[LNHY] Matthew Almighty

[Martin Phipps]

WARNING: The following story may be considered
blasphemous.  Please refrain from picketting your
local Filipino embassy.  Please do not call for my
beheading.  Thank you.

                   Matthew Almighty

                        ACT I

  Matthew Petrie was an atheist.  No, he wasn't saying
God, as described in the Bible, didn't exist.  He just
didn't believe that that God actually created the
Looniverse.  He was basically calling Him a fraud.
  "How dare he!" God said.  
  God had grown tired of the same old punishments;
they weren't all that effective on atheists anyway:
atheists either didn't believe in Hell or else doubted
if it were really as bad as the zealots claimed. 
Besides, if George W. Bush were going to Heaven and
John Kerry were going to Hell then, the athesists
would say, in four years time Hell would end up with
the better economy and more reliable health care
anyway.  No, God wanted a special punishment for
Matthew Petrie.
  "Doesn't he realise how hard a job I have?!"
  That was it!  God had had his powers since the
beginning of time!  (How the Before God Guys
functioned without time is not clear.  Presumably they
got up whenever they damn well wanted to and stayed up
all night until they either felt tired or simply
passed out.)  No mere mortal could handle the awesome
responsibility of dealing with his powers!  The poor
schmuck would go insane in a matter of hours and then
insist on giving me my powers back!
  So God appeared before Matthew Petrie.
  "Matthew Petrie!"
  "Yeah.  Who are you?  What do you want?"
  "I am God!"
  "God is a woman?"
  "No."
  "Then what's with the humongous breasts?  You look
like you've got watermelons on your chest."
  "God is neither man nor woman."
  "So does that mean you are completely lacking in
equipment... or would you be capable of, you know,
impregnating yourself?"
  "You're not listening to me..."
  "Because in that case I could tell you to go fuck
yourself and it wouldn't necessarily be an insult,
just a suggestion for a dateless weekend."
  "I am God!  The creator of the Looniverse!"
  "And what's with the second nose?"
  "WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME?!"
  "Okay."
  "That's better."
  "I mean..."
  "ENOUGH!"
  "Fine.  So why have you appeared before me, oh great
creator of the Looniverse!"
  "You have been chosen!"
  "For what?"
  "I will endow you with all my powers."
  "So I'll end up with the same powers as you?"
  "Actually my powers will be transfered to you."
  "Cool.  Does that mean you'll be powerless."
  "I will be like an ordinary mortal, yes."
  "So... why?"
  "A vacation.  I need a vacation."
  "From what?"
  "From being God."
  "And what does God do?"
  "You shall see!"
  God raised his arms and the lights in Matthew
Petrie's living room first dimmed and then crackled
with a sound reminiscent of thunder.
  "Damn.  I think you blew my fuse!"
  Then wind picked up inside the room: of course, with
none of the windows open this just meant that the air
in the room was circulating around and around;
assorted issues of Playboy and FHM ended up getting
scattered around the room.
  "You're making a mess!" Matthew complained.
  Finally, Matthew was bathed in a white light as the
sum total of God's powers were transfered to him.
  "It is done," God said.
  "Cool," Matthew said.
  "Do you now understand?" God asked.
  "What's with all these voices?" Matthew asked.
  "Those are the prayers from all six billion souls on
Earth."
  "Wow," Matthew said, "so I was doing you a favour
then by being an atheist, huh?  I mean, these prayers
are annoying.  I mean, they're all basically the same.
 Well, except for Osama Bin Laden's.  His prayers are
kind of funny.  He really wants you to lay waste to
Ame.rec.a and leave nothing standing?  Ha ha ha.  What
a tool!"
  "Indeed.  And people wondered why I didn't just give
him a stroke and be done with it!"
  "Hmm.  That's an idea!"
  "No wait!"
  "There.  He's dead.  Osama Bin Laden is dead.  Just
like that.  Hey!  That was fun!"
  "Don't do that!"
  "Oh come on!  With great power comes the great
responsibility to do whatever I damn well want!"
  "You mean... you like being God?"
  "Well, the bulk of the prayers are a pain.  They're
starting to give me a headache."
  "Ah!  So you want to give up the powers!"
  "I think so."
  "So soon!  Then I will take them b--"
  "Not so fast!  There's a simple solution really: I
make thousands of copies of myself and distribute the
powers evenly until they are managable.  I -- we --
could do a lot of good that way."
  "I won't work!" God said with a laugh.  "I created
angels and ended up with demons craving power for
themselves.  Same with the Saints: people would pray
to them and they wanted the power to answer people's
prayers themselves rather then forwarding the worthy
ones to me.  The more power you give, the more power
they want: that's why my minions are almost powerless
compared to me."
  "But I thought you were an ordinary human now?"
  "Um..."
  "It's going to take some getting used to, isn't it?"
  "What?"
  "Being powerless, I mean.  Now, let's see, there are
about 243 countries in the world.  The smallest
country in the world officially recognized by the
Usenetted Nations would be Tuvalu.tv with a population
of 11 636.  The largest country in the world, by
population, would be mainland Chi.net with a
population of over 1.3 billion.  Now, if I assign a
copy of myself to each country then that would be
discriminating against people in larger countries so
let's say for now I make one copy of myself for
Tuvalu.tv and 112 265 copies of myself for mainland
Chi.net..."
  "I'll leave you to work this out..."
  "To be distributed amongst the 22 provinces, 4
municipalities and 5 autonomous regions based on their
espective populations.  Same with all other countries
in the world, which means I'd need to make about 554
thousand copies of myself altogether.  Wait!  Where
are you going?"
  "Back to Heaven."
  "You can do that?"
  "Yes."
  "But you said you were powerless."
  "Oh.  Right.  Well, I reserved for myself the
ability to travel back to Heaven and also, from there,
the ability to travel anywhere in the world."
  "I see."
  "That's the only thing you can't do: go to Heaven. 
Otherwise, I am an ordinary person and you are
almighty."
  "That's not exactly what you promised."
  "Sue me," God said and then returned to Heaven.
  "Alright," Matthew said.  "I'll start by making 243
copies of myself and then they'll each make copies of
themselves as needed and so on and so on.  Now, let's
see, I guess that means each and every city - or town
for that matter - in the world with a population of
over 10 000 would get at least one copy of me with
about 1291 copies of me in Shang.hinet alone.
  "But, in that case, I can't have each and every copy
of me to be exactly the same.  For that matter, he
wouldn't be accepted by the local population.  I know!
 I will create wikicopies!  Each wikicopy of myself
with automatically modify itself slightly to resemble
the people it comes into contact with!  His
appearance, language, mannerisms and behaviour will
all come to resemble that of the people around him! 
Even his name will be changed to sound like a name in
the local language!  Very quickly, each wikicopy of
myself will be a distinct individual that would be
accepted by the local population!"
  And so it was done!  In a matter of minutes, 554
wikicopies were created.  Matthew Petrie distributed
his powers evenly amongst all of them, leaving no
power for himself, thus enabling him to go on with his
ordinary life.

                        ACT II

  Mohammed Farsi was only five days old but he had
already cured more than seven thousand people.
  Five days ago he was created as a wikicopy of
Matthew Petrie, one of almost two thousand three
hundred such wikicopies created for Saudi Alt.rabia. 
They all very quickly changed their names, appearance
and mannerisms to blend in with their new environment:
most of them assumed given names like Mohammed or
Mustafa and family names chosen at random as though
picked out of the nearest phonebook.  Picking up the
local language was a bit more difficult: at first they
didn't say much, answering people's questions by
either nodding or shaking their heads based on the
images they were able to pull directly out of the
questioner's minds.  This turned out to be an
excellent way to learn a new language, especially for
people with Godlike powers.
  To say that Mohammed Farsi had personally "cured"
seven thousand people in less than five days is a bit
of an exaggeration, actually: most of these people
weren't actually terribly sick, they were merely
injured, infected or simply aging.  In less than a
minute, Mohammed was able to fix their injuries, cure
their infections and make them look and feel young
again, as necessary.  He would have also made
everybody highly intelligent but, really now, what
makes a person smart is even more subjective than what
makes them beautiful: most of the people he met seemed
to think they were already quite brilliant so he
decided not to alter the way anyone thought.  Indeed,
put that certain way, the whole idea was unthinkable,
given that Mohammed had retained Matthews moral quams
against mind control.

  Fei Mading was one of the approximately one thousand
three hundred wikicopies of Matthew Petrie now living
in Shang.hinet.  When they were first created, they
all stook out like sore thumbs as obvious foreigners
amongst the largely homogeneous Chinese population. 
Indeed, witnesses who spotted more than one would have
made a mental note about how much Westerners all seem
to look alike when they are seen in person.  In a
matter of minutes, however, their appearances changed
to fit their environment.    
  This wasn't the end of their problems, however: the
Chinese authorities are notoriously wary of "faith
healers".  Fei Mading's counterparts all over Chi.net,
therefore, found themselves answering difficult
questions about what they were doing and why: no they
weren't trying to found a new religion; in fact, it
wasn't faith healing at all because the sick, infirm
and aged were getting what they needed whether they
believed in them or not.  In fact, the sick, aged and
infirm were being helped, for efficiency's sake, even
if they weren't asking for help, as it was assumed
that everybody wanted to look and feel better. 
Indeed, nobody ever complained about them.  In fact,
the fact that nobody ever complained about them was
precisely what annoyed the authorities: these
newcomers were, by default, coming off as way too
popular for the comfort of those in government.

  There were about one thousand nine hundred
wikicopies of Matthew Petrie in Metropolitan Net.York
and over seven hundred in Net.York City proper.  Mark
Philips was one of the latter.
  For the first few minutes, Mark Philips' appearance
changed with every person he met: this was because
Net.York City's demographics mirrored the world's
demographics, except in reverse, with almost half of
the people being white and Asians only making up about
ten percent.  His appearance quickly stabilized into a
vague caucasion / "ethnic" mix that everybody seemed
ready to accept.  He was "the people's" demigod and
everybody could "smell what he was cooking".  He and
his fellow demigods (technically two-millionth-Gods)
all managed to gain a kind of fame, complete with
internet fansites.  Everybody wanted to know
everything about them: no, they didn't need to sleep
or eat or even relax, but they probably would soon
enough because with everybody in the world healthy and
happy there wasn't much else for them to do.

  "Damn him!" God said.
  "You know," an angel told him, "if you still had all
your powers, you could damn him yourself."
  God looked at his angel sternly.  "You never spoke
to me like that when I had the power to send you to
Hell!"
  "Umm," the angel hesitated, "you looked like you
needed someone to lighten the mood.  Seriously though,
from what I hear, Matthew Petrie's not doing a bad job
as your replacement: people are genuinely happy."
  God shook his head.  "The novelty will wear off. 
What happens when people start asking for more?  They
always do: it's human nature.  People measure their
happiness based on how much better off they are
compared to everybody else.  If everybody is happy
then, pretty soon, nobody will be happy."
  "So... what will you do."
  "I'm going to go speak to Matthew Petrie.  It's time
for him to give me my powers back."

  "Oh... God," Matthew said.  "You're back.  What do
you want?"
  "I want my powers back," God said.
  "Really?" Matthew said.  "I didn't realise you were
only giving them to me temporally."
  "I told you I was taking a vacation.  A rest.  I
want my powers back.  Now."
  Matthew thought for a moment.  "Isn't God supposed
to be infinitely powerful?"
  "Yes."
  "So why give me all your powers?  Why not half?  Or
a tiny fraction."
  "I wanted you to understand the huge responsibility
that being God entails."
  "Too much responsibility for any one person?"
  "Exactly!"
  "Including you?"
  "Excuse me?"
  "I seem to recall you taking a sissy fit and
drowning a whole lot of people in a Great Flood."
  "One time."
  "Really?  And what about the Asian earthquakes and
tsunamis?  Or the floodings in Net.Orleans and
B:angladesh?"
  "Not my fault."
  "Just acts of nature?"
  "Exactly."
  "Acts of... God?"
  "Not exactly."
  "Okay.  How about So.DOS and Gamor.rec?  Jeri.co? 
The Sa.LAN witch trials?  The Spanish Inquisition? 
The crusades?  Suicide bombers?  911?  The stonings of
infidels, adulterers and homosexuals?  All things done
by you or in your name?"
  "Your point?"
  "Don't you think, maybe, somebody could do a better
job?  It's been a week and now everybody is healthier
and happier.  There's hardly any crime now, let alone
terror."
  "It just isn't the way things were meant to be."
  "I see.  People are supposed to be miserable. 
Innocent people are supposed to die."
  "The powers are mine.  I want them back."
  "No."
  "No?"
  "Even if I wanted to give you your powers back, I
couldn't: I've given all your powers to my 554
thousand duplicates."
  "Five hundred and fifty four thousand?"
  "It was the only way.  You say man was created in
your image, but the reality is that everyone wants a
god in THEIR image.  That's what I provided for them."
  "I see."
  "So, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."
  God nodded.  "But there's something _I_ can do."
  "What's that?"
  "You'll see," God said crytically.
  God left Matthew to wonder what it was he meant.

                         ACT III 

  Father Miguel Perez had never meant an angel before
so he was a bit taken aback by what he saw.  "You
don't look like an angel."
  "What is an angel supposed to look like?"
  "Well... not like you."
  "What's that supposed to mean?"
  "Angels are supposed to look innocent."
  "Innocent?  We angels have been around for thousands
of years.  We've seen it all.  We're not innocent. 
Not anymore."
  "You look like John Travolta."
  "Is that good or bad?"
  "Where are your wings?"
  "They're folded down under my shirt."
  "May I see them?"
  "Why?  Have you got some bizarre wing fetish?"
  "No."
  "Do you want me to pull down my pants so you can see
my dick too?"
  "Absolutely not!"
  "Let's get straight to the point, okay?  The
Antichrist is upon us!"
  "The antichrist?"
  "Yeah.  I'm placing a mental image in your mind. 
This is the image of the Antichrist."
  "Okay."
  "Now, that being said, he might not actually look
like that.  He can change form, of course."
  "Of course."
  "But basically that's what we have to go with."
  "Alright."
  "Now, this Antichrist has stolen power from God."
  "Oh dear!"
  "So God needs everybody's help."
  "To do what?"
  "Let me finish.  God needs everybody to route out
these Antichrists."
  "Plural?  There's more than one?"
  "There are many.  You yourself were probably visited
by one."
  "Me?  You mean..."  Miguel looked down at his right
knee, the one that had been plagued with arthritis. 
"Him?"
  "That's right."
  "He is the Antichrist?"
  "One of them."
  "But he seemed like a good man."
  "Don't be deceived!  He is evil!"
  "What would you have us do?"
  "Denounce them!  Tell everyone that to worship them
is the same as worshipping Satan himself!"
  "But we weren't worshipping them!"
  "Good!  Don't start!"
  "Wait!"
  "What?"
  "How do I really know you're an angel sent from
God?"
  The angel nodded.  "Very well."  The angel took off
his shirt and unfolded his wings.  He flew in the air
above Father Miguel.
  "They're... beautiful!"
  The angel shook his head.  "I knew it!  You're a
wing fetishist!  You guys make me sick!"

  Angels met with relgious leaders all over the world:
priests, ministers, bishops, cardinals, rabbis, amans,
iyatolahs, they all received the same message, namely
that the Antichrist was both one person and many and
that they had probably already met him/them and that
they should speak out against him/them in their
churches, synagogues and mosques.
  The reaction in the Arab world was... predictable.

  "Mohammed's counterpart is among us!" Iyatolah
Mustafa claimed.  "He is a Westerner disquised as one
of us!  He has come here in the guise of friendship to
deceive us and corrupt us!  He has stolen Allah's
power!  It is the duty of all moslems to destroy him! 
We must destroy both him and all infidels!  God is
great!"

  Mohammed Farsi was one of these "counterparts of
Mohammed".  Of course, all he had to do was move to
another part of Saudi Alt.rabia and, just like that,
he didn't have to worry about anybody recognising him.
 Living amongst the local people had changed him in
ways that went beyond his physical appearance,
however: he had also picked up some of their
attitudes.  And, now, faced with the idea that the
people he had been helping now wanted to destroy him,
he couldn't help but feel a bit... bitter.
  "What would Iyatolah Mustafa have us do?" he asked a
local aman.
  "He wants us to crush all infidels!" the aman said.
  "All of them?"
  "Yes!"
  "Why?"
  "Because... because that is what God wants!"
  "And God is great."
  "Exactly!"
  "I see."
  "If you martyr yourself in the name of God then God
will send you to paradise."
  "Paradise?"
  "Yes!  A beautiful garden filled with beautiful
virgins who will satisfy your every sexual desire
until the end of time!"
  "But if the garden is full of virgins then maybe
they won't, you know, give it up."
  "Oh but they will!  God has decided that they will."
  "God... the pimp."
  "Exactly!"
  "But if they DO give it up then they won't be
virgins, will they?"
  "Oh but they will!  They revert to being virgins
every time!"
  "Cute trick."
  "So... what do you say?"
  "Let's see..." Mohammed Farsi said.  "You want me to
wipe out evil."
  "Yes!"
  "Because wiping out evil is for the greater good."
  "Exactly!
  "And you're telling me everybody in this country
feels the same way you do?"
  "All the faithful, yes!"
  "Alright then!"
  "So will you become a suicide bomber in the name of
infinite justice?"
  "Damn straight!" Mohammed Farsi said and with a wave
of his hand all of Saudi Alt.rabia... ceased to exist.

                         ACT IV

  "What the hell happened?!"
  >>You're asking me?<<
  Fei Mading didn't feel comfortable communicating
with everyone of his counterparts all over the world
telepathically: too many of them talking all at the
same time and, plus, there were all those prayers in
the background.  So he picked up a cell phone and
called one on the other side of the world, namely Mark
Philips of Net.York City.
  "Nobody over here seems to have a clue."
  >>Well, my guess is that it was one of us.<<
  "Why?"
  >>Did you see the street protests on television? 
They were calling for the Loonited States to be wiped
off the face of the Earth.  Maybe one of us
appreciated the irony.<<
  "Do you think this was the right thing to do?"
  >>Not at all.  This will only make things worse.<<

  "Those Saudis got what they deserved!" Rat Pobertson
declared on his early morning 666 Club TV show. 
"Muslims everywhere need to be wiped off the face of
the Earth!  We must finish the job that God started!
  "Indeed, this is clearly an act of God!  The same
God that wiped out the Nephalim in the Great Flood! 
The same God that destroyed So.DOS and Gamor.rec! 
It's good to have the old vengeful God back!"

  "The enemy has struck a powerful blow against us!"
Iyatolah Mustafa declared.  "Mec.com: gone.  Medi.net:
gone.  Twenty six million of our moslem brothers and
sisters: gone.  But they will not go unavenged!  You
must strike out against the West at every oportunity! 
Consider this a test of your faith!"

  "I have to do something," God said.
  "What?" an angel asked him.
  "I don't know."
  "Then don't do anything.  That's what you do most of
the time, right?  You don't interfere."
  "Except this time I feel... responsible."
  "How ironic then that there seems to be nothing you
can do."
  "Indeed.  I always used to let things slide because
I figured if things ever got really bad I could just
step in and fix things."
  "You know, a great writer once said 'With great
power comes... great responsibility!'"
  God sighed.  "He was wrong.  It is those who have
little power who must do all they can do."
  "So what _can_ you do?"
  "Speak to them."
  "As God?"
  "Yes."
  "You can send us angels..."
  "No!"  God rolled his eyes.  "Thank you.  I'll do
this myself."  He thought for a moment.  "But you can
help me."

  Moments later, God appeared in Times Square in
Net.York City.  With the angel's help, he was able to
also appear on the big television screen above
everyone.
  "People of Net.York, I... am God."
  "You're not God!" somebody shouted.
  "God is a man!" somebody added.
  "Yeah!  What's with the humongous hooters?" somebody
asked.  "And the second nose?"
  "He _is_ God," Mark Philips assured everyone.
  "How do you know?"
  Mark used the power that was once God's to make he
and God appear enormous in front of the crowd, not
just up on the screen but live-and-in-person, sitting
on the roof tops of adjacent skyscrapers.
  "Careful," God said.  "We don't need another 911."
  "These buildings will stand," Mark assured him.
  "I want my power back," God said.
  "Okay."
  "Okay?" God asked.  "Just like that?"
  "Not just like that," Mark Philips said.  "We want
to continue to exist.  We're not just copies of
Matthew Petrie anymore.  We are 554 million unique
individuals now.  We deserve to continue to exist."
  "And the twenty six million people in Saudi
Alt.rabia?  Did they not deserve to continue to
exist?"
  "It was one of our counterparts in Saudi Alt.rabia
who did that, of that we are now sure.  He must have
destroyed himself in the process, along with all of
his own counterparts in that country.  I guess he was
acting as the mother of all suicide bombers.  It seems
he was trying to make a point.  It's just too bad
people didn't pick up on it."
  "Yes.  Too bad."
  "We've done a lot of good.  Cured many diseases.  As
far as we know, the entire world is disease free."
  "A lot of good?  With the world disease free, we can
expect people to live longer and more babies to be
born.  In ten years, tops, the world's population will
double.  Who will feed all those people?  You?"
  "The world's population was going to double anyway
eventually.  Tell you what: we can just reduce
fertility rates worldwide."  Mark snapped his fingers.
 "There.  It's done.  It's now much harder for women
to become pregnant.  So much for the 'harm' we've
done."
  "You think you have all the answers."
  "No," Mark admitted, "so it's time we gave you your
powers back.  Do we have a deal?"
  "A deal?"
  "You get your powers back and we continue to exist."
  "Very well."
  "Are you sure?" Mark asked.  "Because everybody is
watching," he said, refering to the people down below.
 "If you can't trust God..."
  "God speaks the truth!" God insisted.
  "Then we have a deal?"
  "Yes," God decided.  "You give me my powers back and
you all continue to exist."  He cringed.  "Just do
it."
  And so God was granted back all of his powers.  Just
like that.  And Mark Philips reverted back to being
just another face in the crowd.
  God, meanwhile, remained Gigantic.  "I, God, order
all of you to love one another!  Christians, Jews,
Moslems, Hindus, you are all my children!  You must no
longer kill each other in my name!  That is all."  He
returned to Heaven.

  As a result of God's short speech in Net.York, Rat
Pobertson was discredited and his 666 Club was taken
off the air.  Meanwhile, Iyatolah Mustafa was dragged
through town and beheaded: in all fairness, they
blamed him for the twenty-six million deaths in Saudi
Alt.rabia and the destruction of Medi.net and Mec.com.
 In their culture, it was necessary that someone else
be blamed: it was inconceivable for them to blame
themselves.

  Meanwhile, in Heaven, God sighed a sigh of relief. 
"Typical Phipps story.  Always a happy ending."
  An angel looked at him in surprise.  "This is the
LNHY Looniverse, not the mainstream LNH Looniverse. 
Are we supposed to be breaking the fourth wall?" he
asked.
  God just scoffed.  "I'm God.  I'll break the fourth
wall if I damn well feel like it.  I can do anything I
want."

                        THE END

Martin

God created by Arthur Spitzer

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