It's a Tough Job

"Mr. Yahweh's office, Ms. Diaz speaking. How may I help you?" The efficient, lovely woman with the sensible shoes winces as she recognizes the familiar voice coming out of her intercom. "Ah, Mr. Carpathia. I'm sorry, but the Lord is currently unavailable. I believe we have discussed this in our previous conversations. The assimilation of the Raptured is taking most of His time and will continue to do for the foreseeable future. Perhaps I could at least be of some assistance?"

She pauses to let the undeniably charismatic tones of the caller wash over her for a moment. Still, she is a professional, and she cuts the man off sharply, "Sir, I realize that you have expressed difficulties with your position previously. Rest assured that the Firm has been quite pleased with your results. I will remind you of the commendation that you received for your U.N. speech." The soothing voice on the other end of the line erupts into a blistering, and yet still charming, tirade.

After a moment, the woman punches the mute button and retrieves a file from her desk drawer. Another moment, and she picks up the conversation again, cutting smoothly into the continuing diatribe. "Mr. Carpathia? I have your file right here, and I do see the letters of protest that you lodged against that particular speech. 'Inane drivel' 'hopelessly out of touch with modern society' and 'thundering outrage' are some of the more choice phrases that you used. However, the Lord was quite pleased with your results even after taking your protests under advisement."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Ms. Diaz waits for another break in the conversation. When it comes, her voice is shark-smooth, "Perhaps, Mr. Carpathia, if you could summarize the current objections to your assignment in a less volatile and more succinct manner, perhaps I would better be able to assist you in resolving these objections?"

There is a brief silence, and then a resigned sigh. Ms. Diaz listens patiently, occasionally jotting down a few notes to herself in the margin of Mr. Carpathia's file. At last he winds down. She responds briskly, "Very well, sir. If I may summarize? You feel that your ascension to the United Nations is plausible but only barely. I believe we've covered that in previous conversation, and that your commendation should reassure you there. You are frustrated with your instructions to, as you say, take over the world in less than seven years including converting every one to one world religion as you find this preposterous, and you think that our requirement that everyone be speaking Basque within that time frame to be, ah how did you put it? Linguistically insane, logically treasonous, and theologically ludicrous?"

A snort from the intercom seems to confirm the summary, and Ms. Diaz smiles. "Mr. Carpathia, or may I call you A.C. at this point? A.C., let us be clear here. These things will happen, for it is in the best interest of the Firm that they happen on time and within the allowable budget. You were selected for your position from a veritable host of qualified candidates, and we chose you precisely because we felt that you could pull off thirteen impossible things before breakfast. You, in fact, used that very phrase in your interview."

She flips open a secondary file and says, "Now, I don't want you to think that we are unreasonable, A.C. Our accounting department shows that you used only 68.3% of your allotted miracles in achieving the position of Secretary General of the United Nations. We can allow an increase in your budget for this upcoming year of, say, 17% to account for any unforeseen difficulties in achieving your required targets for the year?"

Ms. Diaz allows herself a satisfied nod as the voice acquiesces. "Very good sir. I look forward to receiving your next report. Do remember that the disarmament and treaty with Israel is your top priority for the year. We are prepared to accept English or French as a substitute world language if you can not achieve Basque, but your bonus will be impacted by any deviation from the Revelation Plan."

The intercom squawks a graceless (but oh-so-dulcet) "Thanks," and cuts off. Miss Diaz shakes her head once, re-files the papers on her desk, and punches a number into the telephone. "Sir? I have the figures on the Israeli Miracle Growth Formula that you requested. Yes sir, I'll be right in."