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God
Dies Laughing: A Conversation with Broken Hammer By Jeremy Yeatts Hopkins ____________________ I
had the opportunity today to have a sit-down with an old acquaintance of mine,
Broken Hammer. This is the only name I have ever known him by. He works as an
errand-boy in the world of international espionage, running odd jobs for various
agencies and governments. He explains that there are no “super agents” as
shown in entertainment media, only drones, soldiers and queens. Although I never
asked him to admit his own station, I don’t imagine they give a name like
“Broken Hammer” to the drones. The
man looks modern in every way but possesses the aura and spirit of the black
sheep descendant of an ancient and powerful bloodline, living on the lower end
of a cardinal genetic stock. At this meeting (which, having recently received
word of his death amidst complications in Eastern Europe, I can say with some
confidence will go down as our last) we discussed the Death of God and his
suggestion of one possible cause. We discussed this over a light brunch. BH:
I hate this. There’s too much parsley; no longer a garnish but a distraction. DBT:
Indeed. Back on track, however… BH:
Which track? DBT:
The Death of God: was it of natural cause or brought about by foul play? I
can’t seem to make up my mind on this one. BH:
Which category would an accident fall under? DBT:
An accident? I must admit I hadn’t considered the possibility. Well, I suppose
it would depend upon the nature of the accident. Please expound. BH:
It could be anything. DBT:
For example? BH:
Well... What if he choked to death? Who would have the strength to perform the
Heimlich DBT:
Yes, I suppose not. But I believe I shall require more insight into the
mechanics of how this could happen before I can follow your metaphor. BH:
Picture, if you will: A hot dog, muffin, or sponge cake of unearthly proportion,
He takes an especially large bite to finish it off. He is having trouble working
it into a morsel compact enough to navigate His Esophagus. DBT:
You mean to suggest that even God can “bite off more than He can chew”? BH:
I don’t see why not. So, He reaches for His Chalice. Empty! “Oh My,” He
thinks. Meanwhile, He, in His Omniscience, catches a glimpse of some young
and particularly sinful human… DBT:
You are, I assume, utilizing our definition of sin as the very thought, whether
held within or below perceivable consciousness, that a human’s will could in
some way shape God’s reality as an alternative to living in accordance with
what He has established; a sort of supreme presumption. BH:
Correct. This human is sitting in his apartment upon a chair. He wonders, having
only recently become cognizant of the fact the Bible makes no actual mention of
a particular individual known as “The Anti-Christ,” if it is still
possible that he could carry out those duties he had previously ascribed to this
imaginary fellow, not least among these, bringing about the destruction of the
world. DBT:
Ambitious, to the lad’s credit. BH:
Quite. DBT:
Do you know this young man? BH:
Not as well as I’d like to. Anyway, back on the Throne, God stops chewing,
stops everything; He hasn’t seen this kind of presumption for some time. Now
we both know that the key to humor is inconsistency, for what is funnier than
the fool who considers himself a genius? The lamb who imagines himself a lion?
Already close to vomiting in frustration with His Dinner, God tries desperately
to suppress His Holy Laugh Reflex…to no avail. Amidst a maelstrom of
righteously indignant laughter, the wad of only half-chewed food is sucked into
His Pipes, and causes our Heavenly Father to pass. DBT:
I see. You have diverted my attention from my original purpose. Congratulations.
I shall not only pay for our lunch, but I will give your idea more thought. BH:
Thanks for the brunch. I
lost a wonderful speaking companion in Broken Hammer. Few have done more to
inspire thought in my own head. As I promised… I
believe he was right in saying that there is little more laughable than someone
who thinks more highly of themselves than they should. If God at all agreed, His
Sides must have been split like a Chinese skirt every time He peered over the
edge, wiped the tears from His Eyes and took a look at His Children: insipid
little apes wearing crowns made out of the bones of their ancestors, holding
their dicks like scepters, proclaiming themselves gods because it rained when
they wanted it to, howling at the top of their lungs, “Step aside, Sphinx! The
jig is up!” I find Broken Hammer’s hypothesis as viable an option as any to
explain the mortal wounding of the Universal Jokester. As He said one of His
most read books, “He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword.” God
died with a smile on his face. I can only hope the same can be said for all of
us. ____________________
Jeremy
Yeatts Hopkins is 24 years old and resides in Lynchburg, VA. He
writes as nothing more than a hobby, with no real aspirations of success or
pretensions of future acclaim for his novel that would be finished except that
he "just needs to really sit down and get crackin'." He has
at one point or another daydreamed about becoming a Nobel Laureate, but has
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(c) Defenestration Magazine, 2005