by Goathead Buckley
When we all get to heaven, I was saying, then you’ll see it all laid out nice and wide, bellies stuffed big with burgers and clams and the angels there will look just like us, I tell you, just like you and me. Specifically. We are the sons of angels, I know. I’ve been told and I’ve been trying to tell you but you ain’t for listening, are you? Not to me at least. You’re for going inside, looking at a box of wires and whispers and organizational processing units. You’ve been had, down to your bones, had! Here to wake you, bring-a-ling-a-ding-dong, ringing in your ears as the sun starts hollering over the hills, setting it off. Won’t be no sun, see. No sun, no money, no turds, no glass. Just angels holding you up in the clouds with tickles and honey braised pork cakes. Angels with the faces of men and the sun will have set fire to their backs by then, so we won’t even miss the sun, I tell you. We’ll have new suns by then, every one of us. New suns strapped to our backs like we’re going to kindergarten and mom packed up the apples and the peanut butter sandwiches and a ho ho probably.
Kids today don’t understand heaven, I tell you. They think angels are convenient metaphors for an uninterested psychic pattern spread throughout space like mini-bosses and if you see one you’re either fucked up or fucked because you probably ain’t coming back alive, at least not alive like you were before. You’ll have some sort of fascism inside of you, knowing there are angels out there telling people the thoughts of the Mecha-God-Godson. Ever read them weirdos and prophets and soothsayers? The ones that see the clockwork fuck behind the curtain of stars? Of course you haven’t. And neither has anyone else because we don’t want to know that the angels are all union workers with faces just like ours.
Hear that droning? Like a million bees playing the drums real slow? That’s the sun. You hear it now? No? Gonna have to get my ear stick and shake it at you to clear out the dust you’ve put between your flaps. Ever hear that one about the girl who liked the boy who liked to saw the limbs off of orangutans and shave them, tell everybody they belonged to his grandpa and that his grandpa had been the strongest man in the circus of circuses back in the dust bowl days? Fuck no you haven’t. You’ve been listening to the one about asshole control and dressing in style. Can’t even hear the sun’s mighty drone anymore.
Don’t you worry, boy. Ain’t no songs to clog you up in heaven. Only the whispers of angels as they assimilate your flesh into their prayer matrix. Quiet like. Peaceful. No jangling and banging around. Everything is quiet up there and the sun’s grumbling won’t reach us neither. Didn’t they teach you your astrophysics in social experiment level three? Or were you mainly there for the eugenics men to keep an eye on? Well, whether they told you or not, it takes six years to walk from the sun to heaven. But if you get there after October, they won’t let you in and you have to wait for thaw. Cold out there in space, out where the sun doesn’t reach. Suns that is, I suppose, though I only believe in one. The rest are still stars to me. Earthman till I die, boy! Earthman for life. No matter that I haven’t seen her beautiful blue boobies in so long. No matter that I haven’t sucked on her fresh water lakes and pissed on her soft green grass. No matter that she’s seeing 3 billion other men and taking their stool into her and growing them tomatoes in her garden.
Can’t think of that right now. Focus. We’ll get to heaven yet, I tell you. Someday soon you’ll see the constellation Pearly Gates rise up in the east and the angels will hand us some axes and we’ll build a ladder out of the bones of the unbelievers and Buddhist wishy-washers and build a tunnel out of their skin so that the space winds don’t bite so bad and we’ll be over that fence in no time. Breaking in? Well, we sure as hell aren’t going back. I mean to have a word with the MGG if you get my meaning and I mean to have it hard, axe swinging at his belly. I mean to lay him open and say things like “What a wonderful hair conditioner your fucking ichor makes, you clockwork maniac! Why the fuck did you create hands when you knew I’d use them to tear you down!” and maybe “Oh, you simply must try the deity’s brain on a pumpernickel flat bread that I got at the market yesterday. It is divine.”
You’re giggling because it sounds all fancy coming from me but that’s just because you know me and know that I wasn’t fancy before but that’s all going to change so you might as well get used to it, mister. No more dick meat and sugar buns for me. No more toe water and piss fizz. I aim to eat me the big game. Why I signed up for this mission in the first place. If they told me they were sending a rookie with me, I might have shown them my ass instead of popping on my void suit. But that ain’t your fault and I know it, so I’ll quit harping on you for being inexperienced in this sort of thing. But you have to promise me something if I’m going to give you my blessing and share my glory with you. You’re going to have to shave your face off and replace it with this peeping mirror I dislodged from the shitter. I can’t stand to see another man’s face. That’s why I love the angels so much. Just reflections of men, everyone. So do it. Become my angel and we’ll crawl into heaven where the beasts flay themselves in our honor.
It won’t hurt. Your face has been without nerves for light years. Didn’t you read the mutation manual before you signed up for this rodeo, cowboy? Fuck, where do they find you mind frazzled young bucks, eh? Think reading is a chore. Want all your stories told to you by pretty women and weepy eyed cowards, filtered through the brain of another, and another. What about the direct revelation. What about the written word as symbiont. What about it? Nothing about it. You didn’t read it, so be it. Now take this laser pistol and cut your face off. I’ll get the epoxy prepped and ready to go. You’ll like what you look like. You’ll look like everything else. Ain’t that the dream these days? Surprised you didn’t think of it before. Had to make me think of it and I’ve got better things to think about.
Like when we get to heaven and shut off the power and are free to laze about. The finest fruits of all flesh, there. Ripe and ready. Ever fuck a watermelon that’s been out in the sun all day? That’s what it will be like up in heaven except that angels will wipe the juice off your cock and light a joint for you.
That no smoking sign don’t mean weed, boy. If a neuroastrovoidnaut wasn’t allowed to remind his self of his dear mama earth with a bit of her finest bits, why, I would never have trodden down this path in the first place. When they came to snatch me up, they told me three things: Heaven is where sin is purity and fucking what you eat is the law, weed smoke helps the gravity generator stay at equilibrium, and the angels are rooting for us. And that’s all I need to know besides the manuals. Kids these days like to put a million ideas in their heads before noon. Too much for me.
We won’t have to worry about that for long. Soon, everything I look at will have my face and I’ll finally be able to relax. You’re gonna enjoy heaven.