The Truth Is Out There. Probably.

Predator Press

[LOBO]

The rollout of God's new "I'm Tired of Taking Your Crap" tour -and the subsequent phasing in of His vastly expanded 507 Commandments- shocked theologians around the world.

"Look," says Pope Benedict II.0 during the press conference. "I can't throw a rock without hitting a 'Church of Agnostic Baptist Jesuit Diagonal Orthodoxies' or whatever anymore -you mushheads would worship iced tea and potted plants if Tom Cruise told you to."

"You cannot fool me," says Odysseus from the back row. "Tom Cruise hates tea."

"Facts are facts people," Benedict sighs, tapping the podium in exasperation. "From here on out, we're goin' Old Testament on yer asses. And frankly I don't know why I'm bothering ... under the new rules, the bulk of you are going to burn in the Lake of Fire forever anyway. But a decent, honest effort might help you obviate the simultaneous electric eel enemas."

"Yuck!" says Odysseus. "Isn't that cruelty to animals -and therefore a sin itself?"

"Once again," Benedict drones. "All animals used in the service of the Lord except ocelots will be whisked straight up to Heaven."

"Why 'except ocelots'?"

"God hates ocelots. They're mean, make hideous noises when they're in heat, and are virtually impossible to housebreak. Ever try and get the smell of ocelot spray out of clouds? You gotta get, like, tanker trucks of Febreze up there, and this requires an assload of permits and Union negotiations and -Cripes Odysseus, are you writing any of this down? I'm getting really tired of repeating myself."

"Sorry," says Odysseus. "How do you spell 'ocelot'?"

For what seems like an awkward eternity, Odysseus squirms under the crushing weight of Benedict's incredulous, blinking stare.

"C-A-T."

Weary, Benedict rolls on with the announcements despite the nervous muttering. "Okay. Commandment number 367: Thou Shalt Not Leave Legos Where People Might Walk Barefoot."

"Legos?" says the dejected Dalai Lama, furiously scrawling notes from the front row. "I can't believe how way off I've been. At this rate, I'll never get me one of them cool hats."

"Hello Dalai," laughs Benedict. "-So solly! I wear this hat, and only I wears this hat. This here hat is deeply-rooted in the tradition of being a symbol of the One True Faith. But you can buy a nice baseball cap at the Vatican gift shop. I'll even Bless it for you. Now shut up and let me finish before Kanye West gets here."

"Wait," says Lao Tsu, waving his pencil over his head. "Can you repeat the part about the potted plants?"

Suddenly Gandhi leaps from behind a marble statue, and after deftly grabbing Benedict's hat, scampers off.

"Ha ha!" Gandhi chimes, hat teetering dangerously as he dances in gleeful victory.

"Gimmee my hat back, you asceticist hippie freak!" shrieks Benedict. "I'll poke your eye out with this here pointy stick!"

"Alright that's it," says Jesus from the second row, standing and rolling up his sleeves. "I'm sick of these interruptions. Gandhi, if you don't cut it out, I'm gonna kick your ass all the way up and down the Eightfold Path."

Buddha's chair creaks in relief as he stands. "So you're gonna beat up an old man, tough guy?"

"Watch it there fatbody," says Jesus holding up both fists. "I came back from the dead -you can't even grow hair. And how about putting down the cheese sticks and spending a little time on that Nordic Track we got you?"

"Gentlemen!" snaps Benedict.

"Wow," says Buddha, eyeing Jesus' circling fists. "I didn't know you were a southpaw."

"I'm not a southpaw," Jesus replies. "What makes you think I'm a southpaw?"

"Your left hand has the bone structure of a southpaw."

"Really?" says Jesus, inspecting it closely. "I've never noticed a-"

Just then Buddha smacked Jesus' elbow, driving His hand into His own forehead.

"Buddha, stop messing with Jesus," says Mohamed, storming into the large antechamber. "Sorry I'm late." Sizing up Buddha's ever-burgeoning girth, he whistles. "Dude, we all pitched in on that Nordic Track. Did you even open the box?"

"Hey hey hey," demands Benedict. "Shut those doors behind you. You'll let out the air conditioning."

"Yeah Mohamed," says Buddha. "Were you born in a barn?"

"Oh, like I've never heard that one before," says Jesus. "Real original. You guys better remember my Dad can kick the crap out of all you guys with the entire universe tied behind His back."

"Oh yeah?" says Buddha. "Where exactly did you read that?"

"It's in the Bible."

"I thought God wrote the Bible," says Ganesha.

"He did," says Jesus.

"Okay," says Shiva. "Lessee here. If my Dad wrote a book about kicking other Gods' butts, I wonder how it would've turned out."

"Um," I clear my throat. "Excuse me."

"What the hell is that?" asked Buddha.

"That is, eh, one of My Father's creations," says Jesus. "His name is LOBO."

"Ewe," says Pelé. "I'm going to have to rinse my eyes in lava to burn this image out."

"How revolting," says Buddha. "Just look at his skin. Blech. He must play a lot of Final Fantasy XII."

"Jesus, what gives?" says Zeus, gesturing at me. "Was your Dad in a hurry or something?"

"Dammit I'm standing right here," I remind them.

"Maybe," says Jesus cautiously to Zeus, scratching his beard. "There’s a long-standing ‘In His Image’ clause in the Charter, but in this particular case I better check my facts."

"Yeah thanks Jesus," I says. "While I'm here, can I enroll for the rest of your Self Esteem Seminars?"

"Well, please look into it soon," says Pelé to Jesus. "I'll bet if you ever had to get an eyewash from a volcano, you would have much higher standards."

"Careful Pelé. You could 'poki' you eye out," says Benedict. "Eh? Eh?"

[Nobody got it]

"He isn't even wearing any fish skeletons!" remarks Poseidon.

"Be serious P," says Tupac. "This punk-ass bitch ain't got no bling."

Don't say it out loud. Don't say it out loud. Please God don't say it out loud-

"Nah," I shake my head. "I blow all my cash on Biggie Smalls records."

-You dumb @!#$% asshole. I told you not to say it out loud-!

"Say Benedict," asks Tupac. "Does that Vatican gift shop sell sporting goods?"

"No."

"Little white man," says Tupac, leaning close to my ear. "You're lucky I already used all my bullets on that lousy choir."

"So am I late for the party?" asks Zeus. "I brought everybody gold!"

"You better keep that 'Shower of Gold' in your pants Mister," says Hera, "or Perseus is going to public school!"

[All laugh]

"It's all good baby," says Zeus. "It's all good."

"Okay," says Benedict. "Nobody got my 'poki' joke, but Hera is a hit by making lame jokes about her husband's infidelities?"

"Dude," whispers Shiva. "Don't go there. Zeus gets pissed. Turns you into crap."

"Well Hera is an enabler," Benedict reasons.

"Uh, yeah, okay," guffaws Shiva, rolling her eyes. "If 'enabler' is a euphemism for slut."

"Excuse me," I repeat, clearing my throat.

"Jesus," breathes Gandhi. "Is he still here?"

"It appears so," says Jesus. "I seriously would have thought Tupac would've waxed him by now."

"What is it, you repulsive little mortal man?" groans Pelé.

"Hey sister, lay off," says the Dalai Lama. "The fact that this poor guy is so hideously deformed that Angler fish probably wouldn't sleep with him isn't his fault-"

"Hey!" I protest.

"-and I've had enough of your smartmouthed mortal-bashing. You know all that poi you Hawaiians eat, Pelé? You want to know where that poi comes from?"

Odysseus' eyebrows furrow. "Where?"

"Every full moon," says Apollo, "A squad of pixies descend upon Poseidon and pop the zits on his back."

"What!?" screams Pelé.

"I consider it payback really," Poseidon shrugs. "Those Hawaiians pee in the ocean so much, the water is like three degrees warmer there."

The Dali Lama sneers. "How do you like me now, immortal volcano bitch? Hm?"

It was at the exact second -while everyone was distracted by Odysseus puking in the wastepaper basket- I finally interrupt. "Ladies and gentlemen -and, uh, whatever- my name is LOBO, and I'm here to cover this history-making story for Predator Press. And indeed so far this is a good story. But you know what would make this a great story?"

"Hey Zeus," Samson snickers. "Five bucks says I could kill a thousand people with this guy's jawbone."

"Ha ha!" says Zeus, high-fiving him. "Good one!"

C'mon LOBO I tell myself. Be persuasive. "What would make this a great -no- epic story for my blog would be you all just slugging it out to the death, once and for all."

"Fight to the death?" asks Shiva, perplexed.

"Well it would be a heck of a lot simpler to write about, and I only got about six shots left on my disposable camera. This is the reel from when I went to Cancun."

"Ah god," stammers a deathly pale Odysseus, stumbling back into his chair. "I used to like poi."

"But why would we do that?" Zeus asks me, bemused. "Without many of us to choose between, humans wouldn't have the ability to decide who to worship. And what good is an entire mortal lifetime not squandered over the amusing fear of cryptic laws, weird rituals of worship, moral ambiguity, perpetual doubt, unnecessary violence, and the ever-present potential consequence of Eternal Damnation?"

"Well that's kinda my point, isn't it?"

"I used to like Hawaii," Odysseus groans.

"Am I missing something here?" asks Poseidon. "We're having trouble seeing any upside to your proposal."

"What about saving my Cancun pictures?" I scowl. "Weren't you listening? You all should just hash this thing out right now. Think about it. A single God would really take the pressure off humankind too, and that's what we're looking for really: a dynamic God with a refreshing 'can-do' attitude. Plus once we've eliminated all this headachy mystery crap, Humankind can devote itself full time to building Him or Her pyramids or whatever! I think we deserve a crushing, repressive theocratic reign for the rest of Eternity in happiness. Don't you?"

"I can see his point," says Gandhi. "One God and one simple set of rules would really help humankind through a lot of this confusion. Besides, I always wanted a pyramid."

"Hey," says Zeus. "Has anyone seen Hera or Tupac?"

"-Eh," starts Shiva, thinking quickly. "How would we settle this? Hypothetically, of course."

"I recommend duking it out straight up," I says. "And if it's boxing, I've got two-to-one on all takers Vishnu will clean house."

"I've got twenty that says Vishnu doesn't last three rounds," says Zeus. "That's a glass jaw if I ever saw one."

"You're on."

"Look, we're not boxing over the fate of the universe," says Apollo. "I say we go 'Rock, Paper, Scissors.'"

I frantically fish out my wallet. "Then I got three-to-one on Vishnu!"

"We can't box or play 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' for the fate of the universe against a guy with fifty arms," says the Dalai Lama. "Why don't we just save a lot of time and energy and give it to the guy wearing the gayest boots?"

"Kiss my ass," says Apollo.

"Perhaps Humankind is now ready," says Zeus, eyebrow arched, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Maybe we should finally reveal to them that the True secret to Heaven and Eternal Happiness is-"

"Look," I sigh. "All this endless jibber-jabber is getting us nowhere. And I think I speak for all Humankind when I say that we humans don't give a crap about all that blissed-out hippie Eternal Salvation or whatever, and sitting around and debating this stuff is how we got into this problem in the first place. I'm sticking to my guns with the boxing thing. Elimination matches, one survivor, winner-take-all. Aren't you curious yourselves who the first punk would be to get whacked?"

"Not particularly," says L. Ron Hubbard.