Shut up, Gibson. Like I said. You owe me some serious royalty checks. But, since we’re in Heaven and money’s useless, there’s only one thing I can do to make you a believer.”
A rubber poop monster burst through the blue door, grasping Nixon’s severed head. It set it’s sights on Gibson, proceeding to give him the worst beating ever seen in Heaven or Hell. Pleased with his wrath, God got up and hurried out of the back room, hoping to catch the last few minutes of Joan’s set.