Sinners and Saints

Sinners and Saints Chapter 53 - Spacegrass

Bishop and Maurice are both out of the office area when I get to Heaven.  Their to-do list consists of pulling down the flat-screens and a lot of other pull-out, so I’m not surprised. 

I peek in on Bob.  He’s still watching YouTube videos, but has gotten off of the cats and is currently watching music videos. 

Specifically, Justin Bieber. 

“Is this what music has come to since I died?” he demands, flapping his hand at the screen. 

“Well, yes and no,” I tell him and switch over to Ziggy’s homepage, “There’s also this.  Recognize him?” 

He sits down in silence, eyes glued to the screen.  I pull out the headphones and adjust the volume on the speakers before switching over to his samples page. 

“My son,” Bob says softly, touching the picture of Ziggy in his crocheted cap and smiling with nearly the same smile that Bob has. 

“Your son,” I nod, “Is very famous.  Nearly as famous as you are – are still.  And very active.  Look,” I show him the news releases. 

“Me?” he asks. 

“Yes, of course you,” I smile, “Legend is still one of the highest-grossing albums of all time.  I’ll let you look around Ziggy’s site for a while, but I do have someone to introduce you to.  I think you two will get along very well.” 

“Ziggy – he’s not dead, is he?” he asks me, panicked. 

“No, Bob, he’s very much alive,” I smile at him, “Someone far older than you.” 

And I guide the Son of God from my changing room into the camera room. 

“Who is this?” Bob asks me, “Is he stoned?” 

“He’s locked,” I tell him, putting Jesus in a chair and flipping over the video-feed from internet to the main room, “All of the souls who enter Heaven are locked – forever.  Like zombies or a bad trip or – I don’t know how to describe it.  But they have no thoughts, no memories, no will and no emotions.  Forever.” 

“That,” Bob points at the screens, “Is not right.  Are you the one doing this, Claire Saint?” he asks me. 

“No, Bob,” I chuckle, “I’m the one trying to stop it.  But I can’t do that without this man here.  And he needs you.  And me.  And a couple of other people.” 

“Who is this man?” Bob asks. 

“This is Jesus, Bob,” I tell him. 

Jesus is not blond and blue-eyed.  He is not pale.  He is not tall and imposing. 

He’s five-eight-ish and looks like any other Arabic Jew – olive-skinned with dark hair and eyes and somewhat hawkish-features.  When Drake tells me he’s always in his true-form when he’s around me, I have to question that.  All the way around. 

Drake’s features are far-more Westernized than this man’s are.  Thinner, straighter nose.  Less prominent brow-ridge.  Higher cheekbones.  Squarer jaw.  

And a lot less hair. 

A whole lot less. 

And I’m not about to go under Jesus’ robes to compare his package.  I’m just not going there. 

“Are you sure, Claire Saint?” Bob asks me, “He doesn’t look that holy to me.” 

“Positive,” I tell him, “We’ll find out in a minute.  I’m going to wake him up.  But there are two problems with that.”