The Book of Job as Told by Job

*I'm submitting this to a magazine for a contest, so don't you DARE plagarize it.

“FROM WHOSE WOMB DID THE ICE COME FORTH, AND WHO HAS GIVEN BIRTH TO THE HOARFROST OF HEAVEN?” God asks.
“What are you talking about?” I respond. I’m picking at a scab.
“STOP PICKING, JOB. I’M WORKING OUT MY NEXT STORY.”
“You and your manuscripts,” I whine, sucking on a locust. “You know, half don’t make any sense. I know; I’ve proofed all of them.”
God grumbles at me and a cloud rolls over my head. It feels nice; I’ve been sitting in the sun for days.
The trouble started a couple of weeks before. See, I made this contract two decades ago with God that I would edit His work. I’d let Him sign off on the corrections and I’d camel-courier them to a tablet press in far-off Gadara. The tablets would be etched and scattered throughout the pagans’ lands. The way God figured, if a nomad stumbled on a tablet in the middle of the desert written in his language, he would have to read it. Once the nomads heard from God, they’d be convinced to get to the nearest Temple, put on a yarmulke and have their foreskins shaved off. Not exactly fool-proof, but definitely creative. That was God for you. Always up to some new-fangled idea.
Things got sloppy last time. I was schlepping edits about Ezra, but the courier was drunk when he showed up for the delivery. The camel didn’t look too steady either; turned out the camel had a severe case of the clap. Well, off went the drunken courier and the S.T.D.-ridden camel into the desert, where they got sidetracked in some rat-hole town. The delivery didn’t get to Gadara, the edits were lost in a tavern, and the courier also contracted the clap, though whether from the camel or one of the working girls, I’m not sure. God got pissed off and told my wife I was in deep shit. Then, I got in trouble with my wife.
“It’s too important to be screwing up like this!” she nagged.
“I know,” I replied.
“We’ve got a party to host in one week, all the kids are coming back with the in-laws, and we gotta slaughter livestock and get the caterer here. I can’t deal with your continual screw-ups!”
“I know.” I’ve learned to succumb.
She put her hand on one hip and stared at me. “Do you KNOW who you’re dealing with here?” she demanded.
“Yeah. God.” I replied.
“No, ME!”
A knock sounded at the door. A servant stood there, looking a little scared. I asked, “What’s up?” The servant looked fearful, saying, “A gang just killed some of your livestock, and a fire came from nowhere and blazed through your entire herd.”
“I thought I smelled barbeque,” I replied. “Dammit.”
While I was trying to explain all this to my wife, a bunch of neighboring villagers pulled up in a wagon and ran to the door.
“You just parked in the cabbage,” I said to the group. “Oh, now LOOK what the mule is doing! What’s the big idea?”
“Um,” said a villager, “Yeah, we just passed by your kids’ house?”
“That commune they live in? Sure, what’s going on?”
“A dust cloud came out of nowhere and blew the whole house down. Now they’re all dead.”
“Dammit! I told them not to build that place of straw!” I yelled.
I pounded the wall in anger and jammed two fingers. “OW! DAMMIT!” I screamed. My wife was hysterical at this point, so I had a servant drug her with opium and she fell fast asleep. I sat down with wine to mourn, clutching my fingers, and that’s when I noticed the sore.
“EWWW!” I screamed. A green boil had shown up on my thigh. My upper thigh. I wondered if I got the clap from the camel.
God showed up.
“JOB!” He said.
“What? Can you see this? What is this?”
“GROSS. PLEASE COVER THAT UP.” God commanded. “I’VE COME TO VISIT YOU WITH DESTRUCTION AND GRIEF.”
“For what?” I asked. In the background, I heard my wife scream in her drug-induced haze, “For screwing up, you schmuck!”
“For what?” I repeated softly to God.
“WHAT SHE SAID. THOSE PROOFS WERE MY ONLY COPY. I’VE GOT TO RE-WRITE IT ALL. I CAN’T REMEMBER ANY OF THE FIRST BIT WITH EZRA. HE WAS WASTED DURING THAT PART.”
“Look, God, this was the first time I failed you! I’ve been doing so well; I mean, I got that whole ‘Song of Solomon’ published by Fish Press, and you know how much they hate the pleasures of the flesh! I got your first ROMANCE novel published. You can’t be this upset over one boring dialog with a drunk!”
“ENOUGH!” God yelled.
“Okay.” I said.
Because everyone seemed ticked off at me, I decided to sit beneath a great leafy tree that was shady and peaceful. As soon as I sat down, the tree withered up and died, and the sun shone bright on my skin, now puckered up with boils. My head itched, and as I began to scratch, little bugs fell out of my hair—lice. I shaved my head beneath the hot sun and felt miserable.
Some of my drinking buddies came to see me; they missed me at cocktail hour. Larry, rubbing his beer belly, asked, “Dude, why don’t you just screw the whole God thing? I know this other writer—he’s fantastic! He’s written a LOT about sex and wine and how good revenge feels…he’s a genius!”
“Larry,” I said, “Satan has really predictable plotlines.”
Larry got quiet and the guys sat and chatted with me about what a total wuss I was.
“You know,” said Larry, “If I were you, I’d be cursing God right now. There are other bosses out there that wouldn’t, you know, SCREW UP YOUR LIFE just for one lousy mistake. Now look at you! No kids, no sheep…” He was interrupted by Bart, another friend.
“Yeah, you had some pretty fine-lookin’ sheep,” Bart said.
“Why would you want to remain faithful to a jerk like that?” Larry asked.
“Because, you don’t give up on a good boss after twenty years of decent pay,” I lectured.
“Oy,” Larry said, waving his hands in disgust. The other men agreed I was being ridiculous, so they left to watch camel-polo. I stayed under the tree, and that’s where I am now, listening to the Big Galoot go on about ice in heaven.
“I thought,” I say while examining a sore, “that heaven would be warm and friendly.”
“IT IS,” says God, “I’M MERELY TRYING OUT DIFFERENT VOICES.”
In the distance, I hear the pounding of hooves. A figure is emerging from the sand dunes, seated on a black horse. The horse appears to be breathing fire, and a great pink fur coat is streaming from the rider.
“Aw, shit. We’ve got company,” I inform God.
“HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I ASKED YOU NOT TO CUSS,” God says.
“About as many times as you’ve damned humans to a fate worse than hell,” I say as the figure gets closer.
“What’s up, niggaz?” cries the man as he brings his horse to a halt and hops down. The man is decked out in hot pink leather and wears a bright fedora.
“Aren’t you roasting in that thing?” I ask Satan.
“Hell, no! Shit, thanks to the Big Brother in the Sky, I ain’t got no problems handlin’ heat.” Turning to God, Satan yelled, “Hey, Big Pimp! Check out the duds!” Satan sits down next to me, fingering his Jeri Curl locks.
“WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO BE A PIMP?” God sighs.
“Homey, I grew up on the mean streets. I gots to do what I gots to do to get by, you dig?” Satan snaps his fingers, glittering with ice.
“YOU GREW UP IN HEAVEN, SATAN.”
“Shit. Talk to the hand,” Satan raised a hand up to the sky and looked at me.
I scratch at a boil.
“You really shouldn’t pick at that,” Satan says while lighting up a blunt, “It’ll scar.”
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, SATAN? JOB AND I ARE DISCUSSING WORK.”
Satan sighs and looks at me the way people look at lepers.
“I know I look rough,” I say, “But my wife thinks my bald head is sexy.”
“You know, I gots an idea for a book right now. ‘Satan: Pimpin’ the Galaxy!’ You like? I can get you a hard copy. It’s about me and my gang, man. Some of the Bloods from around the way.” Satan adjusts his fur.
“Nah,” I say, “You know I’m contracted with God.”
“GO AWAY, SATAN, WE’RE INCREDIBLY BUSY.” God says.
“Chill out, Big Brother,” Satan yelled. Turning to me, he says, “I can take care of you. You’ll be my agent. Shoot, brother! I will lay out the cut and you will be up to yo’ nose in blow! Hell, you probably still think that contract you signed with God is kosher, don’t you, Blood?”
“Huh?” I ask. “I don’t understand you.”
Satan dropped the act and said pointedly, “Look. That contract you signed with God was a farce. The thing is, Big Brother made Free Will, which is pretty much why I can stay in business. God can’t MAKE you be his editor. Work for me! You’re independent, man—a freelancer!”
God remains silent.
“God?” I ask, “Is that true?”
“THINK OF THAT CONTRACT AS AN INCENTIVE. IT KEEPS YOU OUT OF TROUBLE,” God says.
I feel crappy about this, like I’ve been hoodwinked. “My companions are treacherous like a torrent-bed that runs dark with ice, turbid with melting snow!” I scream.
“HEY, THAT’S GOOD. I’M GOING TO WRITE IT DOWN.”
Satan glances at me. “So, we ridin’?”
I think about this. I consider God--He’s very intolerant of some things and can be bossy. Satan would be easy-going about deadlines and is filthy rich, while God talks about the fruits of the hard-working, yada yada. God wiped out my family, my livestock, and my hopes. I’m still thinking about this when God speaks up.
“YOU KNOW, I FEEL INCLINED TO TELL YOU, JOB, THAT SATAN PUT ME UP TO ALL OF THIS.”
“What?” I ask.
“OKAY, THERE’S A BIT OF TRUTH TO WHAT HE SAYS. I DID WANT YOU FOR AN EDITOR, BUT NOT JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE GOOD AT IT. YOU ARE ALSO A VERY DEVOUT JEW.”
“I know,” I say. “I blame my mother.”
“ANYWAY, I WAS GETTING AROUND TO TELLING YOU THIS. I DIDN’T FIGURE YOU WOULD DROP ME, BUT THIS ASSHOLE,” said God, directing His voice at Satan, “CAME TO ME THE OTHER DAY AND THREW ME A WRENCH. SATAN SAID YOU WERE OBEDIENT TO ME BECAUSE I GAVE YOU A LOT OF WEALTH. THE MINUTE IT WAS GONE, YOU’D TURN YOUR BACK ON ME. IT WAS A TEST.”
“Here I am, just trying to live out a nice, peaceful life! I obey the Ten Commandments, I commit to one weekend a month and two weeks during the summer for Hebrew training, and you guys want to test me?” Now, I’m incensed.
“You get decent benefits? ‘Cause I got yo’ back on benefits,” Satan whispers.
“Shut up, Satan!” I yell. “God, why doubt me? Not only are you the great ‘I AM’, but you also have some pretty interesting writing. I like your dry humor. You’re money!”
“YOU THINK I’M THAT GOOD?” God asks.
“Yes, I think you’re good! I also happen to think you are a Beneficent Being. But YOU,” I say, turning to Satan, “are a HORRIBLE writer. It’s all the same with you—lust, sex, greed, murder, hatred. The first nine sex scenes are great, but they get old. God’s the one with the talent. All the pink fur in the world wouldn’t convince me otherwise.”
“You’re an idiot,” Satan says, wiping the dust off of his pink pants. He stands and looks up at the sky, saying dejectedly, “Well, I hope you’re pleased.”
“I AM. FOR JOB’S OBEDIENCE AND PATIENCE, I SHALL REWARD HIM TWOFOLD. HE SHALL HAVE TWICE THE WEALTH, LIVESTOCK, AND CHILDREN…”
I clear my throat.
“…OKAY, HALF THE NUMBER OF CHILDREN AS BEFORE--BUT THE SAME WIFE.”
“Deal,” I say.
Satan jumps on the horse and gallops off. I notice the horse’s platinum shoes, and I shake my head incredulously. Satan’s get-up does look pretty snazzy.
“Hey, God,” I ask, “You think you’ll ever wear a coat that cool?”
“THERE’LL BE AN ICESTORM’S CHANCE IN HELL BEFORE THAT HAPPENS. GET ME A CUPPACINO. I’VE GOT A STORY I WANT TO WRITE.”

(c)Elizabeth Anne Fritz