Like anything, it had all started out as a bit of a laugh.
The idea was admittedly conceived over a heady mix of Young’s Real Ale and cheap Ouzo, the latter having been brought back from a last-minute holiday to Greece four years ago. The bottle had festered, like a forgotten weapon of mass destruction in the cupboard under the stairs. Whenever Joe and his student chums went on a “Bender”, which was pretty much almost every week, the Ouzo was threatened to be decanted as the ultimate weapon of alcoholic suicide.
The threat was carried out at 3.33 am on the last day of exams. Joe, a believer in the ritual significance of numbers, chose the time deliberately, as it was half the number of the Beast. What it lacked mathematically, it more than made up for in potency.
As is common in such undertakings, the discussion topics of the assembled collection of inebriated students revolved around sex, money (or lack of), politics, Big Brother, drugs, who was screwing who, and of course religion.
Religious discussion, even without the impetus of alcohol, is a volatile subject at the most mild-mannered of times, but fuelled by the fury and hate of a vengeful bottle of Greek oil- tanker cleaner, it blossomed in to a dawn-chorus debate of vehement proportions.
The central tenets to the theme were,
“If there is a God, where is s(he) ? Why does s(he) allow suffering in the world ? Why do good people die, yet evil people seem to live forever ? Why don’t the evil people get punished ? “
To cut a long story short, the answers were unresolved. Amongst the assembled would-be graduates were some 40 years of experience in all manners of life and education, yet even the pool of their collective reasoning could not answer such fundamentally important questions. They were outraged, they were flummoxed. Students were renowned (amongst their own kind) for knowing the answers to all the world’s social and economic problems. (Which is why they are content to flip hamburgers after graduation, having achieved a state of intellectual nirvana with nothing left to ponder upon).
Joe, a political and media studies graduate modelled himself on the 1960’s definition of the “angry young man”. He had carefully updated his image somewhat. Gone were the beatnik clothes of the original epoch, replaced by the designer-beatnik clothes of the modern generation. In contrast to the badly cut hair of the former savant of agitation, was a “David Beckham Special”. Joe never really liked smoking, but affected the habit in social situations to add an air of danger. He always admired the way in which a smoker, when asked a deep or profound question, would take a long and meaningful drag on his cigarette, narrowing his eyes as he did so, exhaling a long, slow cloud of grey, wistful smoke before giving a thoughtful reply. Joe surmised that smoking gave you time to think.
Joe made a statement about religion that evening, which in hindsight sounds just as ludicrous now as it did then.
“If God really does exist, let’s call his bluff and invite him down to Earth.”
Mandy, a 20-something student berated Joe for assuming that God was a gendered entity. She was the she who put the “s” in s(he) earlier in the evening.
Joe was serious, even if the Ouzo wasn’t.
“Why don’t we ask God to come down and prove he exists ? To take responsibility for the f****d up world he makes us live in ?”, said Joe.
Mandy asked Joe how he was going to achieve inviting a fictional entity to the planet Earth. Phone, fax, letter ? She’d never seen an “official” address.
Joe thought for a while then replied, “e-mail”.
Mandy stared at him, believing that Joe had gone barking mad.
“Everybody who is ANYBODY has e-mail”, Joe gesticulated in expressive sweeping motions with his arms. “If God is a switched on kinda being, a happening dude, then he or she must have an e-mail address. Stands to reason, innit ?”
But Joe was talking to himself and the Ouzo, for by this point Mandy had collapsed on to the floor, amongst the sea of stoned and shrivelled students. Floor space was at a premium, so much so that it looked like they had all engaged in a mass suicide pact.
Joe staggered upstairs to his room on the first floor of the dormitory. After an endless fumbling (much like the first time he had sex), he managed to slide the hard key in to the willing lock (much unlike the first time he had sex).
He miraculously avoided the casually tossed obstacles on his bedroom floor (CD’s half open, two-week old foil takeaway containers, soiled clothing, study materials, empty carrier bags, tins of half-drunk cider or lager) and sat down at his computer.
He turned on the monitor and entered another world.
He clicked the icon to start his e-mail program.
A window popped up, with fields for To:, CC: and Subject :
Underneath was a white box where he could write his message.
Joe stared at the “To:” field. What would God’s email address be ?
[email protected] ?
Joe ran a WhoIs on God.com. It belonged to a worldly company called Groves Online Delivery. He tried to open a web page but it timed out with a “Page cannot be displayed” error message. This domain address sounded doubtful.
[email protected] ?
Nah. Some computer enterprise solutions company had this address. The banner looked promising, something about “meaningful connections”, but Joe doubted that God was their M.D.
[email protected] ?
Again, another computer company. Apparently with 10 years experience in Macintosh and Internet consulting. Joe wondered if God used a Mac. Then he discounted the idea, since even divine entities must have a breaking point and if God used a Mac he must be a very frustrated divine being.
Joe slumped back in his chair. Think ! THINK !
[email protected] ?* * * * Nope, cyber squatters had this one
[email protected] ? No. Some Christian network has taken this one.
[email protected] ? Close but some sort of portal for religious inquirers.
The last two sites got Joe thinking. World, Place. Something along those lines…
Joe jumped up from his slouched position and feverishly typed in an idea.
Bingo !
His monitor started to glow an incandescent light. Joe thought the tube was about to blow, when the aura started to envelope the plastic casing and coat the mouse and keyboard in some sort of yellow sheen. A double halo materialised over the monitor, which Joe quickly noted was an excellent brand image.
The page was white. Brilliant white. Like looking in to a supernova, except that it didn’t hurt the eyes or incinerate you in a nanosecond.
The speakers crackled and noticing that they were turned down, Joe quickly turned them up full volume. What sort of sound would the Heavenly Father employ on his website ?
One that went a very long way it would seem, as the inhabitants of the neighbouring county were to rudely discover at 5.28 am one Saturday morning.
Joe however was immune to the aural onslaught, as he was the first person to open the portal to God’s Realm. Never shoot the messenger and all that.
The music poured forth in an acoustic announcement of God’s arrival upon the Earth.
Yea verily, he was a noisy bugger made a big entrance to the sound of “O Fortuna” from Carmina Burana by Carl Orff. Joe, didn’t know the heritage of the music, but recognised that the tune came from the “Omen” films.
Joe shat his pants.
All he wanted to do was write an e-mail to God. Not summon the divine and now definitely not-fictioneless entity to Earth for a quick look-see.
~~~
HE knew that one day this would come.
It was foretold you see, by his prophets. Even the mad men who waved their placards proclaiming “The End of the World is Nigh” were right about something.
HE sat and HE waited. HE scratched HIS nose. HE waited some more. HE did the crossword puzzle. It wasn’t much of a challenge. HE watched endless repeats of “The Vicar of Dibley”. HE put “Dawn French” down in HIS Little Black Book.
And now, HIS time had come. They had found the way in HIS world. The backdoor that the snotty little technical cherub had said was impossible. Now the two networks of Heaven and Earth were connected. The system had been breached.
It had only happened once before when Heaven’s network had been hacked by a rogue imp from Hell. Played merry havoc with the Divinity Servers. The whole system was down for 7 years. The Earth Simulation continued to run of course, but without divine input it went unchecked and almost self-imploded. That was in 1939.
Things were a different matter now. This time the simulation had gotten too clever for it’s own good. Simulations weren’t meant to hack their hosts.
Rogue simulations were a threat to the rest of the system.
Ah well.
It had been good while it lasted.
<END TASK>
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