Read Online Can and Can'tankerous by Harlan Ellison (R) - Free Book Online
Authors: Harlan Ellison (R)
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of the detention cell, dissolved into a puddle of sludge in order to rid himself of an annoying itch in his upper eyeball sphincter, and reformed beside the little tv table bearing the last of the doughnuts. He studied the pastries remaining, and muttered, “Glazed. I hate glazed. Serves us right for sending a goy to buy them. You say raised , they hear glazed. Feh.”
The other jailer, the younger, #7, made a retching sound and sent an extrusion of holy greenish flesh across the stone floor of the cell, to tap #12 on his third leg. “ Now who’s complaining? This coffee was wretched when Hector was a pup.”
But he drained off the last of it, set the Styrofoam cup on the metal bunk, and watched as it cornucopially refilled itself. With cold, bitter coffee.
“So, listen, 12, how did you get into this line of work?” He was young, perhaps only an eon and a half, and still naïve. As if one “got” into this line of work. All but the freshest arrivals knew that in the realm of divine light beyond the universe through the divine emanation (usually referred to on the Celestial Ephemeris as RDLBUTDE, which was a strictly noxious acronym, unpronounceable even to the most linguistically accomplished seraph) pulling guard duty over the divine spark was shit detail reserved for Archons who had somehow royally cheesed off The Old Man.
#12 grimaced. Spending a century or two with this pimply-pricked kid would undoubtedly make him unfit for decent service anywhere in the universe when his tour was up. He thought once again, as he always did when he was a short-timer, of opting for rebirth. But when the time came, and he checked out the condition of the Real World, it was always dirtier and dumber than he’d left it, so he inevitably re-upped. Six hundred and eleven times, to date.
In the corner, glowing fitfully, the divine spark of the human soul reeled off the totality of public utterances once spoken by Billy Sunday and Aimee Semple McPherson, and began to make in-roads on the private ruminations of Oral Roberts.
#7 threw the Styrofoam cup at the divine spark. “Will you, in the name of all that’s holy, shut the hell up for just five bloody minutes!?!” The divine spark paid no attention, cranky as usual, and more than a trifle meanspirited, and footnoted its Swaggart sayings with minutiae from Anita Bryant, one of the latter day saints.
“Well, kid,” #12 said, preening his pinfeathers, “I got into this line of work by creating okra.”
“Say what?”
“Okra. You know, okra. It’s green.”
“I thought she was black. Well, dark-brown, actually.”
“Not Oprah , kid! Okra. The vegetable.”
“You pulled divine spark jailer duty for creating a vegetable ?”
“It wasn’t a reward. It was a punishment.”
“For a vegetable ?”
“Clearly, kid, you have never tasted okra. It was purely not one of my best ideas.”
The kid, #7, sighed. “Oh, now I get it,” he said. “This is The Old Man’s way of kicking me in the ass. I thought I was pulling down cushy duty, something that’d look good on my resumé. Boy, talk about not knowing what’s happening.”
#12 was intrigued. What could this young Archon have done that could equal the nastiness of okra? He asked the kid.
“Beats me,” #7 said. “I’ve only done a couple of things all told. How long, uh, does one figure to be on this detail?”
“Well,” #12 said, “I’ve been watching this stupid spark for eight hundred thousand years, Real World time.”
“For a vegetable ?”
“I’m up for reassignment in about sixty-five years. I’m short. I can do it standing on my head.”
“Holy…The Old Man must’ve been really honked at me. I saw my dossier. I’m on this duty till Hell freezes over, which I understand doesn’t happen for another million and a half years.”
“So what’d you do?”
“I created the mail order catalogue. Junk mail.”
“You’re in it, kid. For a long time. Well and truly.”
In the corner, the
The other jailer, the younger, #7, made a retching sound and sent an extrusion of holy greenish flesh across the stone floor of the cell, to tap #12 on his third leg. “ Now who’s complaining? This coffee was wretched when Hector was a pup.”
But he drained off the last of it, set the Styrofoam cup on the metal bunk, and watched as it cornucopially refilled itself. With cold, bitter coffee.
“So, listen, 12, how did you get into this line of work?” He was young, perhaps only an eon and a half, and still naïve. As if one “got” into this line of work. All but the freshest arrivals knew that in the realm of divine light beyond the universe through the divine emanation (usually referred to on the Celestial Ephemeris as RDLBUTDE, which was a strictly noxious acronym, unpronounceable even to the most linguistically accomplished seraph) pulling guard duty over the divine spark was shit detail reserved for Archons who had somehow royally cheesed off The Old Man.
#12 grimaced. Spending a century or two with this pimply-pricked kid would undoubtedly make him unfit for decent service anywhere in the universe when his tour was up. He thought once again, as he always did when he was a short-timer, of opting for rebirth. But when the time came, and he checked out the condition of the Real World, it was always dirtier and dumber than he’d left it, so he inevitably re-upped. Six hundred and eleven times, to date.
In the corner, glowing fitfully, the divine spark of the human soul reeled off the totality of public utterances once spoken by Billy Sunday and Aimee Semple McPherson, and began to make in-roads on the private ruminations of Oral Roberts.
#7 threw the Styrofoam cup at the divine spark. “Will you, in the name of all that’s holy, shut the hell up for just five bloody minutes!?!” The divine spark paid no attention, cranky as usual, and more than a trifle meanspirited, and footnoted its Swaggart sayings with minutiae from Anita Bryant, one of the latter day saints.
“Well, kid,” #12 said, preening his pinfeathers, “I got into this line of work by creating okra.”
“Say what?”
“Okra. You know, okra. It’s green.”
“I thought she was black. Well, dark-brown, actually.”
“Not Oprah , kid! Okra. The vegetable.”
“You pulled divine spark jailer duty for creating a vegetable ?”
“It wasn’t a reward. It was a punishment.”
“For a vegetable ?”
“Clearly, kid, you have never tasted okra. It was purely not one of my best ideas.”
The kid, #7, sighed. “Oh, now I get it,” he said. “This is The Old Man’s way of kicking me in the ass. I thought I was pulling down cushy duty, something that’d look good on my resumé. Boy, talk about not knowing what’s happening.”
#12 was intrigued. What could this young Archon have done that could equal the nastiness of okra? He asked the kid.
“Beats me,” #7 said. “I’ve only done a couple of things all told. How long, uh, does one figure to be on this detail?”
“Well,” #12 said, “I’ve been watching this stupid spark for eight hundred thousand years, Real World time.”
“For a vegetable ?”
“I’m up for reassignment in about sixty-five years. I’m short. I can do it standing on my head.”
“Holy…The Old Man must’ve been really honked at me. I saw my dossier. I’m on this duty till Hell freezes over, which I understand doesn’t happen for another million and a half years.”
“So what’d you do?”
“I created the mail order catalogue. Junk mail.”
“You’re in it, kid. For a long time. Well and truly.”
In the corner, the
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