Let the Sinners Sin


The Apocalypse has happened. God's people have been taken to Heaven. The sinners have been left behind. The young have been left behind. Some are working to salvage all that remains. Some regret. Some are bitter.

Tick-tock, baby, tick-tock. Your time is runnin' out. Fifteen minutes. He's still sitting there when the figurative clock hits sixteen minutes, and the guy is still babbling. Un-fuckin'-believable.

Time... it will not stop... Seventeen minutes. Tears, all too many tears. His mother always weeps hysterically during this particular part of the sermons. They all do, every last one of them, the blubbering gits. Why can't they understand that it's over?

There's no time! Eighteen minutes. The End, the so-called "It," had already come and gone. You're not on the train? Oops, too late.

You've wasted it all. Nineteen minutes into the lecture, he walks down the dimly-lit aisle past the weeping sinners, and smacks the pastor. The balding man's monotonous sentence ends in a shriek, and now he isn't talking in monotonous sentences, but attempting to screech Scripture and grab at him. Much better. Sir Bald's congregation doesn't seem to notice the abrupt and slightly painful end of the sermon, but carries on moping in what-ifs and could-have-beens.

Nothing. Void. Oblivion. Not even Time. By the twentieth minute, he's long gone, and so long, and thanks for all the fish. Douglas Adams. Very cool guy, but probably rotting in Hell at the moment. Or is it burning, he muses.

Some of the more dramatic artists like to paint Hell wreathed in flames and Satan enjoying what must be an eternal sauna.

Hardly anyone reads good books these days, mostly because all those authors of said books are most likely wallowing in feces or whatever other forms of torture they have down there. (No, I bet Dante's down there too, he adds as an after-thought.) Never had a good book been made that followed the strict confines of God's narrow world views.

Yes, that's right, narrow world views. At age seventeen, just a mite under the blessed golden age of eighteen, he was left behind. That in itself was and is not the problem. Not at all. He didn't and doesn't like this God person anyhow. His mother was and is still the problem. She had converted to Christianity after his dad had died. And even when filled to the brim with love and faith, she was still always off-kilter, something he couldn't put his finger on, and it just gnawed and gnawed at her like a black decay, until the Day came.

The Day came, and the Day went, and she was still here on Earth. She's come undone. She prays five times a day. She doesn't eat pork or shellfish. She goes to church everyday. She weeps bitter tears that leave her face stained and old and weary.

He doesn't know why she cries, sometimes to his dad, sometimes to God, and sometimes she just cries. All he knows is that it's so wrong for someone like her to pray and weep and receive no response from a supposedly kind and benevolent God.

But it's okay.

Because he never believed in God back then anyway, and now he knows God's just a bastard.

Back then, school and his mother's love was enough.

Here and now, he still loves his mother and school hasn't been in session for two years (a fact which he is grateful for).

Sometimes, secretly, he wonders if his mother still loves him.

But it's still okay.

Life goes on, they say, and so it does. He smacked a lying pastor today (that sonabitch obviously didn't follow what he preached if he's still here), and now he'll probably waste away the afternoon vegging out at the arcade, and maybe tomorrow he won't get into an argument with his boss at work. If there is one constant in his life, it's sure to be his woman-boss chewing him out for being late or for putting too much sugar in her coffee or for not stacking the boxes just so.

Author's Notes: This was yet another RPG application. Yeah, I do those a lot.