Fiction
The God Problem Solver: Part 3
Beginning of the descent
The story so far: Down-on-his-luck petty criminal Eddy came up with his retirement plan. He would pose as God online to fleece gullible Airtasker users of their possessions. So far he has replanted some rose bushes and be-friended an adulterer. He hopes the big payday is coming soon…
Max was true to his word. He hadn’t held back on the Airtasker reviews. Eddy scrolled through the comments, reading the best ones out loud to Zorro.
‘Spawn of the devil.’
‘Godless moron.’
‘This one might be my favourite, God is a diseased deadshit from the wastelands of wankerville. Trust him like you would a politician.’
All up, MadMax69 had created another 37 profiles and all had left zero-star reviews.
‘It’s tall poppy syndrome,’ Eddy said to Zorro. ‘Remember all the stick you copped for The Legend of Zorro? That was Antonio Banderas’s career highlight, but no-one would admit it.’
Eddy’s mind wandered as his fingers tapped away the familiar rhythm on the wealth creation button. His dreams of the beachside cottage had never felt further away. Most people would give up.
His father would have given up. He died of heart disease at 52. On the back end of a bender, he lay down to sleep in a motel outside Brisbane and was found by the cleaner the next morning. His mother said they couldn’t afford to have the body sent back to Sydney, and there was no way she was catching a plane or driving ten hours in February heat to go and say goodbye to a man she never loved.
Eddy hitchhiked his way up, arriving hours after the state funded funeral with zero attendees. They told him they had scattered his ashes over the azalea bushes in the north-western corner. Eddy found the bushes, shrivelled and wilted from the summer sun. He unzipped his fly and urinated all over them.
‘You winning?’
Andre’s voice jolted Eddy back to the present.
Eddy considered the question: he’d been called a loser his whole life, he lived in a boarding house with recovering drug addicts and recently released prisoners, he had less than a hundred dollars to his name, and a family history of heart disease and early onset dementia looming in the next decade.
But he had a dream. And that was more than most.
‘Things are looking up,’ he replied. ‘How bout you, big fella?’
‘Good news and bad news. Good is company is looking at restructuring, and job I hate with all my heart and guts may be made redundant. Bad news is if I get fired Renae squeeze my testicles so hard I will lose ability to sire any further children.’
Andre paused, drained half his soda in one large gulp. Eddy could smell the vodka — at least a double.
‘How is playing God?’ Andre asked.
‘Oh, it has its ups and downs. You gotta remember, it took them a while to see Jesus as the real deal too.’
Eddy’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting another review from MadMax69, but instead saw he had received a job request through Airtasker. His eyes struggled to read it in the gloom, so he held the phone close to the glowing lights of Zorro:
I need help. My son’s life is in peril. Only a messenger of God can save him. Success will merit great financial reward.
Eddy’s eyes widened. He read the message a second time.
‘What happen, somebody finally match with you on Tinder?’
Eddy looked up at his friend Andre. Zorro’s voice told him to keep this one quiet. For now, at least.
‘I wish! Nah, bloody Centrelink. They’ve lined up another three job interviews for me: shopping trolley collector, food court table cleaner or — Jesus Christ — parking inspector.’
Andre whistled. ‘Man, as if you not already despised enough!’
He slapped Eddy on the back hard enough for his brain to bounce off the back of his skull.
The ride to Sydney’s lower north shore took longer than Eddy anticipated. Google’s estimate of one hour twenty must have been for Lance Armstrong with four litres of EPO pumping through his veins. By the time he crossed the Harbour bridge and reached the steep hills of Mosman, his legs were screaming. If he didn’t stop cycling immediately, they would self-combust and leave his legless torso to crawl the rest of the way.
Eddy closed his eyes, tried to picture the rolling waves he could see from the window of his cottage along the rugged Victorian coastline. It helped. His legs piped down; his breathing settled.
The blare of a horn shocked his eyes and ears open.
He had drifted into the oncoming lane, and a Mercedes bore down on him like a front rower on a line break. Eddy managed to avoid the collision by heaving his bike towards the curb. His front tire hit the gutter at an angle not conducive to climbing, and his purple Breezer catapulted him over the handlebars. Eddy slid along the footpath on his stomach, the rough concrete like a cheese grater on his palms.
He rolled onto his back, panting, and stared up at the night stars. He wondered when any would shine down on him.
After a minute's contemplation — in which no-one came to check on his welfare — Eddy dragged himself up and walked his bike up the hill to his destination. 45 Beauty Point Road was a sprawling Victorian Mansion, well secluded by huge hedges and conifer trees. He lay his bike against a marble head the size of a garbage bin and swung the brass knocker on the front door.
The first sign of trouble was the appearance of the man who answered Eddy’s knocks. A shock of grey hair sprouted from a face pulled too tight. It made the eyes bulge out of their sockets, and jagged cheekbones threatened to slice through papery skin. Despite this, he still had the body of a weightlifter: rangy arms knotted with muscle, and shoulders bulging against the frayed fabric of his pajama top.
‘You have stigmata,’ the old man said to Eddy.
‘Huh?’
The old man cast his eyes down to the marble-floored entranceway, and Eddy followed them to see fresh drops of blood pooling on the stone. The grazes on the palms of his hands were leaking. Eddy wiped them on the back of his trackies and made to apologise, but the old man knelt and made the sign of the cross. Eddy returned the gesture, and added a double fist bump on his heart for good measure.
‘I’m God. I’m here about your son.’
The old man nodded. ‘Come.’
Eddy followed the old man through the entranceway and several high-ceilinged rooms. The old man opened up a wooden door next to a wine cellar and flicked a light switch on the wall. Eddy saw steps descending downwards. The crazy old bastard actually had a basement.
Eddy followed him down the stairs.
Read on for Part Four, the finale.