We all live an enormous, cosmic, delusion. It could be a cosmic-level prank, for all I know; a malevolent ploy set in motion with the conception of Man.
Needless to say, I am not amused.
I never believed in God. At least, I disdained the idea of church, the Good Book, or that believing in Jesus will save me from an eternity of torment. I valued reason and intellect, and I used these values to dictate the course of my life. Even so, I was heavily influenced by what I believed to be philosophies of irrefutable logic.
I stumbled upon a quote by Albert Camus in highschool. Camus was an Atheist, but followed a philosophy of counter-existentialism:“I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn’t, than live as if there isn’t and to die to find out that there is.”
The sentence was simple and almost poetic. To me, though, it had harrowing implications. I conducted research into the idea, and read about something called Pascal’s Wager. It reinforced Camus’s harrowing concept with a deeper philosophy. Pascal stated: “let us weigh the gain and the loss in wagering that God is. Let us estimate these two chances. If you gain, you gain all; if you lose, you lose nothing. Wager, then, without hesitation that He is.” Essentially Pascal is saying that life may be construed as a game, or a gamble: every living individual participates, and every living individual goes all-in. No exceptions.
The rewards are as sublime as an eternity in Heaven; the penalties, an eternity in Hell. At the very least, you have nothing to lose. Therefore, though I didn’t necessarily embrace the existence of God, I definitely acted as if He, indeed, existed. I had nothing to lose, everything to gain, and zero qualms over the dictation of my life.
Now, one could spend a lifetime discussing the minutiae of “good” and “evil.” We COULD start with morality; morality, though, is subjective. It is influenced by culture, society, and one’s place in history. Ethics is a beast of a subject, encompassing such philosophy as merits an entire collegiate-level course-load. It culminates in nothing more than a semester’s worth of memorization, and, oftentimes, more self-doubt than what one began with. I believe that Ethics and Morality endeavor to answer the question of “what is right?” They tend to veer away from the question I considered to be more quintessential: what does it mean to be good? In my mind, Righteousness was subservient to Goodness.
God is universally considered righteous, yes; however, God is also considered the epitome of goodness. God was compassionate, forgiving, and accepting. God, and what He expected of us, was intrinsic, irrefutable, unabashed goodness.
It was within this frame of mind that I found tranquility. Whether God existed or whether the soul existed, I vehemently believed in leading a good life: I held doors for passers-by; I always kept change in my pocket for the needy who accosted me; I never turned down a friend asking a feasible favour; I actively donated to charities; I even babysat my ex’s daughter, Maria, whenever the ex felt she needed a night of debauchery with the girls. Some might call me a chump; I liked to think I was building credit.
If Heaven and Hell were the final destinations of our mortal coil, I was positive I had nothing to fear in that regard. I floated through life, wrapped in my self-assured philosophy. It didn’t matter what job I had, or the state of my relationships. I felt I had discovered the Golden Ticket to everlasting peace. I had it made. I was happy; I doubt 1% of the population could say as much. The irony was that the human condition was not subservient to the conditions of one’s philosophies. The irony was, no matter how “good” you were, you were still subject to the vicissitudes of fate.
So entered the man everyone referred to as Rats.
I often volunteered my time at a local shelter, helping out where I could. I was in the soup kitchen, ironically serving soup, when a homeless fellow everyone referred to as Rats entered the lineup.
Rats had been a denizen of the streets for as long as anyone could remember. He was usually non-verbal, and tended to keep his eyes downcast. He kept himself apart from everybody, disdaining any forms of social interaction. Nobody knew his real name. The homeless community called him Rats as he had a tendency to feed and foster the rats often found in back-alleys and dumpsters. He would pocket bits of bread, or fruit, and use that to feed the critters. It’s as if he replaced people with the skittery vermin as a social community. He was typically considered harmless, though, and was a regular figure in the kitchen.
He made it to my station, and I moved to serve him. As I was ladling his portion, somebody bumped me from behind, causing me to stumble and spill some of the hot liquid over the edge of the bowl onto Rats’ worn out once-white sneakers.
“Oh, no, I’m so sorry! Here…” I handed him a handful of nearby napkins. “Please, I apologise. If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”
Rats stared down at his feet. He just…stared, unmoving, unblinking, for a tense, awkward eternity. He then looked up, meeting my eyes; staring, unblinking. I was taken aback; not just from the eye contact, but from the blazing vehemence I saw nestled in them. I didn’t know what else to say. All I could do was try to swallow the sudden lump in my throat. Rats slowly turned, and started moving down the lineup, never breaking eye contact until he reached the next station. I don’t know why, but his sudden shift in demeanour had shaken me.
I finished my shift and prepared to leave. I always made a point of leaving through the back door; I felt drained after these volunteer sessions, and tried to avoid people when I felt like this. I began meandering through the dark alley. The loud clatter of what sounded like a kicked can made me stop short. Rats stepped out from behind the dumpster.
He started walking, slowly, a measured pace, staring at me, unblinking. I was still unsettled from his earlier demeanour, and the hair on my neck tried to stand when I met his eyes. He was muttering, gibbering, and I could make out his words as he drew closer.
“…needed help! To help the rats that need help helping me to get away! They’re angry with me! Oh so softly, they’re angry! I’m dirty! They gave me these feet! The coverings! The rats! You wretched man! Wretched, wretched man! Wretched! Wretched!”
He kept chanting that word, in time with his steps, voice rising in pitch with each utterance. I knew I was in trouble. I realised with mounting horror that the earlier mishap had triggered him.
“Rats…Rats, buddy…I didn’t mean anything by it… Rats!”
But it was too late. I wasn’t prepared as Rats sprinted the last ten feet. I had a glimpse of white plastic as he stabbed me, low in the gut. Pain lanced through me as he stabbed me again, again, shrieking “MY FRIENDS!” and “WRETCHED!” with every thrust.
Rats stepped back, breathing hard. I slumped to my knees, looking down. What looked like a sharpened toothbrush protruded from my gut.
“Rats…” I croaked.
Rats stood statue-still, head tilted, as if listening to something. His head gave a violent twitch; he turned and sprinted away down the alley.
I need help! I need to call for help!
My arms were weak; I could barely move them. I managed to fumble my phone out of my pocket; It dropped from my rapidly-numbing hands.
I slumped backwards. I couldn’t find the strength to move. I felt the pain, the blood, the shock creeping in. My eyes slid shut. Help… I pleaded. I couldn’t seem to get the word out. Help me…
Darkness took me.
***
I need…need to call for help…
Cold. I felt cold. But I didn’t feel pain. I could hear something. Water, maybe, in a slow steady *drip…drip…drip…* nearby. I felt groggy. Eyes. Open my eyes. After an eternity, my eyelids responded to the electrical signals I kept sending them. Slowly, my eyes opened. My vision took a minute to come to focus. I could see…stone. Square-cut rough-hewn stone; I was in a small room made out of large, heavy, stone blocks the colour of clouds heralding a tornado. They were wet; water dripped from the ceiling, causing that steady *drip*. Water condensed on the walls and pooled together, sliding down the featureless grey stone.
I looked down at my belly; no blood. No pain. I realised I was sitting upright in a chair made of some sort of deep red wood. There was a table in front of me, or a desk, comprised of the same red wood, and another chair. There was also a door opposite me, behind the table, dark red wood.
What the fuck…?
Where was I? Wasn’t I just dying in a back-alley? The disorientation was so strong it almost overwhelmed me. The *drip…drip…* beating a slow rhythm to the racing of my heart. Before I could get my bearings and even hope to make sense of what was happening, there was a knock at the door. It cracked open, and a man stepped in. At least, my mind interpreted the figure as a man. He was tall, very tall; he must’ve been seven feet tall or more. He wore a crisply tailored business suit, black-on-black. His tie clip and cufflinks were so black they seemed to glow with the antithesis of light. But his face…
I don’t know if the all-black attire was meant to accent the pallor of his skin or if it was just a matter of personal taste. His skin was white. Snow-white. So white it seemed to be made of marble. He was bald, with too-large jet-black eyes and irises that seemed almost pinpricks. He had no nose, just two slits centered between the overly-large orbs. And he was smiling. He was lipless, the slit of his mouth was set in an unsettlingly wide smile. His gums were the exact shade of grey as the stone that surrounded us. His mouth contained only four teeth top and bottom; they were so enormously wide that they bridged the entire width of his impossibly wide smile. Unbidden, I thought of the midway game, where you have to shoot the teeth out of some grotesquely-smiling clown; I couldn’t look away. He (*it?)* began to speak; I heard his words in my mind, not my ears. The gaping smile didn’t move.
*Good even’, Mr. Jameson! Welcome!*
The joviality of his… its… voice… was sickening. I hesitated a moment, buried in uncertainty, before deciding to respond.
“Um…g-good…evening…um…sir. What’s…what’s going on? Where…am I?”
The thing’s body began shaking, and I heard a phlegmy wheezing in my head; it took a second for me to realise it was laughing. It can laugh… I thought. The human-like reaction unnerved me more.
*Oh! Mr.Jameson, you are the truest of amusements! Please, refer to this one as Gregory!* It moved one hand in an “after you” gesture.
“…Gregory…?” What the fuck?
*Yes! Gregory! Or Grigory! Or Gregorio! Or, simply, Greg! Just don’t call this one late for dinner!* Its tone was that of the over-exaggerated actor’s voice you heard in early-fifties sitcoms. I felt it was trying hard to emulate what it considered a human conversation.
“Is that really your name?” I was incredulous; I couldn’t believe such an entity could have this mundane human moniker. It tilted its head, considering me. The smile dropped to a flat line; it seemed a little irritated.
*No. It is a human name that this one chose; the one that most delighted this one. Greg’s real name is-
And an EXPLOSION OF SOUND entered my head! It obliterated any sense or thought or memory! It sounded like an old-school dial-up internet tone mixed with a banshee shriek and nails on a chalkboard but DIALED UP so loud I felt it in my teeth! The…”name”… lasted only moments; it took maybe ten minutes for me to recover from the aftershock of its presentation.
Shuddering, finally able to see, to hear, to exist, I crawled back up into the chair, panting. The thing’s smile returned.
*You see! That’s why you shall now call this one Gregory! Or Greg. This one likes Greg! Greg is neat-o, burrito!*
I could only nod. I fully understood.
“Ok…um…Greg. Where am I?”
*Congratulations! Your physicality has been rectified! You’ve been re-embraced by the veil and returned to the primal essence!*
I looked at Greg blankly; his smile seemed to grow wider.
*You have died, Mr.Jameson! Congratulations!*
What…? I thought. I died? I’m…dead?
Rats; that street vermin’s ferocious attack on me had actually succeeded in ending my life. Rats had “rectified my physicality.” That rat bastard…
I felt bitterness, rage, shock, panic, despair, terror…all at once. I risked collapsing again.
To avoid losing myself, I focused on forming words:
“So…what…” I had to swallow. “What now?” I croaked.
*This one is here to adjudicate the balance of your collective spiritual value!*
I stared uncomprehendingly.
*This is your Final Judgement, Mr.Jameson. This one is here to decide whether you go Up-* Greg lifted a finger, pointing to the ceiling *or…Elsewhere.* It pointed its thumb downward.
The last word practically seethed with nefarious implication. I could hear the capitol. I felt a tingle, a slow rush. This…this is what I had been preparing for my entire life! I had put all my chips, bet everything, on Pascal’s Wager, and… I had won! I actually smiled a little.
“So. Greg. How does this work?” I was almost smarmy with confidence. Greg raised a hand that was suddenly holding a manilla file folder; the folder was quite thin. Greg opened it. It appeared to be reading. *This is so fucking weird,* I thought. *But…good god, I had won the wager!*
Greg seemed to be taking his time. However, I began noticing that the longer Greg read, the more its obscene smile drooped. I heard a mental exhalation, which could only be interpreted as a sigh, and Greg took the chair opposite me. My elation had quieted to terse anticipation. Greg closed the folder. It rested its elbows on the table, laced its fingers together, and leaned forward, looming over me. Its frown seemed to radiate waves of disappointment.
*After much consideration this one has come to the conclusion that you, Mr.Jameson, only qualify for…Elsewhere.* It turned a thumb downwards, and froze. It frowned there, unmoving, statue-still and observing me.
For what felt like the umpteenth time on this surreal journey, I was stunned stupid.
“Else…Elsewhere? Down? Hell?! I’m going to Hell?! *What the actual fucking hell, man?”*
Greg held his downward-pointing pose a few moments more before resuming its laced-finger consideration.
*The Statistician is never mistaken, Mr.Jameson. It seems that, though the majority of your actions have been interpreted as good by the universal morals accepted by the individuals you interacted with, it appears the motivations behind your actions were inherently tainted. Everything you did, every action you took, was meant for yourself. Not a good action was taken without the essence of selfishness stiffening its core. It is, how do you say, The Good Place rules.*
*True goodness is selflessness. It is acting in the right because it is RIGHT; not to hedge the outcomes against a cosmic…What do you call it..? Ah. A gamble. You treated the life you were gifted as a trite novelty. Now…you pay the price. This one will ensure you get what you deserve.*
No no no no no no no… I began panting; I was hyperventilating! This can’t be this cant be this cant be….
“This is wrong! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be! This isn’t fucking fair!”
Greg’s smile grew. It grew, and grew, and grew, until the four-teeth rows turned to 6, then 8, until it seemed its smile wrapped around and met at the back of its head! It chuckled, then; not in my head, but a real, throaty, hungry chuckle. Greg reached for me, and I screamed and screamed and-
*FLASH* For a fraction of a second, my vision went white, and my whole body jerked; Greg paused, rictus smile turning downward in a dissatisfied frown.
*FLASH* Again! My whole body twitched violently, for the briefest of moments.
Greg stopped moving, his frown now a grimace. He moved an arm, one finger extended, towards me, hovering just over my hand.
*FLASH* Twitch!
*Mr.Jameson…* The finger pressed down on the back of my hand; a searing pain radiated from it as if a brand had been pressed to my flesh!
*FLASH* Twitch!!
*I’ll be seeing you again. Real soon.* He smiled again.
*FLASH* TWITCH!!
Everything went dark.
***
Cold. I was cold. I felt wetness. And…pain. Oh, God! So much pain! My stomach and… God, my hand too! And voices, slowly sharpening into coherency.
“…-‘s back!”
“How’s the bleeding?!”
“It’s slowed; he’s lost a lot of blood but we have a pulse!”
“He’s gonna need surgery! Call ahead to book a room! What the hell happened to his hand, though?”
Voices. Human voices. I opened my eyes, and saw that I was inside an ambulance.
“Mr. Jameson! Everything will be ok! We’re paramedics who will take care of you and help you!”
I croaked out two words with a weak smile: “Not…Greg…”
Darkness took me yet again
***
Apparently, they were able to keep me alive long enough to reach emergency surgery. I barely made it through the surgery, but somehow, I held on by the skin of my teeth and survived long enough to begin healing. As I woke up for the first time in my hospital room, muzzy and groggy and barely able to process being alive, the attending nurse exclaimed in excitement.
“Mr.Jameson! Welcome back! Somebody up there must like you, eh?”
I stared at her with unamused consternation and managed a weak “go… to hell…”
***
Healing took a long time. Physical therapy took even longer. They said the wound on my hand was akin to a severe chemical burn. After what felt like an eternity, I finally, finally, walked back into my apartment; my home. The healing had occupied my entire existence up till now. At the moment, though, I was musing on my experience with Greg. Sitting down on my bed, I lost myself in thought. I was fucked. No matter what I did, it seemed as if I were destined for Elsewhere. The joke wasn’t lost on me, but I didn’t feel like laughing. I sighed in resignation, in acceptance. I made my decision.
Opening my bedside table, mindful of my wounded hand, I rummaged around, digging to the bottom, digging for what I hid there. Grasping the handle, I pulled out the uncannily long Bowie knife. Some nights, I would often hold it, fantasising; I would revell in dark daydreams that had no place in the life of a good man. I started laughing.
Knowing what I know, knowing where I was eventually headed, I laughed and felt a burden lift off my shoulders; it seemed I could stop feeling guilty for my darker urges, my taboo impulses; it seemed that, finally, I could let myself go.
With the wound claiming testament to my experience, and testing the edge of my knife, I laughed, trying to decide who would be the first person I sent to meet Greg.