TORY LOONYBERG MEETS GOD

Only loosely based on a real or unreal deity and a news woman-type reporter...

“It’s not easy,” said Tory Loonyberg, “it’s not easy telling the truth.”

“What do you mean?” asked God.

“Well, for starters I don’t like betraying my lords and masters, the men at whose feet I must grovel if I want to become a mighty force in the world.”

“What do you mean?” repeated God.

“Well, I see what’s going on and sometimes it may be a tad unfair...”

“Meaning it’s wrong?” enquired God.

“You could look at it like that if you want to be pedantic,” grumbled Tory, “but I prefer to think it’s right to sometimes arrange facts so that they make sense.”

“What is right?” asked God.

“That there should be an order in the world with you, sir, at the top, the queen just below you, bless her cotton socks or knee-highs or whatever she wears, and everyone else making a pyramid below you two. It’s the natural order, sir, and I love it.”

“Really?” God raised his eyebrows and a shower of dandruff fell out. He didn’t raise those eyebrows very often.

“Well, it seems to make sense,” enthused Tory, “it doesn’t seem right if there’s a rabble rouser demanding power, a bearded lefty when shaving’s so important, making promises that will enhance the lives of the masses at great expense to the chiefs.”

“What chiefs?” asked God.

“The rich. The landed gentry. Theresa and her banker supporters. Those who own the rest in all but name. Anyone with a spare billion in the bank. And talking of Theresa, she doesn’t have a beard! So that’s proof it you want it,” replied Tory.

“And they can’t afford to enhance the lives oif those you suggested needed them enhancing?” queried God.

“It’s not just the money. It’s the natural order,” murmured Tory.

“So you feel it’s your job to help the well-heeled on their way to victory, and to hell with the rest?” asked God.

“If I can do my little bit then I will be rewarded,” acknowledged Tory.

“How?” asked God, mildly.

“My path through life will be all the sweeter...” smiled Tory.

“And how do you help them?” asked God, thoroughly interested and spreading copious quantities of dandruff just about everywhere so that the whole population wondered why it was snowing in summer.

“I massage the news,” smiled Tory. “I pick out bits and pieces I think are important and expand on them, and I keep quiet about all the nonsense that goes against the better interests of my lords and masters. And yes, maybe once in a while a sling out meaningless barbed comments in order the diminish lefties...”

“Why?” asked God shaking his head, and the queen ordered a new snow-plough for her palace while Tory paused to think.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” replied Tory eventually. “Lefties need diminishing or they could win. I’m clear on that!”

“No you’re not!” snapped God. “There’s nothing clear about suggesting to me, who never did one thing wrong with the exception of creating you and your ilk in the first place, that it’s perfectly all right to tell porkies!”

“I don’t do that!” snapped a suddenly infuriated Tory Loonyberg, “I’m a news editor and it’s my job...”

“To massage the news?” suggested God, calming down.

“If I have to,” nodded Tory. “It helps,” she added

“And that isn’t lying?” asked God, suddenly gentle.

“Not in my book!”

“Then I’d better tell you about my book,” whispered God. “I’ll show you, but it is heavy so you’ll have to be patient.” He pulled a huge stone tome from under his robes and smiled paternally at her. “It’s full of thou shalt nots and one of them is thou shalt not lie…” he explained, “I know it’s there because I just chipped it into the tablet of stone, with my trusty hammer and celestial chisel and my spelling perfect. Thou shalt not lie. Especially to the people. Look … it says it so, just there...” he pointed one magisterial finger at the stone book.

“I would never lie!” flared Tory, angrily. “Never in a million years! I’m clear about that!”

“There you go again, being clear in the most unclear way imaginable!”

“It’s what my mistress says!” almost shouted an infuriated Tory.

“And so you copy her! But you do lie. All the time,” smiled God. “You’re lying to me now because you know exactly what you’re up to, and those billionaires you like to cosy up to won’t give you so much as tuppence for your pains. They’ll let a few crumbs drop from their table, you’ll lap them up and pretend gratitude, but that’s all it will be. Pretence.”

“You can’t say that!” snapped Tory.

“I just did,” said God, “and if you’ll excuse me, I’m a busy deity and need my eyebrows seeing to. Are you any good with curling tongs?”

“No!” snapped Tory, angrier than she’d ever been.

“Then I’d best find someone who is,” mused God. “Where’s that Trump man when I need him? He can put a fair quiff in a heavenly eyebrow, believe you me.”

“Not him!” scoffed Tory, “he’s yesterday’s man!”

“Unlike you, who seem to be dead,” grinned God.

“That I’m not!” snapped Tory.

“Then what are we doing outside the curly gates waiting for the pits of Hell to open, and you about to go and meet He Who Must Not Be Named. No, you’re dead all right, deader than a dodo I’m afraid. Heart attack or something like that. Couldn’t be saved with not enough doctors willing to pump your chest, so you pegged it good and proper. So here we are at the curly gates...”

“You mean Pearly Gates,” she corrected him, feeling her own pulse and not quite finding it.

“I know what I mean,” replied God, hollowly.

© Peter Rogerson 16.05.17