Misdiagnosis by Evan Kaiser

Misdiagnosis by Evan Kaiser

“Check it out: I am the LORD, thy freaking GOD.”

“Check yourself out. Out of my damn head, already!”

Stanley Fozawicz had been jousting with this, his latest phantasm, for two full weeks. Every few hours it struck — when Stanley was trying to eat. Or on the toilet. Or while typing another email to his idiot neighbor. And while Stanley had honed a fine skill in snuffing out the typical paranoid claptrap of voices past, this one beguiled with promises of untold riches, immortality, and the like. Entertaining! But recently the thing had segued to divine pretensions that had long outlived their expiration date. Stanley had had enough.

“You’re a laugh riot, Stanley. I am the GOD of your fathers.”

“So you’re GOD, are you? Go ahead and prove it!”

This latest eruption had caught Stanley in the middle of a kitchen repair. Teetering on a step stool, Stanley peered round the room in an ostentatious hunt for his dialogist. But the voice in his head offered no response.

“Thought as much,” said Stanley, returning to his task and screwing in the last of three cabinet door hinges.

After stowing the stool and screwdriver, Stanley fixed himself a lemonade. Then he sauntered to the den to settle into an overstuffed armchair and gaze out the window at his quiet, midsummer neighborhood. Active hallucinations might render him unemployable, but they’d never again threaten his sense of reality. Ultimately, Stanley knew all the voices in his head were bullshit. He took his meds. He listened to his psychiatric nurse.

I see through you, Bub.

A thunderous bang in the kitchen right then scared him witless, and he spilled his lemonade.

He jumped to his feet and flew back to the galley. There, he found the just repaired cabinet door on the floor. The hinges lay nearby. The screws were strewn everywhere, as if they had jumped away of their own accord.

“What have I done?” Stanley cried.

“What have I done, you’re better off asking,” said ‘GOD.’

“Impossible!”

“Not for GOD, Stanley.”

Stanley scoffed.

“I did a lousy job, that’s all. I’m a sick man, and you distracted me.”

“Did you insert tiny springs on timers inside each screw hole, to eject each, simultaneously, across the room?”

Stanley ignored the point.

“It fell apart because I didn’t tighten those screws enough,” he said, even as he ran up the stairs to his medicine cabinet for an extra quetiapine.

“That’ll only make you sleepy, Stan.”

“Shut up.”

“Lucky for you, your Lord GOD is slow to anger. I require your services, Stan, and I’m on a tight schedule. Chasing down someone completely new at this point would set me back considerably. But I understand you’re a twenty-first century man, oblivious to reality, so I’ll extend you some slack. So tell me, what more do you need to believe I’m the one true GOD?”

Stanley trudged back down to the kitchen.

“Slow up,” he said. “Services? What does that mean?”

“First things first. I asked a question.”

“Kill me, introduce yourself, and bring me back to life. Easy peasy.”

“Stan, Stan. Rules are rules. And I’m afraid dead is dead.”

Stanley pulled up a chair at his kitchen table and crossed his legs. He was having fun.

“GOD should be able to do anything,” he said. “What is it about ‘omnipotence’ that I’m not getting?”

“We’re all subject to the parameters of space-time, Stan. Speed of light. Entropy. You see, the latter…” At this point, ‘GOD’ launched into an extended lecture on the thermodynamics of death.

Stanley grinned.

This guy is interesting. A product of my own imagination, sure. But way better than that CIA-radio-waves-through-my-teeth-type crap.

“Again…” he interrupted when the chance arose.

“We’re wasting time,” said ‘GOD.’

“Can’t you just alter my brain chemistry, so I…”

“Let’s not re-litigate every apologia of the last two millennia, Stan.” ‘GOD’ adopted a mocking tone. “No, I can’t just alter your brain chemistry.” Then he resumed a mildly amused, if impatient, register. “Free will, Stan. Be serious.”

Stanley laughed and scratched the side of his nose.

“You have an awful lot of limitations for a GOD.”

“Not any ‘GOD,’ Stan. GOD. Lord of hosts. Most High. Alpha and Omega.”

“Okay. Let’s try this. You must know what I’m going to say before I say it, correct?”

“Every last thing. Of course.”

“If I flip a coin a hundred times and you guess right…”

“Anticipate accurately.”

“Fine. Yeah. ‘Anticipate accurately.’ Then…no, that won’t do. That could just be a magic trick.”

“Are you serious? By whom? A voice in your head? What’s the contrary hypothesis here?”

“Myself! Tricked by myself!”

“I’m getting ready to smite you, Stan.”

Stanley laughed again.

“Give me a chance, oh Might One!” Stanley paused, then brightened. “I know!”

Stanley hopped down the stairs and pointed out a window.

“Make that pine tree twice as tall, now.”

“You’re pointing at an Eastern Redcedar, or Juniperus virginiana.”

“Whatever.”

“You have to understand the species’ natural constraints in order to appreciate the miracle.”

“What’s your point?”

“That tree is already at nine-tenths its maximum height.”

“Again with the restraints!”

“You’re bad at this, Stanley. Ask for something in your world that you really need. That you’ll appreciate.”

“I gotta think about it.”

“I’ll give you a day.”

& & &

Stanley woke with a brainstorm. He blurted it out while still sitting at the side of his bed.

“Okay, how ‘bout this? I’ve got a perennial problem with water damage in my basement.”

“I am aware.”

“So, can you fix it?”

“‘Can I fix it?’ Please. In two days,” it said, “check your mail.”

“My mail? What are you talking about?”

But ‘GOD’ was, for the time being, through. Later that day, Stanley shared the vague outlines of his auditory hallucinations with his psychiatric nurse. He also admitted to extra quetiapines. The nurse approved the Seroquel and upped Stan’s clozapine to boot. He — the nurse, that is — left Stanley confident the ‘GOD’ was history. Though thoughts about his soggy basement lingered, they were easily wrangled.

I’m in charge. Me and fate — nothing else.

If his basement rose like a phoenix from its moldy depths, celebration would be due, and he’d write it off to coincidence. If not, then he’d defeated yet another voice. It was a win-win.

The next two days zipped by in silence. ‘GOD’ had apparently been conquered.

& & &

On the second day, Stanley flipped through his mail, afraid of what he might find. When he fell upon a telltale, oversized envelope, he placed it on the kitchen counter and paced. After convincing himself that nothing within could prove anything one way or the other, he tore it open with a shaky hand and stared in disbelief.

On offer was free, ‘one hundred percent guaranteed’ basement waterproofing. In return? Merely his permission to display the finished cellar in an ad campaign. The letterhead read Bone-Dry Basements, followed by a PO box address in a nearby town. Lilith Smorgio, the CEO, signed her name beneath the punchy text. A lopsided smiley face buttressed her ornate signature.

Two days. Check the mail. Just like he said! Damn. But, shit…no way. No way!

As he dialed the firm, Stanley addressed the of late close-mouthed ‘GOD.’

“You there? Comments?”

‘GOD,’ though, stayed mum.

We twiddled the clozapine dial, and he vanished. And he’s still nowhere! So, no. It is coincidence. My mind playing tricks. Stay rooted, Stanley.

& & &

A flunky from Bone-Dry Basements snooped around the next day to make sure Stanley’s basement fit their parameters. Then, the following Monday, a crew arrived for what was projected to be a five-day job. The team comprised half a dozen shady characters. Stanley kept out of their way, hanging out on his backyard deck. Mostly, he snoozed on and off. But on the fifth and final day, he roused himself from a nap in the afternoon and spied on his loathed neighbor instead.

“The guy who never waves,” he recalled as he gazed through a pair of binocs at a couple of kids stealing pears from the fellow’s prized tree. Stanley still harbored resentments against the gentleman for imagined insults dating back forever — though he’d have been hard pressed to name them.

“Better they should eat pears than candy,” he said to himself.

It wasn’t long before the neighbor emerged to chase the rascals. The man stood for a while, staring at the fruit-denuded tree. Then, shielding his eyes, he turned toward Stanley, not fifty yards away.

Stanley laughed and waved. The bald, gangly chap didn’t return the gesture, as usual.

“He looks kinda angry,” said Stanley, neither lowering the binocs nor relaxing his sneer. Eventually, the gentleman dropped his shading hand and stomped back into the house. “I hope they killed your tree for you, you dick,” Stanley mouthed silently, laying the binoculars down on the nearby porch table.

But Stanley soon lost interest. He turned his attention to the clouds and planes and plowed through an entire bowl of reconstituted tortilla chips. He nodded off. Later on, a Bone-Dry Basements worker tapped him on the shoulder to tell him they were finished.

This bloke, who went by the name of Bart Gura, was a hairy, bowlegged gent with a pronounced tic of the right eyelid. He let Stanley know that Ms. Smorgio and her promotions producer would be by in the morning.

Then he led Stanley downstairs to check out the job. The rest of Gura’s team had already taken off.

“Good job, I have to admit,” said Stanely. Gura acknowledged the compliment with a curt nod.

“We’ve installed a sump pump, as you can see.” The worker squinted and scratched his left armpit.

“Is the one enough?”

“Yes sir. You’ve only got three hundred square feet down here.”

“Uh huh. And you’ve replaced the drywall, I see.”

“We did.” The guy’s tic went into overdrive. “Painted white. And the ceiling, see that?”

“Yes. Fine job. Fine job.”

The man narrowed his eyes.

“Fine?”

“Yes, absolutely. Fine. Great.”

The man appeared to relax. He shivered like a wet dog and Stanley escorted him back upstairs.

“I’ll be back with Ms. Smorgio at eight,” Gura said, as he let himself out.

Later that evening, Stanley tested the waters again.

“Where are you? Safe to say I’d have heard from you by now if ever. Agreed?”

Just before bed, he tried again.

“Knock, knock, Bub. Hellooo! Anyone home?”

Yup. As I thought. Coincidence. My basement’s dry because fortune smiled upon me. Period.

Stanley skipped his quetiapine before bed. It had been leaving him groggy during the day, and what did he need it for, anyway? ‘GOD’ was gone.

I’m a-okay.

& & &

Lilith Smorgio and her promo deputy, along with Gura, arrived ten minutes early the following morning.

“So glad to meet you, Mr. Fozawicz! How’d we do?”

This lady is smokin’!

A stunning redhead, Smorgio, even in overalls and work shoes, oozed hotness. She extended her hand and Stanley shook it like a man. An enthusiastic man. Everyone stared until Smorgio managed to extricate herself.

“I’ll take that for ‘really well,’” she laughed.

“Sorry. Yes, that’s fair.” Stanley blushed.

“And this is my advertising VP,” said Smorgio, not missing a beat. “Mr. Horusian, Mr. Fozawicz. Mr. Fozawicz, Mr. Horusian.”

Smorgio’s myrmidon avoided Stanley’s gaze and shook his hand reluctantly. Splotches marred his face. He limped into the house behind the others.

“I never inquired,” said Smorgio, blindingly white teeth flashing behind ruby red lips. “May I ask — how’d you get our name?”

Stanley’s two other guests stood awkwardly in the foyer, shuffling their feet.

“I didn’t,” answered Stanley. “Your mailer arrived out of the blue.”

Smorgio chuckled.

“That seems unlikely. There must have…oh, right, okay. I remember now. No worries.”

“The service was free, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I let you film the basement and we’re done?”

“Yes.”

Well, yeah — it wouldn’t have been magic, would it? Even ‘GOD’ said he follows the rules. So how was it done, I wonder?

Suddenly curious, Stanley probed, “You’re saying this is a mistake? Like, this deal isn’t supposed to go to anyone without connections?”

“Pretty much. But don’t worry about it. A deal is a deal, and the job’s done. You’re all set, Mr. Fozawicz.”

“Maybe I have a secret benefactor.”

“Since someone always covers our costs, I’d say so, yes.”

“But who…?”

“I wouldn’t even know. Anyway, let’s have a look at the finished product and plan the commercial, shall we?”

Despite Stanley’s relentless poking and prodding, Smorgio remained unforthcoming. Horusian framed his shots with Gura’s help, Stanley posing with their boss.

“So that’s it?”

“You bet, Mr. Fozawicz! This’ll make an excellent spot on the local cable channel.”

“I thought there’d be a TV crew or something.”

“No, no. Pics are all we need. Editing on the desktop, you know. Enjoy your new basement!”

And with that, the three characters departed. Stanley watched them drive away in an all-electric Hummer.

“Seek, and ye shall find me.”

Ah, shit.

“Now you show up?”

“Thought I was gone for good, didn’t you?”

Maybe I did.

“No, no. Not at all.”

“Sure you didn’t. Well, you’re not the only participant in our little passion play, Stanley. I’m GOD. Wheels within wheels.”

Well-titrated doesn’t mean cured. I’m the same sick guy I always was, but stable. Probably a mistake to skip that Seroquel. Oh, well. But look, I’m not going to decompensate totally from one missed pill! I still know this ‘GOD’ character is bullshit, don’t I?

Stanley scoffed, nervously, and trundled into the kitchen.

“Did you hear me last night?”

“I did. You’re ‘ready to sign off.’”

“Right. But look…”

“Sounds right. We had a deal.”

“I know, but I…I…just want a better idea of what I’m getting into.”

“So do I, as a matter of fact.”

“Huh?”

“After you sign on the dotted line, we’ll get to know one another in depth, I do believe.”

“After?”

“Correct. First, you must submit. I’m GOD. Fair is fair.”

A parchment appeared on the kitchen island. Stanley reached for it, and his hand passed right through. Sparkling and translucent, it was, nevertheless, perfectly legible.

Be it herby declared that THE LORD, having fairly and patiently communicated, in all its relevant particulars, his identity, and the expected role and duty of STANLEY FOZAWICZ is empowered henceforth and forever to command said MR. FOZAWICZ according to THE LORD’S predictable requirements.

signed,
master: THE LORD
obedient servant:

“Sign where it says, ‘obedient servant,’” said ‘GOD.’

“How can I…?”

“With your finger. Isn’t that how they do it nowadays, anyway?”

“And then?”

“Then a trial run. To check out our new arrangement.”

“I dunno…”

“Stanley. What’re your alternatives? If I’m not real, as you suspect, then what harm is there in signing? If I’m real and you don’t, however, then I will regard that as reneging on a solemn promise, and I will smite the shit out of you.”

Silly. I could take it or leave it, but, yeah, why shouldn’t I? I’m still basically well-compensated, in control. It’ll be a good story for the shrink. Where will my mind take me, after all? It’s an adventure!

Stanley pointed his finger and pantomimed his signature. The contract disappeared.

“Very nice!” said ‘GOD.’ “Now, tell me — what’s your deep down, most burning desire? What bugs you the most in the entire universe?”

Now, that’s a GOD-like offer if ever there was! This will be fun!

“That’s amazing! Thank you! Give me a second to think of something.”

“Take your time.”

Stanley paced and cogitated. His ideas began in humdrum fashion.

A billion dollars? A beautiful wife? High office?

But Stanley didn’t get away with skipping that pill after all. His diseased id was way too feral for that, and slipped the leash. Mere wealth, lust, and power left him cold. His mind took a darker, more immediate turn.

That dirty dog next door. I’m gonna fix him, but good this time.

And just like that, Stanley’s unhinged mind ran free. The promise of retribution was too alluring. Reason fled.

“I’ve got it! How about, umm, you infest my next-door neighbor’s house with, umm, ha ha, frogs! NO, roaches! NO, wait…rats! That’s it! Rats! So many, they literally pour out of his garage so I can see ‘em!” Stanley paused. “You know who I’m talking about, right? That guy over there.” Stanley pointed.

“Of course I know. How inventive! Hilarious! Stanley, I’m impressed. We will make an excellent team.”

I was wrong. This guy’s the real McCoy!

“Thanks, GOD!”

Stanley positively skipped into the kitchen. He prepared some popcorn in the microwave and pulled up a chair in front of his western-facing window, binoculars at the ready.

This is gonna be great!

He stuffed his mouth and waited.

& & &

Two hours and two hefty packages of popcorn later, the pot stirred. His foe with his wife and kids finally pulled into the driveway.

“Show time,” whispered Stanley.

The car disappeared into his garage. Stanley giggled with excitement. He focused his binocs and scanned the windows, the patio, the yard, even the roof.

Let’s go, ratties! Come on, my beauties! Where are you?

The neighbor’s front door opened. Out popped a worried-appearing, middle-aged woman with two girls, a disheveled tween and a younger, pudgier one in pigtails. The neighbor stuck his head out and said something, triggering a heated exchange. Then the woman screamed and fled across the street with her children, where an anxious, older couple took them in. Stanley’s neighbor watched until they disappeared. Then he hung his head and reentered the house.

And, with a holler, leaped half a foot in the air. His curses reverberated down the street.

“This is so awesome!” said Stanley.

Before long, rats emerged from the chimney. Then they started squeezing out from under the garage door.

“Hey, GOD! Thanks!”

Stanley laughed out loud at the hilarity of it all when gunshots rang out.

He blinked in surprise and then jumped at four more blasts in rapid succession. Glued to the window, he then sat through a brief pause, followed by an extended fusillade. A bedroom window on the back of his neighbor’s house shattered.

Stanley ducked and retreated. The faint shadow of civilizational standards and even feebler echo of right and wrong wafted over Fozawicz’s witless soul.

“Hey, GOD, thanks for everything and stuff, but can we turn it off now? Ha, ha. Someone’s gonna get killed!”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

More shots rang out. Stanley flinched.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“Look…”

“This is exactly what you asked for.”

“He’s got a gun!”

“Not my fault.”

“I never wanted this. It’s out of hand!”

“Not yet, it isn’t. Now, Stanley, I want you to call the cops. Tell them your neighbor — his name is Derek Matheson, by the way — chased his wife and kids out of the house and is now firing a rifle out the window. Go on, do it.”

“Right! Good thinking.”

Stanley jumped to attention and punched in 911. The police arrived in force, led by a SWAT unit. They set up a barricade with their vehicles next door. As Stanley faced questioning in his kitchen, the cops outside ordered his neighbor to surrender.

“I’m not sure he can hear them,” pleaded Stanley to the uninterested officer sitting across from him.

“Why wouldn’t he?” she asked.

“Because he’s distracted.”

“By what?”

“Rats.”

The cop laughed.

Stanley persisted.

“His house is overrun with rats!”

“How do you know?”

“Um, I thought I saw one.”

“How do you get from ‘one’ to ‘overrun?’”

“A few, I saw.”

“How many? Where?”

Suddenly, a torrent of gunshots disrupted the interview. The policewoman ran to the window to investigate. Stanley followed and peeked alongside.

The SWAT team had struck. EMTs rushed through the front door.

A lone rat skittered across the porch.

Minutes later, the EMTs reemerged, stretcher in tow. A body lay on the litter, fully draped. The SWAT team swaggered behind. The cop in Stanley’s house wore a radio, and it now crackled with numbers, commands, and queries.

Matheson’s family hurtled out of the house across the street and attached themselves to the stretcher. The wife wailed and the kids moaned. Stanley’s stomach turned.

Another rat appeared. It slipped from one shrub to another along the side of the house.

“Did you see that?” asked Stanley, turning his attention with relief to something other than Matheson’s corpse.

“Yeah, no more active shooter. You’re safe.”

“Not that! I mean the rats.”

The officer shot Stanley a quizzical look.

Stanley turned away in disgust — and with foreboding. Having abandoned his skepticism, he stood yoked to a ‘GOD’ who was damn real — but a nasty piece of work.

Suddenly, an explosive, squeak-inflected thrumming assaulted their ears. He rushed back to the window to find a scene neither he nor the cop at his side could totally grasp.

Thousands of rats poured from under Matheson’s garage and front doors, even as thousands more surged out from around the back of the house. After a few seconds, the garage door rose of its own accord and a veritable tsunami of rats cascaded forth, streaming toward the cop cars and SWAT van.

A stream of rapid-fire orders and pleas issued from the police radio. Meanwhile, the cops across the way, the rats swarming all over them, discharged their weapons indiscriminately. Uniformed and tactical officers staggered out into the street under blankets of writhing fur. One hopped in a cruiser and tried to drive off, crashing into a utility pole. The cab of the SWAT van filled to the brim with rats, and the windshield splattered red. Rats entered and exited from bodily orifices, corpses twitching as they did so. Ultimately, the radio noise quieted to a hiss. Stanley’s interrogator finally stuttered a call for backup. She had to repeat herself three times to be believed.

Every last rat then disappeared into a nearby wood.

The policewoman wandered out of Stanley’s house in a daze. Soon, hundreds of cops of every description descended on the neighborhood, erecting barriers and carting off bodies. Stanley closed his shades and hid out in the basement as TV crews rang his doorbell and rapped on his windows. It was long past dark by the time Stanley ascended back to the kitchen to fix himself a small meal.

“I never wanted that to happen,” he said as the toaster worked its magic on some stale bread.

“But I did,” answered ‘GOD.’

“Why?”

“My ways are mysterious.”

Stanley buttered his toast and wondered how far to push the issue.

“I…I feel I’ve been deceived.”

‘GOD’ laughed.

“Don’t forget our agreement. You signed on the dotted line.”

“The nature of our negotiation was…not…transparent.”

“We negotiated over a period of days. I fulfilled my promises, and you acknowledged as much. Your acquiescence was explicit.”

“You threatened to ‘smite’ me, as I recall.”

“So?”

“So, if you’re going to stoop to threats, why bother?…”

“I’m a citizen of my universe. I don’t rampage willy-nilly where I’m not permitted to do so. Your John Hancock was required. Now I have it.”

“Citizen? Permitted? I thought you were GOD.”

“I am the LORD! Better believe it!”

“I detect a tweak.”

“No tweak — just time and space. I told you. Rules. Goes for everybody. Understand?”

“Not exactly.”

“Let me elucidate.”

A second later, the worst itching of Stanley’s life overcame him. From scalp to sole, it was as if a hundred midges skittered over second-degree burns. Tears spurt down his cheeks, and his maniacal scratching was entirely futile. He fell to the floor, blubbering surrender.

The itching stopped.

‘GOD’ didn’t bother declaring victory. He didn’t have to. Stanley, utterly despondent, sat on the floor, unmoving, for a long while. Eventually, he prepared a simple dinner, only to throw it away in revulsion. He aimlessly surfed the web, then dozed off near midnight. A nightmare seized him. In it, he fled through a labyrinth, racing from something inchoate and sinister. In the wee hours, he woke in a cold sweat. Then he stared at the ceiling until dawn.

& & &

“Arise, votary! I command thee!”

It was sunrise, and Stanley had been awake for hours. He shot out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet.

“Listen carefully.”

‘GOD’ led Stanley through a new dosage regimen. Quetiapine was out. Clozapine was in. Lorazepam would be regularized — twice every day.

“The quetiapine was helping a lot. I don’t think I should stop it.”

“You doubt me?”

“Of course not.”

“The clozapine and lorazepam will take care of you. Don’t worry.”

Stanley pinched his lips and stared. Then he popped a clozapine and a lorazepam and closed the cabinet with a sigh.

“Please. Tell me who you really are!”

‘GOD’ chuckled.

“I am the LORD. What more do you need to know?”

“Your name. Who are you really?”

“I’ve gone by hundreds of names through time — the list is confusing, to be honest. What’s wrong with GOD?”

“Yahweh?”

“No.”

“Jesus?”

“No.”

“Ahura Mazda?”

“No. Just stop, Stanley.”

“Just tell me. Are you…the Devil?”

“What’s that? Silly man. Shut up, already! Bathe! Eat! There is much to do!”

Stanley navigated through his morning ritual. He shoveled a bowl of cereal down his gullet and then carried a cup of coffee to his computer. Click, click through the email. One was a message from…Him.

The Devil? He didn’t say no.

To: [email protected]
From: Your LORD
We’re ready, Stanley! Your task is to be revealed this very day! Go! Kneel before your western wall and beseech me! I will ANSWER!

Stanley knew better than to resist. He sighed, put down his cup, and got on his knees facing the bookshelves opposite the computer. He raised his palms to the ceiling.

“I beseech thee. Oh LORD. Like that?”

“Exactly.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Watch the news, much, Stan?”

“Never.”

“Maybe you should. Today was a test. I’ll call again when I need you. Couple o’ weeks. Stand by.”

Stanley checked the news.

Is it any different than always?

Even Stanley, though, detected a foul miasma drifting through events depicted on his screen. Riots. Assassinations. Wars on every continent.

Something was up, and Stanley wanted no part of it.

He devised a plan.

& & &

Stanley stopped all his meds.

He did so furtively, as if a CCTV camera were trained on his every move. He mouthed the drugs and spat them out with faux coughs and sneezes. This ‘GOD’ of his depended upon fastidious dosing of his medicine, it appeared. Well, then Stanley would discombobulate the bastard by disjoining all pharmacological shackles. But Stanley was blind to how psychologically precarious he was. He aimed for chaff. He achieved chaos.

‘GOD’ was now replaced by a howling mob — an overwhelming cacophony of voices. The players in his head went from zero to legion. Nonsensical. Disorienting. Painful. Absolutely exhausting. Sleep became impossible, bathing a chore, and dressing each morning an unsolvable puzzle. Messages from his shrink-nurse piled up unanswered. Eventually, a social worker showed up at the house. Stanley cowered in a corner and wouldn’t answer the bell.

And for all that, the gambit ultimately failed.

“Knock, knock,” said ‘GOD’ after three weeks of Stanley’s self-inflicted torture. “Can you finally hear me?”

‘GOD’ had apparently found a way to subdue all other voices to a dull roar.

“Damn. What do you want?”

“Not happy to hear me? Gotta admit, that was a clever trick. Took me a while to figure it out. You knew I would eventually, though, didn’t you? Of course you did! Anyway, am I coming in loud and clear now?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good. And if you think you’ve otherwise made yourself useless to me, you’re dead wrong. You’ll do even better the way you are, actually. Now put on some clothes and take your medicine. I’ll walk you through it. You’re headed into the city.”

Stanley’s disorganized mind had barely accommodated essential toilet usage the preceding three weeks. But ‘GOD’s’ mere cadence dredged up a vibrant recollection of extreme agony and drove immediate compliance. Fozawicz did as he was told.

Piloted step-by-step by ‘GOD’s’ familiar intonations, he took the rail into Boston’s South Station and found his way to the Common. A massive crowd behind an array of sawhorses and other barriers choked the walkways. The jostling infuriated a disheveled and baffled Stanley, but ‘GOD’ soothed him.

“Remember, I’m in control, Stanley. Just do as I tell you.”

“But what’s happening?” asked Stanley.

A real live person at his shoulder responded, “the President and First Lady are visiting the mayor. They’ll be out on the Capitol steps soon.”

A middle-aged woman nearby said, “some government thing. Maybe the secretary of education, I heard.”

Another person nearby corrected her.

“Not the secretary of education. The goddamn President.”

Someone else said, “both.”

An argument broke out. There was shouting. The words exchanged on the sidewalk melded with the background conversational buzz in Stanley’s head. He clapped his hands over his ears and wandered away toward the Capitol building.

“Good job getting away from those plebs, Stanley. You’re a star. But pay attention. Listen to my voice.”

Stanley was bewildered and dissociating freely. But he was hanging on ‘GOD’s’ every word. And he could detect a change in tone.

Frustration?

“I don’t like where this is headed,” said Stanley, discovering a power to resist despite mercilessly disorganized thoughts.

It was now that the previously smothered conversational buzz in his head swelled. Then crystallized back into distinct actors. Dozens.

One said, “buy us some time.”

“I…I…don’t…know…what…,” Stanley stuttered, turning in circles and rubbing his head. But his understanding advanced as he teased out faint voices — voices urging perseverance, warning him not to listen to the Other, asking for time.

“Relax,” said ‘GOD.’ “Come. Over here. Take a peek behind this trash can.”

Stanely stopped circling and, still critically fearful, obeyed. In the grass, at the foot of the garbage bin, lay a pistol.

“No!”

“Careful now, Stanley. Not no — yes. Pick it up. No one is looking. Do it now.”

Stanley lifted the gun and turned it over in his hand.

“It’s a Glock 23, Stanley. Decent range, I understand.”

“No-no-no-no-no. This really you. You-you. Please? No.”

“Meds are taking their time to kick in, aren’t they? Remember what we said about doing what I said? So listen to me — stow the gun in your belt at the small of your back. Excellent, Stanley! Now, resume your progress. You’re almost there.”

Stanley set off again toward the Capitol building. Along the way, the crowd thickened. Chatter correspondingly swirled around him, mixing with the voices within, and Stanley lost the thread. Who was outside? Who was inside? It was an undifferentiated hubbub, and Stanley was back to square one. Precious time had been lost, and he had made to within the last hundred yards of the Capitol building before the voices in his head finally again clarified. Their panic now was unambiguous.

“He’s going to make you shoot the President,” said one. “Stop!”

“Who?” asked Stanley.

“Who are you talking to?” asked ‘GOD.’

“Nobody,” answered Stanley.

“Never fear!” chimed in a new participant. “We’ve got your back! Stand strong!”

“But who-who-who?” Stanley asked, plaintively.

“We don’t know, but he isn’t GOD!”

A chorus erupted in Stanley’s head.

“Don’t believe him!”

“He’s someone, we cannot tell!”

“Know him by his deeds! You mustn’t!”

Cheers. Huzzahs. Stanley stopped in his tracks.

“What do you think you’re doing, Stanley?” asked ‘GOD,’ impatience manifest. “Time’s a’wasting!”

Stanley didn’t respond this time. The flurry of vocalizations simply had him bewildered. ‘GOD’ grew irate.

“You asked for it!”

An exact simulation of white-hot iron melted over Stanley’s head. But before he could even open his mouth to scream, it disappeared.

“What’s going…. Who?” blurted ‘GOD.’ Nonplussed, he hesitated for a moment.

“Oh, I see. Pretty bold, assholes!”

A sound like feedback tore round Stanley’s head, and he fell to his knees by the Frog Pond, on the side opposite that of the Carousel. He wasn’t far from the Capitol. The crowd gave him a wide berth as he rocked back and forth and muttered to himself.

A battle was joined, invisible to all but Stanley.

& & &

The crowd swarming toward the Presidential address at the Capitol swirled around the crazy man as if he were in the eye of a hurricane.

Where? Where is this place?

Stanley watched.

A battle force of hundreds assembled. The soldiers assumed many shapes. Those most humanoid — the majority — stood twenty feet tall and flew like blazingly swift, wingless raptors. They bore what resembled bronze-age weapons, but for an otherworldly magenta glow.

Other warriors were even more astounding to behold. One entire rank, for example, resembled a line of living chariot wheels, pulsating with blood-red energy. A scrum of multi-eyed orbs floated above them.

The leader of this motley battalion was of the humanoid type, spit fire, and radiated blinding white light from head, hands, and feet.

Opposite a small rise in the pockmarked plain, One stood to face them all.

He is! Must be! My-my-myyyy! GOD. Not GOD! I see now!

The object of everyone’s ire, he who stood at the center of the battlefield, who exuded dominance and demanded attention, had to be Stanley’s ‘GOD.’ HE could be no other. Yet how could such a being be GOD?

The figure resembled those who opposed him. But he shone from head to foot in near ultraviolet. His naked scalp writhed as if it overlay a den of snakes. He snorted and bellowed.

If he wasn’t the one true, grade-A certified Devil, he was someone from the same neighborhood.

He summoned his legions.

An opposing army erupted onto the field of battle, like instantaneous redwoods. They safeguarded their commander in their thousands.

Stanley, to his horror, recognized three of these hounds from hell, towering individuals who formed a defensive triangle nearest ‘GOD.’ A giant version of Lilith Smorgio crouched in a cloud of red dust that obeyed her every gesture. Bart Gura loomed as a two-ton gorilla with humongous fangs and hands as big as human heads. Harusian kneeled in the rearguard like a prehistoric cave rat, sharp-tipped tail and razor-sharp claws at the ready.

Oh, I have! Look what! A chance though!

But Stanley, through his psychotic haze, sensed the dismal odds. Thousands versus hundreds.

The armies collided. Belligerents paired off into a myriad of titanic, isolated tussles. At first, Stanley’s bête noire evaded combat. But the moment didn’t last. An avenue to his person opened, and the fire-breathing captain of the other side immediately claimed it, directing a gale-force exhalation with pinpoint accuracy. Flaming spittle enveloped the purple figure’s head and torso, but the incendiary saliva sizzled out harmlessly.

Roaring with exasperation, the incendiary warrior then threw himself at his foe, and they slammed into one another like two mountains. A series of savage clinches followed. The fiery captain bellowed. The ‘GOD’/Devil howled.

Finally, Stanley’s ‘GOD’ spun behind his adversary. He clasped the other’s muscular neck in the crook of his arm and squeezed. The fire-breather’s face bulged larger and larger until the internal light dimmed and fire shot from his ears and eye sockets. He flushed pink. Then deep red. Purple, even. Then his head exploded.

Gloppy, putrescent slime showered everywhere. The purple figure dropped the decapitated being to the ground, swiped some of his opponent’s residue from his own cheek, and sucked it off his finger.

“Scrumptious!” he said, closing his eyes to savor the treat. Then he locked eyes with Stanley, who hadn’t realized he was visible, and cowered. “Can you believe they’d send freaking Hasmal to oppose me?”

“Uh…umm…”

“Oh, never mind. What do you know? Go. Get back to work.”

As the battle’s momentum shifted toward what even Stanley realized were Forces of Darkness, the picture grew cloudy. Something drew Stanley backwards, up and away, out of the dimming scene.

He woke back on the Common. No one paid him any mind — after all, he was just one of, by then, millions of vagrants roaming the nation. Stanley got back to his feet, dusted himself off, and surveyed his surroundings.

Should I wait? Do we know? Maybe.

Faint screams from the combat zone wafted to Stanley’s consciousness, and he wavered. But the crowd carried him forward, and the Capitol building was near. Without words to shape his thoughts, Stanley still sensed the ineluctable defeat he had witnessed in another place.

I know. Nothing for me. What must, must.

And then he was there.

Beacon Street was closed to traffic. Stanley fought his way through a dense crowd, past the 54th Regiment Memorial, toward the steps. It was no mystery who had tagged the Secret Service agents with bright orange coronas for his eyes only. Stanley effortlessly avoided the officers and silently cursed his benefactor.

The President approached the podium. Other notables arrayed themselves above and behind him.

At this last moment, Stanley resisted one final time. Backpedaled, even. But white-hot spikes poked between his shoulder blades, and an inchoate promise of unrelieved joy beckoned him forward.

He swung out the Glock, hopped a barricade, and ran toward the dais. He fired three times in quick succession. The last bullet traversed the President’s face and exited the nape of his neck, lodging in the mayor’s wife’s left thigh. They tackled Stanley and hustled him away.

Screams. Sirens. Panicked commands. Stanley heard none of it. It would be weeks before he surfaced from a deep catatonia — a reward for a job well done.

& & &

The Feds got first crack at Stanley Fozawicz, of course. He was denied bail while his court-appointed lawyer fought for a competency hearing. Meanwhile, medications were titrated to best effect. His mind cleared. Stanley freely shared his proximity to, and to his mind his guilt for, the Matheson fiasco. His fantastical internal dialogs and cosmic war stories rivetted the psychiatrists. He fit a profile, and his sense of right and wrong was, if anything, exaggerated.

A trial date was set. Inside the prison, anonymous threats circulated. They hustled Stanley off to solitary confinement for his own safety.

 & & &

The President died after six weeks on life support.

That night, ‘GOD’ spoke to Stanley in his solitary lockup.

“Now the fun begins,” ‘GOD’ said.

“Fun?”

“Oh, yes. You’ll never guess what’s in store!”

“I’m medicated now. No more voices. I thought that included you.”

“Bullshit. The other voices are gone because they’re dead. As for me, you know full well I’m the real McCoy.”

“I’ll tell you what I know. I know you’re an evil bastard. You made me…you made me do what you made me do! Enough! Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Evil? This from the man who cursed his neighbor. With glee. You killed Derek Matheson, Stanley.”

“No, that’s not….”

“The point, Stanley, is you have not the slightest clue about outcomes past the tip of your nose, and so are in no position to judge good versus evil. Leave that to me.”

“Who are you? If you were the Devil, you’d admit it. Revel in it. Wouldn’t you?”

“Your question betrays a woeful ignorance. Does the phrase ‘we are legion’ ring any bells, Stanley?”

“I saw your legions.”

“Yes. Those are my legions. In addition, however, I am legion. Look. I don’t expect you to comprehend any of this, and I grow bored. The take-home here is I’m real, and the President is dead. As for what’s coming, stand by.”

“Stand by for what?”

But whatever the hell he was, he had again gone to ground.

& & &

A week later, riots swept the nation. Stanley’s prison caught the fever. A melee snowballed, and Stanley found himself on the lam with a dozen confederates. One night in the woods, his Master spoke again.

If Stanley strained, he could almost see him, looming malignantly in the shadows.

“Holy shit. Is that you?” said Stanley.

“Not yet.” The diaphanous form hovering in the woods disappeared. “But the time for my corporal arrival is almost upon us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Fool! What do you think?”

Stanley trembled.

“I mean to complete my conquest of the Earth!” continued the Entity. “My intrigues, deceptions, strategic hits — you name it — proceed apace around the globe. Mobs pillage capitals. Murder and mayhem rend societies. Governments disintegrate. Now listen — the winter solstice is ten days away in the northern hemisphere. That’s when I arise.”

“I know you’re the Devil. Why can’t you say it?”

“Idiot. Because I’m not.”

“But…”

“You’re wrong. I told you I’m legion. I’m everything, Stanley. You’d slap some meaningless moniker like ‘evil’ on most of what I am. But that more reflects your primitive understanding of the cosmos than anything consequential. GOD and the Devil, Stanley — we are one and the same. Brahman, if you will. The Hindus were more right than wrong.”

“Then how…what?”

“Forget it. Fate forges ahead irrespective of your made-up moral delicacies. Now, let me ask…”

“But why me? For that matter, why anyone? You’re just making all this shit happen, aren’t you? Why this conscripted service charade?”

“The narcissism of your kind never ceases to amaze. I direct many such as you, Stanley, all over the world. Thousands. Why, you ask? Simply this — because I need perspective. As I’ve explained, my complexity and depth are orders of magnitude beyond your own. Humans are as impenetrable to me as amoebas would be to you, had they fears and desires to puzzle over. Frankly, Stanley, without your brain — and those of others like you — to work through, people would be indistinguishable to me from gibbering baboons.”

“Others like…you mean psychos?”

“I believe the term is ‘neurodivergent.’”

“If we’re that…debased, why bother with human beings at all? Surely there are other…”

The Supreme Being interrupted with a growly sigh.

“Here we go again with this crap. Listen, Stanley, sorry to disappoint you, but you’re the only game in town. Talk about baboon reasoning! — confabulating a universe teeming with so-called ‘intelligence.’ Your kind of intelligence, naturally. Oh, sure, you think you’re defining ‘intelligence’ broadly. But you lack the imagination even to conceive of your own limitations. So, of course, your ‘intelligence’ must be the inevitable conclusion of all evolutionary arcs. Well, Stanley, it isn’t. The acme of spiritual genius I represent is impossible for organic life. And the nutso parody of actual acumen harbored in human brains is an accident — a singular accident. But pathetic as they are, humans are conscious — that’s the threshold, and they’re the only ones around.

“Pity me! I’ve had to wait for this one pathetic species on this one miniscule planet to ripen — for ages! Do you have any idea how long it’s been? Of course you don’t. Nearly fourteen billion years, Stanley! Can you imagine? Me? With my legions within legions? With all my energy, waiting for stars and galaxies and planets and the bloody Earth, and stupid people? But here we are — the critical moment has arrived. My appearance on the solstice. How would you say? I need to ‘nail the landing.’ The endless weeks inhabiting your brains have generated their own answer, of course, but I want to hear it pass your lips — how would you do it? A final deception? An act of savagery? Faux beneficence? Critical spin?”

Stanley said the obvious.

“I’d suggest a GOD makeover. Ditch the ambiguity. After all, that’s what had me going to begin with.”

“But you’re only a single, and quite ‘unusual,’ man. Explain how this tactic translates to the world at large.”

“Fine. With the world in a chaotic state, it’s exactly what people are looking for. GOD. You’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand.”

“Correct.”

“That was a test, wasn’t it? Confirming my honesty and loyalty.”

“Can’t pull the wool over your eyes! Yes, Stanley, and you pass.”

Stanley lowered his head and raised his hands in supplication.

“Expect me on the solstice,” said the Nameless One. “That is all.”

Stanley began counting the days.

& & &

December twenty-first, Stanley awoke with the sun. He stepped out into the forest mist, surveying the tents of his nasty compatriots nestled nearby. The dozen fugitives had stuck together, as it was clear no organized manhunt was underway that would argue for disbandment. On the contrary, their major security concern was the state of global anarchy, and the consequent thieves and militias roaming the surrounding countryside. Stanley’s band of vicious felons was a hard target as long as they maintained their unity.

Stanley was nervous. He didn’t know what role his GOD/Devil had in mind for him and feared it would not be survivable. When the morning’s avian chorus suddenly fell silent, he knew his Master was about to speak.

“Announce me at nine AM,” said the Supreme Being.

“They all know I’m sick in the head,” answered Stanley. “They’ll just laugh. Or kill me, even, if I persist.”

“Figure it out.”

Stanley shivered. Utter doom hid behind every door. He stared at the trees and kicked the dew-covered moss.

“Good morning.”

A fellow escapee had snuck up behind Stanley, giving him a start. His name was Harold, and he had been serving ten to twenty for aggravated assault and bank robbery. One of the few Stanley knew by name.

“Same to you,” answered Stanley, distracted.

“What’s buggin’ you, Stan?” asked the felon. “You gonna be sick?”

“No, no. It’s just that today is the day, I’m afraid.”

“What day?”

“I mean, okay, GOD is coming, Hal. Today. For real.”

Harold stared at him. Stanley glanced at his watch.

“Fifty minutes from now, Harold. For real.”

Harold cut a laugh short at Stanley’s wooden expression.

“You’re serious.”

“As death.”

“I thought we grabbed your pills when we split. You been skippin’?”

“No, man, I swear. It’s just. Look. I got an idea. Wake everyone up. Fifty minutes. Right here. I’m gonna show everyone…umm.”

Harold rolled his eyes.

“Forget it,” said Stanley with irritation. “I’ll do it myself.”

Stanley marched from tent to tent and shook everyone awake. With ten minutes to go, angry whispers filled the air. Stanley hoped everyone was merely pissed-off at his having waked them — and not strategizing how best to off him. Predictably, none had assembled where he told them, instead just milling about throughout the encampment. Stanley kept a lookout for close-in threats and obsessively checked his watch. Alone in front of his own tent, he plopped down into a folding chair with seconds to go.

Don’t be late, you sonofabitch, or I’m a dead man.

The dozen outlaws, many armed, coalesced around Stanley’s tent. He sensed them drawing closer. His skin crawled.

& & &

In the nick of time, the appointed hour arrived. Stanley raised his right arm and announced,

“Behold.”

The Entity appeared in a cloud of glory. Twenty feet high and floating in the air, his makeover was manifest. Snow-white beard — check. Flowing white robe — check. But he still smelled bad.

The menacing buzz evaporated. The mob forming at Stanley’s back stopped in its tracks. Jaws dropped.

Someone in the audience tittered. The Being bellowed, reached into the crowd, grabbed the impudent chap, and crushed him like a grape. The poor fellow’s semi-liquified remains oozed between ‘GOD’s’ fingers like jelly.

“Sit down!” the Entity cried as storm clouds gathered.

The eleven remaining fugitives planted their butts on the grass. A handful sobbed. A few smirked. Stanley folded his hands and waited.

“I am your GOD,” said the ‘GOD’/Devil. “Ye shall have none other before me.”

Those assorted psychopaths and miscreants not sniveling in fear nodded approvingly.

“This here is my lieutenant, Stanley Fozawicz,” continued the Being, stroking his beard. “Take note — his commands from this point onward are as my own. Also, I have made myself known at millions of sites across the globe today. Millions! The world is mine. Questions?”

A bloke in back with an old scar across his jaw tentatively raised his hand.

“Lower that hand before I cut it off! Lucky for you, sir, I know you to be an uncontrollable wild-man, well worth preserving. There will be no questions! Fools! Do as you’re told and survive. Okay, that’s enough. Stanley, take over.”

The Entity disappeared.

Stanley stood.

“Today is the day we split,” he said. “The LORD…”

Men yelled objections and hurled abuse in Stanley’s direction, drowning him out. The Entity reappeared and killed the angriest dissenter by separating the top half of his body from the lower. The resulting silence was absolute. This time, the Being folded his arms across his chest and lingered translucently behind Stanley as he spoke.

“…Listen,” he said with a sigh. “GOD directs you to crisscross the land, wreaking havoc. Take what you will, where you will. There is no law but GOD’s, and that law can be expressed in one word — chaos. Now go. Get out of here before someone else gets hurt.”

Men slowly rose to their feet and stood for a moment, staring at the treetops or the ground — Stanley guessed they were hearing interior voices. Eventually, they all wandered off.

& & &

Mere weeks later, the ‘GOD’/Devil, or one of his millions of manifestations, sat on a throne in what used to be upstate New York. Stanley stood at his side, notebook in hand. He surveyed the bedlam playing out before him — fires raging, a city in the distance in ruins, a bloody river choked with garbage and…bodies. Murder and mayhem played out everywhere.

“LORD?”

“What is it now, Stanley?”

“How do we know everyone is obedient? That your regime abides?”

“Stop babbling. My reign is chaos. Behold!”

“Yes, but how do we know our rule is intact if there are no commands being issued and obeyed?”

“I am secure in my domain.”

“Of course you are. But we — not you, but us, I mean — we grow soft, I fear. What if we’re attacked?”

“By whom?”

“Aliens, maybe?”

“What did I tell you?

“That there is only Earth — nothing resembling intelligence…”

Here, the Entity smirked and made air quotes as Stanley droned on.

“…exists anywhere else. But what of eternity, Lord? Over time…”

“Nothing’s sneaking up on me, bug. Now go jump into that orgy over there. I’m starting to wonder if we’re on the same team.”

“Sire! There are at least a hundred people in that scrum!” As Stanley spoke, the mob flung a naked corpse into a nearby ditch. And he noticed one particularly ugly focus of activity within the larger group. “My GOD! They’re raping that poor fellow!”

“Excuse me?”

Stanley realized his error too late. He had had intimated something — anything — might be wrong.

“Sorry.”

“Stan, you’ve been my number one. But if you don’t shape up soon, your days are numbered. Now leap in. I promise they won’t kill you, okay?”

Stanley gulped and joined the bacchanalia, even now not understanding who he was serving.

He couldn’t grasp that an entity both good and evil was necessarily evil. Because good is absolute. And evil is its absence.

The Devil — let’s call him that! — dozed. Stanley lasted three minutes before he was torn limb from limb. When the Devil awoke, he was momentarily vexed to find his factotum missing. Then he stomped off to find a new one. Anyone in the world, now, would do.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Evan Kaiser 2023