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Office”. When you’re selling there are basically two tactics: you sell (or appear to sell) cheaply. Generally this is the most winning argument, but the other trick is to insist you have something better, something unique. There’s little point in calling yourself Father or Reverend; that’s been done. Christ’s been depicted with children, puppies, sunbeams, rosebuds, but I haven’t spotted him lately toting major firepower.
    All morning I’d debated whether I should do more research and plotting, but… laziness always wins. Time for some events.
    Strong-arm. Strong-arm events. The Hierophant is cleaning a window; he glances quizzically at me. He labels me a tourist in need of directions or some municipal plod in search of a late payment. But I’m not that. I’m the commodity any church desires most. A walk-in.
    “I’d like to talk about my soul.”
    “I’m rather busy at the moment,” says the Hierophant.
    “But I need to talk. I’ve done something…” I planned to let the silence do the talking, but the Hierophant jumps in.
    “Have you killed someone?” The hopeful way he poses this question makes it evident that the penitent murderer is right at the top of his wish list. I’m annoyed I wasn’t ready for this, since conjuring up a non-existent stiff in a far-off country wouldn’t be that difficult, but instinctively I opt for the preconsidered story of the abyss tribulating me.
    “No.” I add, “Not yet.” Since that’s easy to add. “The abyss is drawing me in.” Which isn’t a lie.
    “What’s your name, son?”
    “Tyndale.”
    55

    TIBOR FISCHER
    Up close, the Hierophant is well mad. His glasses are cheap and his remaining hair is regimented not in the lamentable, denial style of older slapheads, but because everything is locked down. The emblem of the Marine Corps is perched on a shelf.
    He’s retained that military spickness. He’s a fighter, I’d guess, and as someone who’s not… I admire that.
    Being a fighter is often not much help. I’ve noticed that. Mind you, there was Gus, at my golf club. He played every day. Rain, cold didn’t matter. The coaches made a fortune out of him. He was obsessed, and made all the effort, but he wasn’t any good.
    He simply wasn’t. Even I managed to beat him. His ambition was modest: to play for the club in local competitions. For years and years, he waited. I greatly admired him for not giving up, because it’s easy to keep going if you get a whiff of success, but when you’re given bitterade year round, that takes stones.
    Gus did get his moment. The club’s team was swallowed up by the ground (new course, old, disrespected mineshaft) and while they ate hospital food, he represented the club. But that’s the exception.
    “Tyndale, the abyss is drawing us all in. We have to fight every day. Let me tell you about a young man who was standing where you are a few months ago. Dan. Dan was governed by the abyss, by decades of abuse of alcohol and drugs, by violence, by theft, but he got down on his knees and changed that.”
    Some short-sleeve shirts are hanging in the ajarness of a closet.
    Even at a distance I can see the shirts are spaced out precisely and they are ironed to perfection. I’ve got to say, as a slob, I’m impressed by discipline. Before I left for Miami, brushing my teeth was almost a full day’s programme.
    “Dan got down on his knees and arose a new man. He even had time for reconciliation with his three sons… although 56

    GOOD TO BE GOD
    the reconciliation wasn’t as long-lived as it should have been, because of his fork-lift truck accident the next day.”
    Is Dan and the fork-lift truck quite the advertisement the Hierophant intends? The Hierophant invites me to sit and I give out a carefully edited list of facts about myself. Mystery enriches. Keep it subcutaneous.
    “I was called here,” I say.
    “We have special soul-clearance techniques here,” the Hierophant replies. “Tyndale, we can make sure