Conversations with the Light Bearer

By Justin Villanueva

"When a politician spends a million on himself, we rally and call him a thief. But when a cardinal spends the same amount on his wardrobe, we kneel down and kiss his hand."

Atheism: Is it simply a new fad, or the natural path to enlightenment? Have you heard of Honor Killing? Did you know the Bible promotes sexism, gay intolerance and glorifies slavery? And if God truly is omniscient and omnipotent, then why does He allow the Devil to exist? Was it just a mistake? Or does God have a deeper plot set out for Lucifer, once the best and brightest of the angels?

These are just a few of the topics discussed and explored, all the while telling the epic tale of a fallen angel on his path to redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Villanueva
• Release date: Jul 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310932496

Justin Villanueva

Justin Villanueva is a speculative fiction writer, graphic artist, cosplayer, RPG fanatic and corporate slave. He writes stories to express his frustrations about corporate life, dogmatic religions, tradition, culture, overpopulation, slackers, and of course—tax.His works include:Chaos Panzer (Filipino/Corporate Culture/Science Fiction)http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...Conversations with the Light Bearer (Fantasy/Humor/Religious Satire)https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...Soupheads: Comic Strip (Corporate/Pop Culture)http://studiojap.deviantart.com/

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CONVERSATIONS WITH

THE LIGHT BEARER

Justin Villanueva

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014-2016

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

* * * * *

Thank you for downloading this free eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

The opinions expressed in this book are of the author’s only and do not necessarily reflect the views of his religion—because he has none.

DEDICATION

This work is dedicated to my friend, Dani, who more or less gave me the idea to write this book. To my best friend Lawrence, who as usual helped me unclog my writer’s block. (Aka Manto is dedicated to him. Only he would know why). And to all the friends and peers who supported me in this endeavor. Above all others, this book is for my loving and caring wife, Joann, who always found time to read and proofread every chapter I managed to write.

Thank you.

I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

*****

CONVERSATIONS WITH

THE LIGHT BEARER

*****

CHAPTER I

THE INTERVIEW

Tell me about yourself.

Those were the very first words.

Say what?

It all started six years ago. Pale light engulfed the room, draping everything in a life-sucking warmth. It was dreadfully dull. Barely the size of two toilet cubicles, the interview room reeked of dingy carpets and conditioned air, the absolute surrender to despair and corporate dictatorship.

Tell me something about yourself, Mr. Pines, said the impossibly hefty woman. The interviewer had short straight hair down to her neck, square glasses, and an intricate necklace hanging from her neck. (In which, by the way, seemed more like a cow’s bell on her more than anything else.)

Pardon me, my lady, I inquired to my bewilderment. But where exactly am I?

For about half a minute, she just sat there, staring at me with her thick, raised eyebrow. Her sausage fingers began to tap on the desk. I swallowed. It was the only thing between us. It was terrifying. The woman didn’t even have wrists. It was like the hand was attached directly to her arm. And the neck—no, don’t even get me started on the neck.

"Excuse me?" The woman raised her voice, with as much emphasis on the ‘me.’ Is this some kind of joke?

No, my lady. This is no jest, I calmly replied. I am simply puzzled by my sudden relocation.

What? W-What’s wrong with you? she stuttered. And stop calling me ‘my lady’! I’m not your lady! she exclaimed, and thank God she is not. (Though I meant that as an expression and not a fact, for I know He does not have anything to do with it.)

For a moment, I paused. By then, I already knew I was in some poor lad’s vessel. The only question—for which I had been asking for quite a while now—was where on this godforsaken earth did my son banish me. Unfortunately, it seemed that my approach, under the unfortunate circumstances of my body transfer, (and quite the impeccable timing, I might add) was highly unlikely to get the expected answer. So in a way, I had to improvise, as I usually do—since the dawn of time.

Forgive me, err… I peered intently at her badge. —Rebecca, but I was just trying to brighten up the mood. You see, I easily get frantic over such serious affairs that I find myself too stunned to be of any logical merit.

She just sat there, her face as constipated as before. It seems my silver tongue has lost its magic, I thought. But then she stopped tapping, and spoke.

Becky…

Pardon?

You can call me Becky.

And so the spell takes its toll. "Oh, Becky… But why? Rebecca is such a lovely name."

She smiled to my delight. R-Really? she muttered, her voice reduced to that of a begging puppy. It’s an ugly name. Nobody calls me that here.

And so the opportunity arose. "Oh, but they should! Rebecca, do you know that’s my mother’s name?"

Oh my! I’m very sorry, Sir Vincent. I—

Vince. You can call me Vince.

Oh, okay, Vince. Now let me take a look at your résumé.

It looked too easy. I had my charms, of course, but this was too easy. And then I glanced over my reflection at the window behind her. The man, this Vincent Pines, was surely a polished gentleman. A true professional with devilish good looks, my new host resembled an early thirties Timothy Dalton with slicked-back hair and a lean build, sporting a black coat and tie that could give James Bond a run for his money. Not bad. Not bad indeed. At least my son had the decency to find me a suitable-looking host. From then on, I knew I had her in the palm of my hand.

Shall we continue then?

****

"Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made." 

—Genesis 3:1

CHAPTER II

DEATH PAYS A VISIT

It came in the night, an hour before moon’s peak.

The gleaming crescent hid warily behind the veil, the black night as silent as death. If people knew any better, they would have painted their doors with lamb’s blood. Not really a novel motif—not to mention the stench it would cause—but I suppose people can sleep at ease these days without fear of their first born suddenly dying from a heart attack. The wind blew stronger. The window curtains billowed, casting malicious shadows over the varnished floor. And then suddenly, I wasn’t alone anymore.

Good evening, Samael, said the unseen entity. It was only a voice, though I knew he was there. I could smell the queer stench, fragrant yet grim, like a bouquet of flowers on a late afternoon funeral. How fares your mortal life?

"It’s been six years, for the love of God. Six years gone in the blink of an eye. Six years since my blasted son banished me to live and die in the mortal realm. I rested my back on the headboard. It felt odd receiving a guest in my nightclothes. But then again, he didn’t even knock. And please don’t address me by that name. I am no more a part of Heaven as I am of Hell."

Would you prefer Lucifer Morningstar? Or perhaps Shiva the Destroyer? the deep but refined voice continued. Yes, I recall you visited India quite often back then.

"Vincent, I answered swiftly, before he mustered any more titles I had since Creation. Just Vincent. And I would hardly consider myself a destroyer, if you know what I mean."

"Very well. So Vincent, eh? Derived from the Roman name Vincentius, this in turn derived from the Latin vincere, which means to conquer. Quite a suitable name, you have chosen."

Despite my love for etymology, no, I did not come up with that one. I cleared my throat. That is the name of this body.

I see.

For a while, the angel was silent, though I could only imagine the boy scout inspecting my chambers, scrutinizing every nook and cranny of it, and formulating a mental note from which he would report to his big boss upstairs. In essence, the bedroom was quite small, about four meters wide. A small, round table for the occasional midnight snack rested on the corner. The bed, a single bed size, lay in front of it.

Oh my, where are my manners? I said as I made the gesture. Please do have a seat.

Why, thank you, Vincent. The matching chair beside the table moved, floating for a while in midair, then dropping softly a few inches in front of the bed. Quite graceful, I might add. A lovely place, you have here.

Suitable to my needs, I suppose, I replied. "So what can I do you for, Azrael?"

Nothing, really. Should there be a reason to visit an old friend?

I raised an eyebrow. Friend? No reason to visit me? Something was definitely wide off the mark. "Old friend? I snickered. Since when did we become friends?"

Ever since Egypt, I suppose, the angel answered. You even paid visit to take a gander, did you not?

"False, thou art not. Though I came to simply confirm a wager: if He could really have used such cruel and implacable tactics, not to mention disgraceful, all just for the Egyptian Prince to mind his faults."

And were you the victor?

I laughed. Of course.

And why were you so confident?

Why? I scratched my head. "Because that little fiasco you mustered was child’s play compared to the Great Flood, where not only children died, but the rest of the world drowned with His pride."

The billowing curtains settled, the wind silent as a whisper. "Yes. I suppose what He did was far more . . . what’s the term? Oh, yes—epic."

I scratched my chin. "Epic? I always wondered if these so called ‘angels’ had any morality in them. So tell me, Anubis, if we’re talking about Egypt and all. Did you enjoy it? Did you take pleasure in reaping the life of every First Born from their bodies?"

The chair moved an inch, sending a piercing echo. We do what we are commanded of. To obey is our duty, to trust is our faith.

Blind obedience, if you ask me. I snickered. And from whom? That self-absorbed, arrogant, murderous Father you never see? Or that barbarian commanding His army?

Azrael’s voice grew deeper, multiplied ten folds as if he was possessed by a legion of demons. "Thou shall not take the name of the Lord God in vain!"

The cold draft returned, now stronger, and the light bulb flickered incessantly. Calm down, angel. No need for the theatrics. I said calmly, sauntering towards the shelf where my midnight snack was hidden. Chocolates?

And then his voice returned to normal. Oh, no, thank you. We angels do not eat, but I guess you already know that.

These angels were always a dupe when it came to proper manners and etiquette. They just couldn’t resist it. When one of them went apocalyptic as Azrael did, all you need was to offer them a seat, a snack, or anything that would require them to show their gratitude; a bunch of sissies, if you ask me. I can only think of one who had no decorum, no manners at all—that barbarian. Oh, how I despise him.

"Oh, silly me. Sometimes I just get so famished in the middle of the night. Pity though, you can’t taste it. I have plenty to share. I have some roasted peanuts, Gummy Bears, some Hershey, Crunch, and some Oreo."

What does it taste like? he said, with a tone of interest.

How would you know? You haven’t tasted anything else before.

Azrael chuckled. I suppose you’re right.

I strolled towards him, pulling another chair as I placed the treats on the table.

These bears… They have so many colors! the angel exclaimed, like a kid on trick-or-treat.

I nodded. Yes, they do come in delectable saturations.

The green bear began to float, then the yellow, then the orange. Dear God! I have never seen such marvelous creatures!

Facepalm. Yes, facepalm. Azrael, the Angel of Death, the Grim Reaper, is officially a dupe. Uhm, they’re not actually real—

Can I keep them?

Say what?

Can I keep them?

But you can’t eat them.

Eat them? Of course not! the angel said, his voice filled with apparent glee. Why would I? They’re fascinating!

I started on the Oreo. Sure, sure. By all means, take the whole bag.

Truly? Are you certain?

Yes. Don’t worry. I can always buy a pack down at 7/11.

The poor Gummy Bears levitated and went straight back to the plastic bag, then in a sudden twist, they were gone. "Thank you, Samael. Err… I mean Vincent. Your good deeds will not go unrewarded."

Really, now? A chance in Heaven, perhaps?

The Angel of Death coughed, clearly with intent. Err… Now that you mention it…

I laughed hard. Just playing with you, angel. Not really hoping for that. I took a sip at the milk. "Especially with mighty Thor around."

Sir Michael? Despite what he says, I think your brother misses you.

Delight in your thought, angel, I said, moving on to the Crunch, for whatever you may think of him, he will always be what he is—a moronic, bloodthirsty warmonger.

"But he is still your brother."

Hah! Brother? I snickered. Not you recall his sin against me?

Azrael paused, then resumed, But… But you broke the Law. You—

The taste of crackling rice and chocolate exploded in my mouth. Fine. Let us not dwell on events long past. What is it you came for again?

Oh, yes. Uhm…

I licked the chocolate off my fingers. Yes?

Have other spirits passed your quarters?

Visits? Other spirits? Something odd was certainly afoot. No. You’re the first, actually, in quite a long while. The last was another exile, Beelzebub, though he was just inviting me to another company outing.

Swimming?

Last were the peanuts. I always saved them for last. Yes. Three days, two nights.

Wonderful.

For a while, he paused; the kind where one was lost on his next words.

Ehem! I cleared my throat. You were saying?

The War.

With a raised eyebrow, a scooped another handful of nuts. What about it?

It’s coming.

I kept chewing. Hmm… Is that so? Has it finally come to that?

Yes. I’m afraid so. Azrael sounded serious. If Heaven itself had sent the Angel of Death to court me, then it could only mean one thing.

Swallowing hard, I asked the question I already knew the answer to. And why, for all reasons, are you telling me this?

The angel paused, then said, Well, with your son Mammon ruling Hell in your stead, the Almighty Father… the Heavenly Father asked me… to ask you… If there’s anything I hate more than bullcrap, it’s constipated bullcrap. Even Death couldn’t say it straight to my face.

I grinned to my delight. Well, go on now. Spit it out.

Finally he managed to let it all out. "Father wants you to join us. God wants you to join us."

****

"About midnight I will go throughout Egypt. Every firstborn in Egypt will die, from the firstborn son of Pharaoh, who sits on the throne, to the firstborn of the slave girl, who is at her hand mill, and all the firstborn of the cattle as well. There will be loud wailing throughout Egypt—worse than there has ever been or ever will be again."

—Exodus 11:4–6

CHAPTER III

THE BLOODY SEXIST BIBLE

It was Thursday night—drinking night. Central always had a promo during weekdays: three cocktail pitchers and two choices of sizzling side dishes. And as the years passed, Thursday sort of became our preferred arrangement to dabble incoherently on despised politics, hidden charges, exasperating bosses, and loathed timesheets. It was indeed a night to look forward to; an evening of fun and the occasional visits to massage parlors and houses without kitchens. A few more minutes and lover boy arrived.

Hey there, Vincy! howled the young man with shoulder-length hair. Been here long?

Yes, for an hour now. I turned to inspect his rugged ensemble, a walking mannequin of leather and bling. If I may ask—what the heavens are you wearing, Beelzebub?

Asks the man who looks like a funeral attendant, Beelzebub retorted, brushing his slick black hair with his fingers, his eyes wheeling about. And don’t call me by that ugly name. You don’t hear me calling you Loki or Hades or Sata—

"It’s called a suit. You should try it sometimes, Ritcher."

That’s good old Beelzebu—er… I mean, Ritcher for you. Of all the things in Heaven, Hell and the mortal realm, what he despised the most was his name—which was pretty much reasonable. And of all the exiled entities, he was the one who took pleasure in it the most. He savored every bit of it, really. The fame, the glamour; the girls and the gadgets—he wanted it all, he wanted to be human, which was pretty much what he got.

As for his fortunate host, well… he wasn’t anywhere near as appealing as mine, especially before Beelzebub took over his body. The young man was basically a bore—complete with a large belly, round spectacles, and a kimpi haircut—which was even more stressed due to his lack of wit and confidence. Poor lad.

And just like me, the demon didn’t really had any say on which body he would be exiled to, but good old Beelzebub made the most of it: ditching the glasses, going to