“And we both have to pee,” said Cap.
“Quit complaining and cross your legs,” said Gotha. “We’ll be in New York in sixteen hours.”
SIXTEEN HOURS LATER
The UN building was surrounded by barbed wire and security guards with AK-47s. They all had the same badge number: 666.
“No pasarán,” they said when the Tribs approached the main gate.
“That’s Spanish,” said The. “It means ‘Forget it. Turn around and go home. Beware the Anti-Christ!’”
“Are you sure?” asked Gotha. “We’ve come all this way.”
“Positive,” said The. “I had a multi-cultural congregation in the Kristal Kathedral days. I speak three languages.”
“I’m impressed,” said Vince. “English, Spanish and what?”
“Ebonics. Not much call for it these days, with all the thug rappers gone. Sorta like Yiddish.”
“No pasarán!” repeated the security guards.
“We’ve come all this way,” said Gotha, gritting her teeth. “I say we bum-rush the joint.”
SUDENLY
“Let them through,” said a sweet voice.
Cap was amazed. It was Amy, his former First Class Flight Attendant.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, as she ushered them inside the UN, to the World Leader’s Private Chambers.
“I’m his girl friend,” said Amy.
Cap felt a stab of jealousy. “You let him unhook your bra?” he whispered, hoping his daughter couldn’t hear.
“I heard that,” said Gotha.
“He doesn’t have to,” said Amy. “I don’t have to wear one anymore.”
MOMENTS LATER
They entered a huge room decorated all in black and red. There was no furniture, just a TV and a Mr.
Coffee. And a big cardboard box with 666 on it.
“Bow to the box,” said Amy.
They all bowed to the box: even The (who kept his fingers crossed); even Vince, who believed in equality as a principle. “But when in Rome—” he muttered, as he bent a knee.
“Forget Rome,” said a Voice from inside the box.
“Those dolled-up dudes are all dearly departed.”
“Good riddance,” said Gotha. “It’s a better world now, even though it’s not perfect.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” said The Voice from inside the box. “Come closer.”
They all inched closer. There were two little holes in one of the 6s, and Vince could see eyes inside. “This is like the Wizard of Oz,” he said.
“The Wizard of Oz was a phony,” said the Voice from Inside the Box. “I am the Real Thing. The Anti-Christ, the World Ruler, the Dark One, the Prince of Lies.”
“We know who you are, Vlad!” said The. He held his Bible in front of him, like a shield. “Show your face!” he said. “We fear you not.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Cap.
“He doesn’t like to show his face,” Amy said. “That’s why no one but me has ever seen him in person.”
“Ah, but we know his evil deeds!” said The. “His One-World government has destroyed Israel, the Promised Land. Oh, woe.”
“Oh, woe yourself,” said the Voice from the Box. “I didn’t destroy Israel, I just moved it to Europe, where it belongs.”
“It’s true,” said Vince. “I got an email from Dr. Kramer, who says his bio-gen fish are doing much better in the rich Polish soil. He’s cool with it. He was never comfortable with the idea of stealing Palestinian land.”
“So it’s OK to steal Polish land?” demanded The.
“The Poles owe us—I mean, them,” said the Voice. “So do the Ukrainians, not to mention the Germans. Besides, you can’t make an omelet without breaking legs.”
“Eggs,” said Vince.
“Whatever,” said the Voice in the Box. “Let’s don’t argue. What can I do for you?”
“He doesn’t like to argue,” said Amy.
“It’s what we can do for you,” said Gotha. “We have a proposal.”
“I don’t know proposal,” said the Voice. “You seek a boon?”
“A gig,” said Gotha. “You’ll need a band for the big to-do at Black Rock City. Your first personal appearance.” “And last,” said The, from behind his Bible.
“Shut up, The!” hissed Gotha. “You’re in luck, Mr. Anti-Christ. The Tribs are free.”
“I’ll think about it,” said the Voice. “Show me your titties.”
“You’d better not,” said Amy.
But Gotha did. She lifted her tee shirt.
“Cute,” said the Voice. “You’ve got the job. Scale.
Now get out of here. It’s hot in this box.”
MINUTES LATER
“Sorry about that,” Gotha said, pulling down her tee shirt as Amy escorted them out to the street. “Showbiz, y’know.”
“It’s OK,” said Amy. “Just makes me look better.”
“It’s true,” said Gotha’s dad. “Hers are like ripe fruit hanging from the Tree of Life.”
Gotha felt like slugging him but didn’t.
WEEKS LATER
Gotha’s big black BMW boxer sped through the garbage and debris that littered northern Nevada. They were on their way to Black Rock City, where the Anti-Christ was scheduled to make his first public appearance. “We’ll finally get to see his face,” said Gotha.
“Close up, too, since we’ll be on stage with him. Wonder if he’s cute?”
“The Prince of Lies?” scoffed The. “The Dark One? The Anti-Christ? Cute?”
“You are always so negative,” Cap pointed out.
The ignored him. “At least we’ll only have to see his ugly mug for an instant or so. The Seven Years of Tribulation will be over tonight. If the Good Book is right, and so far it has been, Jesus will return at exactly midnight and send the Anti-Christ and all his followers straight to Hell.”
“What happens to us?” asked Vince.
“I go to Heaven for sure,” said The. “I’m a sinner, but Jesus has forgiven me. He may forgive you guys, too, and take you with Him, or He could pitch you right on down to Hell with the Anti-Christ. He can be pretty strict.”
“Can’t you put in a word?” asked Cap. “I forgave you for fooling around with my wife.”
“We never went below the waist,” The reminded him, “on her, anyway, and He’s not going to listen to me or anybody else. He may have already made up His mind, or He may decide on the spot. For all I know, you may get points for playing in a rock band.”
“Can’t we just stay here?” asked Gotha. “We have another gig next week, in Petaluma.”
“That’s just a street fair,” said The. “And besides, the world will come to an end when Jesus returns. There won’t be any Petaluma.”
“I won’t miss Petaluma,” said Vince thoughtfully. “Though I will miss the world.”
HOURS LATER
Black Rock City was a huge traffic jam of weird bicycles ridden by nudes, wobbling between cars covered with kewpie dolls, plastic ponies, beads and rhinestones. “Art cars,” said Vince.
“Ugh,” said Gotha.
In the center of it all was a huge wicker statue that looked vaguely (that is, exactly) like Timothy Leary. Some drunks were trying to set it on fire.
“Got a light?” they asked.
The Tribs ignored them and set up on stage be- tween two speakers shaped like gigantic skulls.
“This makes Woodstock look like a hootenanny!” said Gotha. She put her black lips up to the mike and ran a sound check: “Check 3-2-1!”
“Six six six,” boomed the echo in return.
“What’s a wood stock?” asked Cap, tuning his strat.
“What time is it?” asked Vince. It was dark. A cold wind was rising. His watch had stopped.
He shivered.
‘ROUND MIDNIGHT