Divine Diagnosis



  DIVINE DIAGNOSIS

  by

  Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan

  SmashWords Edition

  Copyright©2012 MetaFic, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  I found my personal hell, right here in Heaven.

  My life on Earth was nice and simple. I was brought up in New York on the East Side. Then Yale for pre-med. From there it was Harvard Medical School. A couple of tours in Boston hospitals. Then I became psychiatrist for the rich and famous – helping them cope with the hardships of millions or just clocking hours for their court assigned counseling. And that's where death found me.

  A stroke or something of that sort. I'm not sure; I didn't stick around for the autopsy. Leaving behind my flabby, unmoving body, I went against every Hollywood script - I walked towards the light. It was intense, almost blinding.

  Eventually I reached the gates. I was greeted by a guy in a doorman's uniform with a thick, unkempt beard. His nametag read "Peter." I understood that this was it. The moment of truth. Judgment.

  Philosophers, theologians, our greatest minds debated this singular moment for centuries. Love, hate, charity, anger, virtues, sins - this was their battleground. How can such things be weighted? With trepidation I watched Peter, awaiting the tally of my life. Peter pulled out a shinny silver shekel, winked, and flipped it off his thumb.

  A coin toss? That was it?

  An angle-boy, the mascot for Valentines Day, ushered me, mouth wide open, to my lakeside cottage.

  That's the deal with this place: you get what you want.

  Soon, I found out my wishes were relatively unambitious. All I wanted was the aforementioned cottage overlooking a lake; fresh Turkish coffee; Cuban cigars; a crisp Wall Street Journal every morning (to check up on the stocks I left my no-good kids); and a six-foot shiksa (a gentile female, or should I say a gentle female?) to tower over me by almost a foot.

  The eternal sunrise that hung above my lake illuminated my ashtray. One of the sun's divine beams fell on the coffee pot, as if it was a long lost treasure in a pitch-black cave. The key to making good coffee is to keep it on a small fire and wait for it to orgasm. It's perfect at the moment when the foam is about to overrun the rim. Speaking of foam and orgasms: the four minutes I spent on my shiksa... pure heaven. Ah, the coffee's ready. Without jinxing myself, I just want to say – afterlife's okay.

  Then there was a knock on the door. I thought Cupid was early with my morning paper. It wasn't Cupid.

  Apparently there was a shortage of lawyers and psychiatrists here. And eternal bliss will take a person so far before they go insane. And insane they went. Especially the older ones, those that have been here for a while. I kept very biblical company.

  In the beginning (pardon the pun) came marriage counseling. Ironically and inescapably the first ones knocking were Adam and Eve. Eve complained that whatever she cooked Adam would never try. He would just stare in distrust and mumble something about serpents.

  To him I would say, "You have to start trusting your wife eventually, she means well."

  To her, "You have to start taking responsibility. You can't blame the snake for everything."

  At about eleven Abraham and his son Isaac would stop by, as if for coffee. They would even bring cake. After a few minutes of small talk, Isaac would start raving how his father tried to sacrifice him. Abraham said it was his job.

  "You just don't get it, Dad!" Isaac would scream. "do you have any idea what that did to my teenage psyche? It was so fragile, Dad, and you shattered it!"

  "Calm down, young man." At times - as any good psychiatrist knows - you have to lie. "Your father did not really see an angel. He didn't kill you because he loves you." Isaac would tear up and look to his father, ready for one of those Hollywood hugs. Then Abe would ruin everything.

  "What do you mean there was no angel?" He would demand of me accusingly. "I heard the voice of God with my own ears. Then he would grab the stone dagger at his side. "I'd kill this ungrateful little brat right now if God told me to." He screamed to the Heavenly heavens, "Just give me the green light! Come on!"

  Three weeks of therapy - ruined. I sighed. They took the cake and left.

  Then came the phobias. Noah was one of the harder cases. He'd get distracted all the time, fidgeted with his robes. At first I diagnosed him with severe ADD. But that wasn't it. He kept staring out to my peaceful lake and constantly checked the nonexistent clouds.

  "You shouldn't be worried. It never rains here, you know," I would offer kindly, soothingly.

  "Yeah, that's what they used to say in the valley I lived in." But he seemed a little calmer. That's when my sprinklers came on. With his opened umbrella it took him two tries to get out of my door. Then he just ran and ran, screaming like a madman.

  The higher they were in the celestial hierarchy, the worst it got. Archangel Gabriel had a fear of flight. He said it started after the war.

  "War? 'Nam?"

  "No, the original War," he gritted his teeth. "It was just the two of us, doc. Just me and Mike, deep in enemy territory. Then they were all around us. Right on our sixes."

  "Mike?"

  "Michael." Tears stained his angelic face. "I came around and opened fire from my fiery sword." It was then that I noticed ten black pentagrams on his white wing, all crossed off. "Through the smoke and brimstone I saw them going down, tumbling to earth, all aflame." I stayed really quiet, watching a flawless face twisting with memories. "I was lucky that day, doc. We got them all, though it cost us half a dozen cherubs and three seraphim. Those were young angles out there, doc, barely a millennium old!" He spat. "It was them that day, but it could have been meeee!"

  "Let go of my shirt, please. You're choking me," I croaked. He seemed to have realized where he was and let go, smiling sheepishly, wiping tears away. I wrote down 'post-traumatic stress – work related'.

  "The war's over, Gabe." I said.

  "Hell, it wasn't even called a war. A conflict, just a damned conflict."

  "Jesus," I mumbled to myself. And just in time, Gabe's session was up and the Savior walked in.

  "Right on time, Mr. Christ." I jumped up happily and ushered Gabe out. The battle-fatigued angel promised to tell me about Sodom and Gomorra next time. I couldn't wait.

  I returned to my seat, smoothed out my suit, threw one leg over another, and took out my pad and pencil. I heard the coffee orgasm and sizzle as it overran the pot's rim and doused the fire. No rest for the weary.

  "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Christ?"

  "Call me Yehoshua, or just Josh," he said and glanced around suspiciously, then leaned closer to me and whispered, "I want to fight back."

  "Come again," I leaned to him.

  "Oh, the time for the Second Coming is not yet at hand," he said amicably.

  "No, I mean... what did you mean?"

  "See, doctor, my reputation precedes me. They know my philosophy is to love thy enemy, turn the other cheek, so they take advantage of it. Push me around all the time."

  "They?"

  "Mohammed's the worst of them. Moses does too. He says I'm a wussy. Says I wouldn't have survived Egypt, much less the desert. Even Buddha."

  "Buddha? He seems so nice. Just lies by a tree, all chubby and... apathetic."

  "Not enough not to trip me up every time I walk by," the Savior complained. "Just once, I want to kick him in that fat belly of his."

  "What can I help you with, Josh?" I rubbed my eyes with thumb and forefinger.

  "Teach me to fight, doctor." He shadow-boxed the air. "Then you and me... we'll go out there, have a little Crusade." He grinned, a little too passionately for me. "You should talk to Gabriel," I groaned. "I'll tell you the truth; I'm not much of a fighter." br />
  "Yeah! Gabe! That could work!" He hopped out of the window and took a shortcut over the lake. "Thanks, doctor, peace be onto you!"

  I had a little time before Moses was supposed to show up, he was always late, something about a horrible sense of directions. I started thinking.

  Apostles, Saints, Popes, even atheists (who just couldn't believe it!) all came this way. I got so famous that some even petitioned God to allow them to visit from Hell. I hear some lawyers organized the case. It's under appeal now.

  Every day, appointment after appointment, they kept coming. And do you know how long a day lasts in here? My Wall Street Journals kept piling up untouched on my desk. The shiksa was bored - swam all day, watched sitcoms. The coffee tasted bitter, the cigars stale. Was there an afterlife after this one? What if I was really good in this one? They all complained about their problems. What about mine? All I wanted was peace and quiet, and I got this instead.

  A soft knock came at the door, real polite. Couldn't be Mohammed - that one just bursts in, brandishing his scimitar (we're working on his passive-aggressiveness).

  "Come in," I sighed.

  The door squeaked open and an elderly looking fellow shuffled in. He flapped down on my couch and assumed the position. I checked my appointment book, wrinkled my brow. Either way, I pulled up a chair and crossed my legs. For a while we both stayed quite.

  "Let's start at the beginning," I broke the ice, very gently, very traditionally. Tradition – I hear they respect that sort of thing around here.

  "In the beginning?" he mused. "In the beginning there was nothing and then..."

  "No," I chuckled and stopped him. "I mean the beginning of your problems."

  "Oh, I keep having blackouts lately."

  "Blackouts?"

  "I'm doing something and then I'm in another place, another time. Nothing's the same."

  "Well--" I uncomfortably shifted in my chair, something about this guy made me anxious. "--to get to the root of your problem we should delve into your life."

  "Fine."

  "Okay, tell me about your parents."

  "I didn't have any." That sentence killed most of Freud's theories. A shame too, I did my honors thesis in psychoanalysis.

  "Well, tell me about the first time you blacked out," I said uncertainly.

  "I was in the garden. Hmmm, matchmaking you could say." He winked benevolently. "Next thing I know, there's fire, brimstone, lightning - the usual theatrical setting. Adam and Eve are wearing these ridiculous fig leaf thingies, screaming and wailing, running out of Eden."

  Oh boy, I thought to myself. They never taught us to deal with this in Harvard. They taught us how to deal with people who think they're God, but not actual Gods.

  "And you remember nothing of what happened in the interim?î"

  "Not a damned thing."

  "How about you give me a few more of these episodes. Maybe we can figure out a pattern, maybe there's a--" I snapped my fingers looking for the word. "--a trigger for them, a catalyst of sorts."

  "A few years went by, Eve had a few kids. Cain and Able were their names. I wake up, one's dead. I mean, murdered. I never thought they'd invent murder," He said sadly.

  I sat there with my mouth hanging open. This was way above my head. Then again, you don't really say no to Him.

  A few sessions went by, mostly fruitless and unmultiplying. I started taking notes, doing research, reading books I haven't touched since my bar mitzvah. All just to keep up with Him. He became my only patient. The rest were kept out by the heavenly host (posse) armed with lightning incinerator lances.

  In solitude, He kept piling it on. Plagues, wars, murders, political correctness, all happened in His absence. Whenever He passed out, things went wrong. Horribly wrong. When He came to, He'd try to fix it, return everything to normal. And then He'd black out again and so on and so forth. Knowing this, I could open a history book and pinpoint the moments He lapsed.

  I didn't sleep. I didn't eat (not that I needed to). My shiksa began flirting with Gabe. Gabe - with my cigars and his rugged good looks and flaxen hair. My only relief was that angels are androgynous.

  The Almighty would arrive at my doorstep every morning. An immaculate cloud would pull up, escorted by three fiery chariots and the trumpet blasts. Every time I'd grab my heart thinking Judgment Day had come. But it was just another session, and here God was judged.

  His 'boys' would open the cloud to let Him out. The angels would secure the perimeter around my cottage. We were not to be disturbed. My notes carried such words as 'schizophrenia' and 'bi-polar disorder.' Eventually both were crossed off. Depression? No, He was too cheerful by far.

  I decided to poke around His subconscious, see if maybe He has strange associations with things, which might in turn lead me deeper into his psyche. I offered Him the Rorschach test. So, I'm holding the cards on which I see monsters and perverted positions and ask Him what He sees.

  "Flowers?... hmmm, a phoenix... bunnies jumping around a mushroom." I frowned and look at the inkblot. That mushroom was a nuclear cloud. I showed Him another one, an almost perfect replica of the Jolly Roger. I asked Him what He sees.

  "Hmmm, well, that thing under there, that's a butterfly." He meant the crossbones. "And the thing above is a balloon with eyes and a mouth to make a happy face." A happy face? My happy face was far gone.

  He's gone. I'm back at point one. I was in hell. The happy surroundings didn't fool me. Yes, my double-D concubines was taking a skinny-dip in the lake, yeah, the bird's were chirping. Inside I was in a maze, like a mouse prodded with electrodes. Except my cheese was figuring out God. Good luck! Whole religions didn't even come close, and I was supposed to do it in a few sessions. Now, that's hell.

  I was left with one option. It seems ridiculous considering who I was dealing with, but I was out of ideas. I set a confrontation day and planed out my thoughts, writing questions in my pad. That morning I almost prayed... but it kind of seemed pointless.

  Then He came. A white, modest suit. A full, charming smile. I wished all my patients were like this. I just prayed He wouldn't have one of those black outs when I handed Him the bill.

  "So, good morning, Mr. Almighty. How have you been?"

  "Great. Everything is very good." He floped into the couch, head back, feet up.

  "I've always been taught that you're a kind God."

  "That's the job description." He had a warm, pleasant disposition.

  "You set rules on the world, haven't you?"

  "Yes, nature."

  "I mean beyond that. Ten Commandments, a moral code perhaps?" I scanned my pad for the specifics. "You told Adam and Eve not to eat the fruit, right?"

  "Correct. But in my defense, I gave him a whole lot of other fruits to eat. He had everything, but he needed a way to serve me and he could only do that by not eating the forbidden fruit."

  "That's what I meant." In thick, fat, black lines three letters appeared on my pad. I scratched at them even as I continued talking. "But he transgressed your commandment. Didn't it deserve punishment?"

  "I... I don't truly punish people. I forgive. That's what I do." God said a little hesitantly.

  "Yet, Adam was punished. Cain too. The whole Tower of Babel thing - Gabriel still wakes up in cold sweat after that one. Jews, you really took it out on them. Someone gave the orders." For the first time since I've known Him, God frowned. Not a full blown frown, just a hint of one. He motioned for me to continue. "You're a good God, but bad things happen to good people. How's that possible? Someone punishes, someone makes bad things happen in the world."

  "Satan. He does it all."

  "Satan." I expected this. It was a pleasant feeling to be able to predict God. "Have you ever seen him?"

  "What do you mean? Why would I ever see him?"

  "In all this time there was never an, I don't know, battle? Meeting? Coffee? You know, splitting up domains? Nothing?"

  "No," God stretched the word out in hesitat
ion.

  "Wasn't he an angel? Lucifer? The Morning Star? Wasn't he the essence of goodness until he turned?"

  "Some angels rebelled, it's true. But it was an internal affair. The angels took care of their own."

  "Yet, being omniscient and omnipotent, omnipresent even, you've never seen Satan? Worse, you don't know why you black out or what happens when you do." I smelled the kill. I sensed God's fear. My pencil feverishly traveled over the three letters in my pad, eating through the paper to the next page. MPD. "Every time you black out, something bad happens. And since you yourself can't do anything bad, I think--"

  "What do you think?" God leaned closer to me, hanging on my every word. And I thought I was just a mortal.

  "I think you created..."

  "I think that's far enough." God cut me off. Only it wasn't God. Well it was, just not the one I've been treating. There was just something different in his eyes. MPD – Multiple Personality Disorder.

  "You're..." I started.

  "Yes I am. And you are far more intelligent than I've anticipated. I always underestimate mortals. Just look at Exorcist I, II and III." He chuckled. At least the sense of humor was intact. He leaned on my aquarium where I had tropical fish swimming and the water turned to blood. I also smelled brimstone, or was it my own piss that was traveling down my leg?

  "You stumbled on the secret, now you must keep it."

  "I... I can't lie to God!"

  "People do it all the time. Every minute, every day. It's no big deal." He waved His hand dismissively.

  "No!" I screamed defiantly.

  "This is very self-righteous of you. You know, not making deals with the Devil, and all that. It's just very impractical." At that moment Gabe popped his head in. God help us, he had war-paint on.

  "Did you call me, boss?" He looked to God/Satan.

  "Yeah, there's this thing in the Middle East. I think you know what must be done." Gabe left, mumbling how it's always the Middle East. I groaned inwardly. That's another five sessions right there.

  "What did you just do?" I demanded, meekly.

  "Set things right. See, things are in balance in this world. Nothing's fully good or evil. The old man," He said and pointed at himself, "he can't handle it all Himself. If there was just God, without me, the world would end. He created me just to save Himself the pain of doing bad things. He created me to keep good and evil apart. But in essence, it's still Him doing it, all of it."

  "You don't exist! You are a piece of God's fragmented psyche. An imaginary friend!"

  "We all are. The entire world is. But enough of this psychobabble. Because of His nature, He" - for some reason he pointed up, probably just habit - "can't do certain things. I have to be here, otherwise everything goes to hell," he paused for a moment, "pardon my pun." I stood wide eyed. "There are two things you can do. One, tell God what's really happening to Him and have Him tie you up for the next few millennia with an unsolvable dilemma, all the while chastising Himself for all the 'evil' He did. Two, is keep your mouth shut. Tell Him it happens, it's not a problem. In exchange I promise you Heaven."

  "Heaven?"

  "Do you think you're in Heaven now?" He shook his head sadly. "Your woman, your cigars, your Wall Street Journal, they're all neglected. You have everything you ever wanted, but you can't enjoy it." I stared blankly. "Come on, you don't really think my imagination runs only as far as frying pans and fires, do you? You don't sleep nights, you tear your hair out, you have the likes of Gabe and Moses at your door. You have this little dilemma to deal with now. Betray God's confidence or not? Condemn him to an eternity of divine repentance, or lie to a patient? My friend, this is true Hell."

  I looked to the lake, and the girl was coming my way - hips and tits swaying harmoniously. I looked to the fire where a fresh kettle of Turkish coffee was brewing. I smelled the Cuban cigars. Cupid was delivering a new crisp Wall Street Journal. My armchair and my comfy slippers waited.

  "You look like you have a hard time deciding." He fished around his pockets for a moment. "Here." He pressed a silver shekel into my palm. "Hell, Heaven, good, evil... they're two sides of the same coin." I dumbly stare at the ancient coin. "We have a deal?" Satan smiled fatherly, almost as God had. "What do you say?"

  The coin spun in the air.

  An Excerpt from

  ASHES OF HEROES

  Book One of the War of Regret Series

  By Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan