I Know a Funny Story!

"Who are you?" "I am God" "Why are you sitting in my basement?" "Would you prefer I stand?" "No, not really."

God is wearing a sweater vest. He is handsome. He seems old. I believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that He is God.

"Why are you here?" "Because you needed me to be here." "I did?" "I wouldn't lie." "No, I suppose you wouldn't." 

God is sitting in my basement because my basement is filled with bodies, the bodies of the people I convinced to follow me because I am Christ. They are weak, and I am a very good liar. I have always been a great liar, a world-class liar. I thought, for a time, that I was the God of lying. I used to think there was no God, but now I hope there are multiple Gods, even though I'm certain there is only one. These people are staring at me. Fuck.

"What do you want me to do?" "I think you should tell them the truth." "What's the truth?"

God looks through me. He is handsome, yet He seems so old. He is God.

"The truth is the fear you feel when you are trying to fall asleep. The truth is the woman who wants you to pick her up in a dive bar. She lusts for you, but she resents you. She knows you can't make her happy. The truth is the dog scratching at the front door. The truth is him."

He points at a boy, huddled next to a chair. The boy and his mother love me, because I made him and I made her believe.

"The truth is the word that erases war, the word that doesn't exist. The truth is your mother. The truth is your mother's rapist, the man who made you. The truth is you in your mother's womb. The truth is the condom in your dresser drawer, unused. The truth is ... " "The truth is whatever I need it to be?

God is unhappy.

"THE TRUTH IS YOU. YOU ARE THE TRUTH. YOU ARE THE REASON THEIR HEARTS BEAT AND THEIR MINDS REEL AND THEIR LUNGS BREATHE. THE TRUTH IS HIM!"

He points at the boy, and I believe.

"The truth is the world I created, the pain and the love and the suffering and the sophisticated hipster sipping a martini. The truth is Me, and you, and him."

He points at the boy.

"The truth is the boy, Bobby. The truth is the little boy. The truth is the little boy."

I look at God's finger pointing at the little boy, the way a dog looks at its master's finger and not at the object. I am a lapdog. I am a disobedient dog in a basement in Reno.