Weird Science

L.B. Weird Science, Left Behind pp. 6-8 and L.B. Peace in the Middle East, Left Behind, pp. 8-9.

Pete had been in Israel during the attack for an interview with Fyvush Goldstein, a chemist that had been chosen as the National View's Person of the Year after arduous conversation by the editorial staff. True, Pete hadn't technically been privy to that meeting but it was hard not to know what was going on when you could hear the managing editor screaming "But he's only a chemist!" from the newsroom.

Goldstein had sneaked into the spot for two reasons. First, no one could deny that he was an important chemist. He'd been responsible for the major biotech advances that Israel had been making in the last five years. Not personally, of course, but through his position as trusted science adviser to the Prime Minister.

For example, Israel's recent focus on hydroponics had spawned several large state sponsored agriculture projects in the previously desolate areas on the eastern edge of the country. They already grew more produce in a year than Brazil did, and just before Pete's trip they'd announced several more installations.

He'd also overseen the establishment of Israel's in vitro meat program, which had been established much more quickly and much more effectively than anyone had predicted. True, a few rabbis had declared that the non-animal meat wasn't kosher, but that was just a small segment of Israel; religious hardliners and the majority of Jews agreed that the new product was kosher as pickles.

The real reason that he'd been nominated was because of his surprisingly effective social efforts. Goldstein had hired and trained many Palestinians and used his connections to guarantee their passage into Israel proper. When his programs started to pay off to the tune of millions of dollars in grants and technology patents, not to mention the profits from the sales of the produce themselves, he hired even more Palestinians to work alongside their Israeli counterparts. When the conservatives had complained, Goldstein would point to his massive successes, and then call in his government support to back him up.

Attacks in Israel had slowly declined. Hamas had eventually renounced violence, especially since Palestinians were among those now being killed in the Tel Aviv bombings. With better security came looser travel restrictions and what could, in the next few years, become the implementation of a two state strategy for peace.

True, things weren't perfect. There were still problems with Zionist expansion on the West Bank, and there was still the occasional bombing but things were looking so much more positive now that Palestinians didn't have to resort to suicide bombings to feed their families. Goldstein himself had ironically become a popular figure among the younger Palestinians due to circulating rumors that he stood up to the Israeli government to make sure that Palestinian innovations resulted in patents held by Palestinian citizens.

There was also Nobel Peace Prize buzz in the air. As much as some of the editors railed for some actor or politician, at the end of the day it was Fyvush Goldsteing that got the profile.

Fyvush had met Pete in his house, a modest building not too far from the presumed border between Israel and Palestine. Two graduate students were hunched over a set of plans in his office, arguing loudly. One was Israeli, one was Palestinian, but they weren't consumed with political differences but rather differences of opinion on the design of a new air compressor for a new hydroponics installation.

"I hear you want to talk with me about my fascination with Romanian opera," Goldstein had said with sparkling eyes as they finally sat down.

Pete had been amazed at the Professor's self effacement. He called the hydroponics and in vitro meat programs "the result of scientists far more brilliant than I" and described his hiring practices as "the best effort of a single man." He completely discounted his role in the reduction of violence. "The current political situation is something that hundreds, if not thousands, of people have been working toward for years. To say that I had more influence had more than all of the people that have come before me is beyond the realm of possibility, and dismissive to their hard work. I simply do what I can, and if I manage to influence a few people's perceptions, that will be enough for me."

Goldstein had gone on to win that Nobel prize, and hadn't touched a cent of the money. He'd set up scholarships with it instead, and used his speech to try to rally people to environmental and social causes that they believed in.

Pete's profile on Goldstein had been a high point in his career. Now on his way to London, he was hoping to see a few old friends on his way to do an interview with the British Education Secretary about the vocational programs that they were hoping to sell to failing American school systems. Not nearly so exciting, but at least the job gave him free reign to travel and talk to interesting people.

He checked his email, checked the East coast time on his watch, and tried to figure out how much longer this flight was going to be.

Pete sighed and sunk back in his chair. At least he was in business class.

Meet the NQGIRAT

L.B. Meet the GIRAT, Left Behind pp. 6-7 and L.B. The Literal Donkey's Penis, Left Behind, pp. 10-15.

(Re: Not Quite Greatest Investigative Reporter of All Time)

Peter Marcus lounged in his business class seat in the plane flying toward Europe. Even working for a magazine as prestigious as the National View, he rarely got the chance to fly business class, and was only doing so now because he was marginally a Pan-whatever airline rewards club member and they'd bumped him up due to overbooking.

A pretty brunette stewardess wandered by. They'd just been introduced, but she was already calling him Pete. Everyone did, even former presidents and heads of state. Sometimes it put people at ease, and allowed him to get in questions that they might otherwise have objected to from a more combative reporter.

Technically he was a senior investigative reporter for National Review, but that didn't really mean so much. These days it was better to be a talking head, but Pete wasn't very telegenic, nor did he have a speciality upon which he could B.S. to keep an audience entertained. His specialty were written interviews with minor dignitaries and overseas investigations into corruption. There was never a shortage of either and, although his job could have been a lot more glamorous, it kept him steadily employed.

Sometimes though, he did have the worst luck. Like that time when he was sent to Israel for an interview with a biochemist and Israel had claimed that Russia attacked them. Another competing news magazine, one that Peter was beginning to suspect had no editorial review at all, had reported that Russia had launched a full out assault on the Jewish homeland.

Allied with Ethiopia and Libya.

He'd been sick in the Tel Aviv hospital with food poisoning that night, but he'd see a few flashes through the curtains in his room, and read the report a few days later just before he flew back to the States.

After he'd finished laughing, Peter had called a contact that he had in the Russian government who referred to the incident as a "mistake made during a training exercise" and offered to allow a photographer into a Moscow area military base to prove that Russia did indeed have planes left.

Even the Israeli governments were skeptical about the other magazine's reporting. True, some of the extremely conservative Zionists in the National Religious party called it a miracle of god, but the Kadima run government had pointed out that there hadn't been a single casualty in all of Israel. There had been a few ironic comments by several people that they didn't think the Russians were quite that incompetent, and things had returned to normal.

. . . to be continued with Weird Science. Sorry for the odd post break.

The Opposite of Porn

L.B. Pretib Porno, Left Behind pp. 1-3.

Starting back from the beginning. I'm not as good of a writer as Jesurgislac and Johnny Pez, so any suggestions/comments/complaints are welcome. I'm going to try to remain as close to the original crap as possible while taking Fred's comments to heart and improving things as much as I can otherwise. Incidentally, I think you'll be able to see the parallels between my characters and their Left Behind alter-egos quite easily, so I won't bother to point them out.

Chris Smith relaxed back in his seat, his mind on the pretty young flight attendant that had brought him coffee only moments before. The late flight from Chicago to Heathrow was the longest he'd ever worked and he had hours of time to spend with his mind wandering while the 747 was on autopilot.

Suzie Jenkins was absolutely a dream. She had long dark hair that she wore just a bit too loosely to strictly conform to the airline dress code, she had blue gray eyes that twinkled when she wrinkled her nose, and she was just on petite side. Chris could see her smiling in his mind's eye, and he smiled at the image.

It would be so easy to respond back to her subtle come-ons, to smile back at her, to allow her hand to linger. To invite her back to his hotel room some time . . .

He jerked upright, glancing at his first officer Thomas guiltily.

An image of his wife popped into his head. He'd married young, right out of high school and just before he joined the Air Force, and over the years since then Tabitha had really let herself go. She'd been a beautiful blond cheerleader in high school and had the body of Aphrodite until she'd managed to get through a two year community college.

Then ever so slowly she'd let herself slip into comfortable food and a far more sedentary lifestyle than Chris would have expected. He still worked out at least once a week, thinking that maybe if he showed some interest in the gym he could convince her to go.

In response, she just told him that she was too busy with taking care of their kids to go with him.

She was still nice to him, in a technical sense. She was submissive, in the sort of way that only a middle-aged born again housewife can be, but she disapproved of his ambivalence toward going to church in general and especially toward her church.

She'd gone with a friend to a few services at the local nondenominational church, and claimed that she loved their focus "on God's word" while waving around the Bible.

Chris had problems from the moment that he arrived. Each time he went he was deluged with what he considered personal questions about the exact nature of his faith. Chris was a live and let live kind of Christian, but the people at Tabitha's church believed that Christians had to have specific beliefs in order to really be saved.

After the thousandth question about his stance on homosexuality, abortion, the war in Iraq, and premillenial dispensationalism (whatever that was), he'd started coming up with inventive excuses to avoid church. Finally, he'd just scheduled his gym time for every Sunday morning, and that had been that.

Between her weight gain and her obsession with Jesus, he'd found himself slowly becoming less and less interested in her until he'd finally given up. He couldn't imagine a better term to describe their sex life than "dead."

When he'd finally started flying with Suzie, he'd immediately thought she was pretty, but he never thought anything would come of it. As time went by though, he'd become more and more attracted to her. She had a good sense of humor, always had something funny or nice to say, and she was a more than competent lead flight attendant. In fact, if he could have, he would have requested her on every flight.

He shook his head, trying to clear it of Suzie, but it was harder than it should have been. I'm a good guy, he thought to himself. I can't cheat on Tabitha.

He sighed. He'd have to explain that to Suzie, although he didn't want to. He didn't want to lead her on. She didn't deserve to be stuck in a one-sided relationship with a guy that wouldn't break his marriage vows, no matter how bad things at home had gotten. He'd offer to put in a request to have them split up, if Suzie wanted. He didn't want her to feel uncomfortable.

It was too bad that Tabitha didn't feel the same way.

"You don't want to be left behind when Jesus comes back!" she'd once shouted at him in the church parking lot when he dropped her off. The bizarre orange blazoned fiction book that she'd expected to convert him to her version of Christianity was being waved vigorously over her head. The other arriving church members stared at him, unanimously grim in expression.

She'd been trying to wear him down the entire drive over, and he knew that she felt this was her last chance to save him.

"It's right there in the Bible!" she'd finished, louder than before, but he though her point was slightly nullified by the fact that she was carrying a fiction novel.

Still, he'd driven off, red faced, past her fellows.

Slowly and against his conscious wishes, Suzie's smile wormed his way back into his mind, and he smiled reflexively.

The Temptation of the Antichrist

Nicky was sitting comfortably at his kitchen table when his refrigerator burst into flame.

He paused, the orange juice almost to his lips, and looked at it. The ugly white enamel was blackening slowly and the rubber seals were dripping down onto the floor.

"NICHOLAS MOUNTAIN, I AM THE GOD OF THE PATRIARCHS, OF ABRAHAM, ISAAC AND JACO--."

"Aw, come on," Nicky said, interrupting the booming voice. "Could you not ruin my fridge?"

"WHAT?"

"My fridge. Jeez, I'll bet you're destroying everything in there too, aren't you?"

"ERRRRRRR . . ."

"Look, could you maybe stop with the fire?"

"THE FIRE IS A NECESSARY SIGN OF--."

"I believe you. You're the God of the Patriarchs, just put the fire out please."

The fire went out abruptly. Nicky stood up, leaving his breakfast at the table, and inspected the damage. Aside from the absolutely ruined refrigerator the paint on the wall and the ceiling was charred black and the cabinets to the side were singed. The cabinets didn't look like they needed to be replaced but the entire kitchen would have to be repainted.

He sat down again and looked around. "Hello?" he said to the otherwise empty kitchen.

"I'M HERE." Something iridescent and glowing rose out of the yellowing linoleum floor, scintillating and throwing brilliant rainbows of light around the poorly lit room.

Nicky winced, and the angel obligingly toned down the light display. "You know, 'burning fridge' doesn't have nearly the same narrative impact as 'burning bush,'" he told his guest.

"YOU LIVE IN NEW YORK," the holy seemed to shout. "I WAS LOOKING FOR AN OPPORTUNITY IN CENTRAL PARK BUT YOU'VE CHANGED YOUR RUNNING PATTERNS SINCE LAST YEAR. BESIDES, YOU'RE ALMOST NEVER ALONE OUTSIDE."

"Yeah, I suppose that's true. Are you here to tell me to go running in the park more often?"

"NO." The angel did something that came across to Nicky as clearing its throat. "You know, you don't seem all that surprised by my presence here."

"I've seen Dogma," Nicky pointed out. "Besides, this is New York and it's just before seven. If you want me to be surprised come back after nine and we'll try to work something out. What happened to your voice?"

"It wasn't worth the effort required to maintain the effect," the angel said. "How'd you like it?"

"Your voice?"

"No, the movie. Dogma."

"It was okay, I suppose. The ending was a little trite."

"I can see that," the angel said. "Deus Ex Machina and all. Do you mind if I sit?"

Nicky gestured to the chair and the being of pure light pulled it back and sat. "I'm here to inform you that you're the Antichrist," he told Nicky after he'd made himself comfortable.

"Pardon?"

"You're the Antichrist."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Nicky carefully scraped together some of the slightly runny scrambled eggs and took a bite. He chewed slowly and finally swallowed.

"Shouldn't a demon be telling me this?"

"Why would they care?"

"Er . . . cause the Antichrist is supposed to be one of the bad guys?"

"Not really. The position is more about getting the job done. Besides, demons are unreliable messengers."

"And that job is?"

"Destroying the world, of course," said the angel, sounding surprised. "You know, as foretold in John's Revelation and all that. I was told that you'd read Left Behind."

"Only the first book, and I hated it. Come on, it was mindless drivel."

The angel shrugged. "I can't argue with that."

"This is about my internship at the U.N., isn't it?"

"Think of it, 'Nickolas Mountain, youngest Secretary General in history.' I'm sure that the guys would love it."

"It's just an internship!"

"But it could be so much more. I know that you've dreamed of being the Secretary General."

Nicky paused. "I've also dreamed of being U.S. president," he finally pointed out. "Or getting lucky with Jessica Biel."

"Dominionship over the Earth has its perks," the angel responded. "We could probably work something out."

"All leading to the end of the world."

"Yup."

"When would that be?"

The angel pulled a glittering golden pocket watch out from somewhere. "One thousand and fourteen years, six months, and a few days," he announced.

"That includes the millennial reign of Christ?"

"Yup."

"I don't think so."

"The future's written, kid. I could cite the passages easy. What's got to happen has got to--."

"No, I meant I don't think I want the position."

The angel sat there, glowing over everything, and Nicky took another bite of his eggs.

"I'm offering fame, power, and unlimited unlimited wealth for seven entire years, Nickolas," the angel said.

"It's Nicky, and I'm not interested."

"I can see your heart, you know," the angel said abruptly. "I can see that you're tempted. Imagine all of that money and power. Seven blissful years of unlimited power before handing it over to the next guy. Think of the cars, the parties, the attractive women!"

"Yeah, I get it," said Nicky dismissively. "Except there's that whole part about the world ending. The power and the wealth is all nice and good, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I took all those people's lives away from them."

The angel seemed to shake its head, although Nicky couldn't tell for sure because the glow had surged back to full brightness. He looked down at the table and continued to munch on his food.

"You know the problem with this job?" the angel said and then continued before Nicky could swallow and speak. "You're all the same. Smart, driven, and absolutely opposed to the world ending. Do you have any idea how many times I've been turned down now? It must be in the mid twenties, at the very least."

"You mean for the Antichrist position?" asked Nicky.

"Yeah," the angel said. "Sometimes I could swear that Satan is screwing around with this whole process. Anytime someone meets the qualifications . . .," the angel must have seen the curiosity on Nicky's face or "in his heart" because he elaborated, ". . . charismatic, speaks a few languages fluently, intelligent, works at the U.N., born in Turkey, non-Christian . . .," Nicky nodded and he continued, ". . . you always turn down unlimited power and wealth. None of you are driven."

"Not at the expense of others," Nicky said. "Maybe in a few years you can try me again."

"It's a one time offer," the angel said. "There's a time line associated with it, and every time someone declines we have to put everything on hold again. You've already turned it down, you can't be offered it again."

"That's sort of a silly rule."

"I'll say," the angel said bitterly. "But the Big Guy's all about personal choice."

"I thought you said you are God."

"Technically I'm the Voice of God. You know how it goes, Dogma and all that. . . ." he waved a glowing hand dismissively and trailed off.

"So God really exists?" Nicky said. "I don't suppose you'd clue me in which denomination . . ."

"Mormonism," the angel said without hesitation, and then he chuckled. "No, sorry, that's just an angel joke. The correct answer's really Quaker, or anything similar. Imagine the irony that Nixon's in heaven."

"Er . . . okay."

"It'd be so much easier if I could just . . . you know, order you to be the Antichrist," the angel said wistfully.

"Hey, I'm sure that someday someone will say yes."

"Twenty some times, and he says that someday someone will say yes. . . ." The angel grumbled something about the power of heaven, and then fell silent.

Nicky finally ended the uncomfortable quiet. "I don't suppose you want some bacon or something?"

"No," the angel said miserably. "I should be going." He paused. "Are you sure you don't want to be the Antichrist?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Nicky said. "I thought you said it could only be offered once."

"It was worth a try," the angel said. "Maybe since I haven't left yet they wouldn't have noticed."

"Well," Nicky said as the angel stood. "Good luck on finding someone."

"That's what they ALL SAY," the angel said, ending with his voice once again like thunder. "ANYWAY, HAVE A GOOD DAY. HAVE FUN AT YOUR NEW JOB."

There was a flicker, and the being of light disappeared, backing through the far wall toward Mr. Stephen's apartment.

Nicky finished his bacon, put the plate in the sink, and examined the refrigerator again. The melting rubber had congealed on the floor. He'd probably have to pry the linoleum up and replace it before he ordered a new fridge.

Right now though he needed to catch the train into midtown for work, so he'd have to start calling around after five.

He sighed and wondered if as the Antichrist he would have been able to get a discount on fridges from Sears.