Flies for the Mayans

By Ian Fraser

"...a shocker!" "brilliantly written" "It is not a book you finish and forget..."

A satiric story from Hell, set in Heaven.

God's having a bad day. Once upon a time, He made the mistake of dividing Heaven into realms and provinces, overseen by deities jostling for territory and profits. Now everything is sliding out of control. The one-time Creator of the Universe is estranged from his son, riddled with guilt, and fighting battles on multiple fronts. His few remaining rules are being bypassed, His angels are turning up dead. Unless He can find out who is gunning for Him, the unthinkable might occur.

'Flies for the Mayans' is a violent black comedy of post-Biblical proportions.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ian Fraser is a South African writer and playwright, now a permanent resident in the US. His memoir, My Own Private Orchestra, was published by Penguin (South Africa) in 1993 and was nominated for the CNA Literary Awards.

His plays have been professionally and successfully produced by theatre companies in South Africa, the US, and elsewhere. Most recently his work was staged at the Brown/Trinity Playwrights Repertory Theatre in Providence, Rhode Island; at the Garioch Theatre Festival in the United Kingdom; and by Playwrights Round Table in Orlando, Florida. In 2007, he won the AcidTheatre ‘Freedom of Speech’ Monologue Competition in the UK.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Fraser
• Release date: Jan 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507006177

Book preview

Once upon a time, I was God.

Why do you keep coming here?

Ever since I leaned into the Void and suggested light might be a good idea, I progressed cautiously, trying to avoid mistakes. But one misstep causes another, and no matter how hard you try, there’s no way to feed the meat back into the mincer and get a whole pig again.

I still remember eying my Creation and wondering just what exactly good meant, when set against the vastness of eternity. How long could that-which-is-splendid stay awesome in of itself? People living beside a seashore eventually stop hearing the roar of the waves. The greatness of my Creation had gradually paled – until I couldn’t see that Heaven and my Kingdom were good.

Something had to be done, and therefore I did it.  Me. The complexity is my own fault.

Why do you keep coming here? Gabriel repeated, although he knew.

We were at Buddhist Cohen’s, a bar of ill-repute, filled with tourists, junkies, whores, and sleaze of all descriptions. The bar was just beyond the edge of my territory, where the downtown buildings diminished and the neighborhood became littered and soiled. The streets were dimly lit – crumbling boarded-up buildings, lined by narrow alleys filled with illegals huddled around fires.

Gabriel and I were drinking car bombs – vodka mixed with liquors. Ripples swirled in the bottom of my glass. I sighed, glancing at the sneering bouncers beyond the edge of the crowd.  

I had arrived late and James, the bar owner, had tried to take my coat. I’d slapped his hand aside. Still employing illegals?  

It was an absurd question. Of course he was. Everyone did. How else would garbage get shifted, streets cleaned, and food cooked? James didn’t respond. I felt inexplicably checkmated, as if there were a game underway whose rules I wasn’t privy to. I restrained the impulse to lash out. Get a hold of yourself.

James escorted me to where Gabriel and the Christians sat watching the strippers. On stage, nipple-tassels spun in circles of light. The Christians were two blondes, awed at the idea of hanging out with their Creator. I quelled my self-loathing and guided one of the women beneath the table. I unzipped, giving her a piece of my mind.

Gabriel glanced my way. Are you sure you want to be doing that, boss?

I squinted at him. He got the message, and I continued crushing cocaine, using the underside of an ashtray. The crunching noise sounded like marching feet. I shivered, as if something had walked over my grave. Not that this was possible.

The bouncers were leaning against the far wall. I ignored the stares. One of the new strippers had a snake. I have a thing about snakes. The creature’s scales glistened in the spotlights, oiled rippling muscles moving gracefully beneath the snake’s skin. 

Glug, blurted my Christian under the table.  

Eternity used to be different. But unmaking this new Heaven wouldn’t solve anything. On stage, the stripper writhed, the snake swinging back and forth, seemingly giving her a middle leg. I selected a straw and leaned in to do a line, thinking about ingratitude.

Gabriel sighed. Boss?

At the time, my choice had seemed right. I’d carved my infinite domain into regions and begun parceling them out. There had been a few square miles of useless rundown docklands on the edge of my city. I told my son this neighborhood was his. We hadn’t talked since then. He had to know I was frequenting one of his apostle’s night clubs. He had to. So then, why are you doing it? I wasn’t sure.

I straightened up, rubbing my nose. The snake hissed, moist from the gyrating stripper. Its eyes glinted. Why is the music so damn loud?

After I divided my Kingdom, events had unfolded swiftly. I went from being the only god in town to just one amongst many. An array of realms spread beyond my border. I still retained prime real estate: my city and the Gate – where new arrivals entered the afterlife – remained under my control.  The urban sprawl of the suburbs encircling my town was entirely another matter. Thankfully, Martin Luther King kept his Panthers in line, but that diaper-clad bitch Gandhi was a thorn in my side.

Complexity had bred complexity.

I frowned at the snake. There was a noise from under the table.

Glug.

Hogs of the road? Gabriel said as we exited the bar. It was a relief being away from the surreptitious glances. The night wind smelled of burning plastic. The neon