“Welcome home, Judas.” A deep voice comes from the other side of the room.
From the vicinity of the pool table that’s there. It’s his father, naturally. He stands beside the table, dressed in a charcoal suit, of Edwardian vintage I believe, pool cue in his hand, chalking it. As I’ve mentioned before, he’s a very handsome man, very distinguished. Classy, even. His son most definitely takes after him. But even more handsome. Positively gorgeous, Jesus is, without a doubt.
I lick my lips before I reply. Death has a tendency to dry them out. FYI, a tube of Chapstick won’t go amiss when you’re packing for the next life. Just saying.
“Thank you.” I rise to my feet, gaining my sea legs, so to speak. Nothing a little bit of blood circulation won’t cure. God knows how long I’ve been lying there, time is immaterial in this place. My head pivots eagerly, but I fail to see the object for which I search. Perhaps he’s in his room. This is different from the way it usually goes. Usually I’m the first to arrive, and I’m there to greet him upon his own arrival. But surely he’d do the same for me? I’m definitely confused, and more than a little disappointed.
He indicates the rack of pool cues that sits upon the wood-paneled wall of this elegantly furnished room. Like a gentleman’s smoking room, it is. Very nice, I guess, if you like that kind of thing. “Choose one, it’s your shot,” he tells me.
Apparently he’s just missed his own, I wasn’t watching very closely.
Not that I want to play, but sometimes it’s just better to go along than make waves. I choose a cue at random. Approaching the table, I do a quick assessment of the ball situation. I see six stripes, one solid. “What am I playing?” I ask, although I suspect I already know.
“Stripes.” Figures.
All right, I tell myself, let’s play this his way. There’s no rushing him, and I damn well know it. I chalk my cue, considering my options. And whether I actually want to win or not, or lose gracefully, quickly. I’m thinking the latter, as long as I can do it without being too obvious. “Are you calling the pocket, or am I?”
In answer, he uses his stick to point to the side pocket. “Six ball, there.” Well, that answers that. And naturally, the ball in question is being protected by the eight ball. Lovely.
Oh well, I didn’t really want to play anyway. I aim my stick carefully, making a bridge of my fingers, take aim, and shoot. And damned if I don’t hit the black eight ball directly into the pocket. Automatic loss. What a shame.
“Where’s Jesus?” I’ve waited long enough, now I’m asking.
“You did that deliberately.” No judgment, simply a fact.
“I know. Where’s Jesus?”
He regards me without answering my question immediately. “I thought you always play to win, Judas?”
“Depends on what the stakes are. Sometimes losing can be winning, if you know what you’re doing.”
“Do you know what you’re doing with my son?” His eyes are directly focused on mine; His words sucker punching me, although I should’ve been prepared. Not like I didn’t think He knows already.
“Where is he?” I repeat, neatly sidestepping the question. For now. I’m prepared for any answer He might give me, from flat-out refusal to say, to more questions. But His actual words floor me.
“Jesus isn’t here.”
“What?” I can’t have heard him right. He should’ve arrived before me, that’s how this works and I know better.
“Jesus…is…not…here…” He repeats, slowly, as if He’s addressing an idiot savant. Which would be me.
“W-why not?” I hate it when I stammer, and it doesn’t happen often, but it’s happening now, and I’m disgusted with myself for doing it.
“Because he’s still there.”
His words wash over me, and it takes me a few seconds to let them actually penetrate my thick skull before I begin to understand just what’s happened. He isn’t dead. Lucifer did what he said he’d do. He saved him. I didn’t even have to pay the price for that. Nice. I can’t help the small smile that crosses my lips at the idea Jesus is safe now, and will stay that way. Safe and happy. He is, isn’t he? The smile fades as quickly as it came. I don’t know that he is, something may yet go wrong. It’s Lucifer I’m dealing with, after all. And yes, I’m very paranoid, so don’t say it.
“Is he safe?”
“He is.” His father nods. “For the moment.”
For the moment? What the fuck does that mean? Has Lucifer screwed me over somehow, found a loophole in the bargain I made with him that will permit him to renege on it? Dammit, what a horrible time for me to be here and him there. There isn’t a lot I can do from here. Other than throw myself on the mercy of his father, and plead on behalf of His only son. Which you wouldn’t think I’d have to do, but go figure.