HeBReWReVoLuTioN
Judah Maccabee spat a curse, reached out to slam the laptop shut, and threw both hands in the air instead. Rivka kept telling him it was a waste of time watching World Jews Tonight. Why do you want to raise your blood pressure with all that bad news, she would ask. Earth's a billion miles away on a whole other plane of existence, for cat's sake.
"Because it matters," he grumbled in response to her imaginary carping. "I didn't die watching my own guts spill out on the hills of Elasa so Jews could put up Hanukkah bushes in December. They might as well burn offerings to Apollo."
Rivka called out from the kitchen, "Did you say something, dear?"
Shaking his head as much to clear it as deny he'd spoken, he replied, "Ah, no, honey. Just watching the news."
"Well, dinner's almost ready. Florence and Chaim'll be here in five minutes."
He fumbled around the surface of the desk, frowning. Where did I--
"Your sunglasses're in the top right drawer," Rivka supplied helpfully.
*
As Judah helped himself to another square of kugel, Rivka said, "So, Chaim, I hear you're in for a promotion. Moving into, what did your uncle call it? Qantas tunnels? So you'll be stopping plane crashes?"
"Quantum tunneling," Chaim said with a smile. "I'll be an assistant project manager on Heisenberg's team."
"Excuse me. Quantum tunneling." Rivka winked at Judah, who had dipped his kugel into the last remnants of brisket gravy on his plate. "Why assistant? Shouldn't you be a full manager by now?"
Chaim turned to smile at Florence. "I could, but then I'd have to go up the Ladder. Take on a new form. Florence and I talked about it, and I'd rather stay here for another century."
Beaming quite literally, Florence squeezed Chaim's arm. She taught souls in the Guf everything they needed to know before conception, and the joy of her work manifested itself in a glow that rivaled the Sun.
"Ach. Such lovebirds," Rivka said, somewhat wistfully.
It occurred to Judah that in his life and youth, he might have given Rivka a mouth-bruising kiss at this point, something promising a night of lovemaking that would make Solomon himself add a Parental Advisory sticker to his Song of Songs had it been described therein. He still could; after all, they were both in youthful, beautiful bodies of spirit made flesh, and the way she'd bent over to take the brisket out of the oven had reminded him why he'd married her 1093 years ago.
But he was still so damned mad.
What in Sheol is happening down there? Is it the fat guy with the beard? A real Hanukkah celebration would have a ceremonial Greek getting his head caved in with a hammer--
"What's wrong, Judah? You're a million miles away," Rivka said.
"Sorry," he muttered, put a fake smile on his face, and asked Chaim, "How did you celebrate Hanukkah? In your life. It's getting to be that time of year down there."
Grimacing thoughtfully, Chaim replied, "Well, I didn't spend a lot of time alive, but from what I remember, we lit the menorah, ate latkes, and got presents every day for eight days. Water pistols, action figures, that kind of thing." Something in Judah's expression must have concerned him, because he added, quickly, "We said the brucha, of course, Uncle Judah. If you want, I can bring over the DVDs. Most of them are still in the packaging."
Judah shook his head. Chaim was a nice kid, but he'd been part of the problem.
*
Rivka waited until the credits rolled on The Will & Oscar Comedy Hour to say, "So. Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or are we playing Twenty Questions?" She put the TV on mute.
Judah started to shrug, thought better of it, and said, "Just the time of year. You know."
"Ach. Every year we do this," she said. "Does Mattathias brood every Hanukkah? No."
Scowling, he leaned toward her in his Barcalounger and said, "Mattathias doesn't care about what happens to our people anymore. He's up in Tiferet somewhere making cat souls."
"Exactly!" she exclaimed. "He's moved on. Like you should."
"So you want to go up the Ladder? Move out and start, I don't know, as thought-forms in some crystal matrix in an antimatter galaxy? Or making cat souls with my brother?"
"It's better than this...this sulking!" she flared.
God, she was beautiful, with her dark, angry eyes and her brown hands fisted in her lap. Without another word, he rose, pulled her into his arms, and carried her to the bedroom.
But it wasn't as good as he'd hoped. His mind was still elsewhere.
*
Pulling open the huge brass door to Val's, Judah braced himself for the hollered, "JUDE!" that greeted him. He hated being called Jude, but his time among fighting men had taught him that complaining about a nickname only cemented it further. At least it wasn't Dogmeat or something equally disparaging.
As usual, Axayacatl was holding forth at the corner table, drinking a can of pulque and demonstrating to a Norman-looking officer-type how the macuahuitl, a wooden Aztec sword edged with flakes of obsidian, could slice through an entire cactus with a single swipe. Pity the Spanish weren't wearing fucking cactuses instead of steel, then. You guys might still be top dog in Mexico. Grinning briefly at the hawk-faced man, Judah shouldered his way to the bar and sat in his usual spot, right by the jukebox. It was a peculiarity of the saloon's physics that wherever you were sitting, you had a perfect view of the door: a touch the more seasoned veterans appreciated.
A cold can of PBR appeared at his elbow in a flash of light, and his respectful thank you to Uziel, the archangel bartender, earned him a tipped wing in return. Very few of the angel types liked to hang out on this level of Heaven, but as an old campaigner himself, Uziel apparently enjoyed the company of warriors.
"Merry Christmas," Carlos said from the stool next to him.
"Mot hai ba yo," Judah responded, lifting his can and drinking.
Carlos uttered a low chuckle. "Don't usually see you here on a Sunday. Rivka nagging you about the whole spiritual evolution thing?"
It came out before he could stop it. "It's all the Hanukkah bullshit down on Earth. We fought like hell and died like dogs, and for what? So Jewish kids could get Spider-Man dolls and latkes after lighting a fucking candelabra? Half of them are putting up Christmas lights." He drained a long swallow of beer. "Fucking Christmas lights!"
Raising an eyebrow, Carlos said, "So what would you have them do? Set up ambushes for anyone coming out of a Greek diner?"
"I don't know," Judah said, shaking his head. "It's just bullshit."
Uziel drifted over, wiping out a whiskey tumbler with a bar rag. "I hear you. It's the commercialization of the season, man. They took the Christ out of Christmas and now it's all about trees, lights, and door-buster savings at Kohl's. I saw on World Weekly News that some mortals're camping out in front of Best Buy while the Thanksgiving turkey gravy's still damp on their shirtfronts. Literally." Two fingers of Glenmorangie appeared at the bottom of the tumbler. "It's the fat guy, man. Ever since they made that two-bit Greek St. Nicholas the party planner for Jesus' birthday, it's all gone downhill."
"More Greeks," Judah muttered.
Teleporting the scotch to Alvin York's table across the bar, Uziel nodded. "I argued with the Boss about it, too. I said, 'Once you start mollycoddling 'em with tinsel and, and snowglobes and shit, you...uh...you separate 'em from what really matters.'" He thumped his mantled chest twice with a fist. "Tryin' to keep it real, you feel me?"
Carlos nodded at Uziel, drained the rest of his Schlitz, and hopped off the bar stool. "Take it easy, Jude," he said. "See you Wednesday at Gunnlaugr's."
"Yeah. I'll bring the chips," Judah said without turning around, and endured the other man's departing hand-clap on the shoulder.
"Just tryin' to keep it real," Uziel repeated.
Judah peered at the angel. "What the hell does that have to do with Hanukkah?"
Lifting both of his perfect, marble-white hands, Uziel said, "Hey, don't kill the messenger, man. Once Santa Claus got minted, all the winter holidays took it in the shorts. Both the old and the new stuff got all dicked up with toys and department store adverts."
"And Hanukkah's the old stuff."
Uziel shrugged one shoulder, making a wing rustle. "Old Testament, old stuff. And don't get me started on Kwanzaa."
"Yeah." Judah drank his beer in silence for a little while, and just as the angel started to turn away, said, "So what did the Boss say?"
"About what?"
Glowering at him from under the shelf of his brows, Judah grated, "About the mollycoddling and commercialization of the holiday season."
Uziel snorted. "What He always says about everything, man: don't worry about it."
"Oh, Jesus Christ."
"Yeah, man. Literally."
*
Judah squinted up at Uziel, folding his arms. In the dim, reddish gloom the Horsehead Nebula afforded, it was impossible to determine the angel's facial expression. "You sure this's going to work?"
"Totally, man. How else do the Thrones and Principalities and the rest of those guys get down the Ladder?" Uziel pointed a forefinger. "They jump off the Edge."
"And it's a straight shot down?"
"A straight shot down."
Right before last call, Uziel had said, Instead of just bitching about it, why not do something? I can get you right to him, man. Take out Kris Kringle and you'll be home in time for cornflakes. When Judah pointed out that he'd gotten that line from Total Recall, the angel had just shrugged.
Overall, it should work. By killing him, Judah would be sending the Greek right up to Heaven, so he'd be doing him a favor. Uziel's first suggestion had been to just teleport Judah to the North Pole, but Judah had nixed the idea. Who knew what defenses the old man had out there, surrounded by men (well, elves) and materiel? Judah was a guerrilla fighter, not a first-man-up-the-siege-ladder-type.
So now they stood at the Edge of Heaven.
"You ready?" Uziel asked.
Swallowing, Judah nodded.
"Oh, almost forgot, man." The angel reached out, plucked a feather from his left wing, and handed it to him. "Don't drop this. With it, you can see things no one else can see. Do things no one else can do."
Judah slipped the feather into his pocket. "You got that from Big Trouble in Little China."
"Yeah, man. Great movie."
"So, I guess this is it, then."
"Yeah. Seeya when you get back."
"Yeah."
"Yeah."
"See you in the Promised Land. Arrivederci, baby," Judah said, stepping off the edge.
The last thing he heard Uziel say was, "Huh? What?"
*
Down he plunged, the wind whipping his hair around his face and setting a roaring in his ears that deafened him. He had to close his eyes against the discomfort, and in doing so, almost missed the sight of the Earth rushing toward him way, way, way too fast.
What was I thinking? Do I get to go back to Heaven if I end up as a splat of strawberry jam on the Peruvian Nazca Lines, or will I just wake up in Hell?
In moments, he was in too much pain to care. Flames licked at him, singing his clothing at first, then scorching his flesh. He became a smoldering skeleton, and a fireball not long after. His brains boiled, his liver roasted, and his eyes fried. The feather was gone, burnt to ash. If his lungs weren't charcoal, he'd have screamed them out. With what was left of his mind, he imagined Uziel saying something like, Yeah, man, the fall sucks, but it's the landing that's a bitch.
After an eternity of agony, he found himself shouting, "Auuuuuggghhhhh FUCK, that hurt!" and it was a blessing because it meant he had a mouth to scream and ears to hear himself doing it. This was followed by an uncontrollable, even painful urge to sneeze, so he did it four times in quick succession until he could pull Uziel's feather completely out of his nose.
Can't lose this, he thought, and placed the damp, snot-covered thing carefully into the pocket of his white satin trousers.
What the hell am I wearing? And why am I in a chapel?
Blinking, he looked around. In front of him stood a heavily tattooed young woman with a shiny, flushed face standing next to a man about the same age with enough facial piercings to make one think he'd fallen into a tackle box. Both wore rented, ill-fitting formal outfits and matching expressions of shock and horror.
The gut Judah now sported made it impossible to see his shoetips, but from the sequined jacket and heavy sunglasses, he immediately tricked to what body he occupied.
Bastard. He planted me in one of the late-70's impersonators, too.
"I, uh, now pronounce you man and wife. Uuuh huh," Judah said, making a vague, benedictory gesture with one pudgy, ringed hand. "You may kiss the brahd."
Without waiting for a response, he did a quick pelvic thrust, pushed up his glasses, and ran out of the chapel.
*
You'd think as big as this guy is, his body'd be able to take a few hours in the cold, Judah thought, trying to suppress the involuntary shivering. Persistent physical discomfort wasn't something he'd had to experience for over two thousand years, and telling himself to man up didn't help. The rooftop on which he lay prone had leached away every last iota of body heat his overfed form possessed, and if he took his hands off the sniper rifle to blow on them, he might miss his one chance to blow St. Nick out of the night sky.
Why the hell didn't I make the clerk give me his coat as well as the gun? Dummy. At least the feather worked out like Uziel said. As crusted with snot as it was, all Judah had to do was hold it and people did the things he asked, like give him expensive long guns and cab rides to the suburbs. The Winchester Model 70, chambered for .30-06 Springfield rounds, was an extraordinary weapon, and when the gun shop clerk had brought it out, Judah could immediately see why Carlos talked so much about it. If I'd had just five of these and a couple hundred rounds of ammo, there would've been no way the Greeks could've outflanked us in the hills.
He would have liked to have taken his massive, gold-framed sunglasses off to see through the scope better, but they had prescription lenses. Without them, the reticles blurred to invisibility. If Uziel wasn't full of it, Santa should be here any minute--
There he was! Without the feather, Judah would have never seen the sleigh streaking across the sky, never heard the bells jingling on the harness. The whole thing was exactly like he'd expected: eight flying reindeer, their hooves stroking the air as if it were water, pulling along a massive wooden sleigh. On the seat was Santa Claus: red coat, white beard and all, just like the Coke adverts, and behind him a huge green bag filled, no doubt, with presents for the good little children and coal for the bad ones.
Judgmental prick, Judah thought, expelled a breath, and centered the reticle on Santa's head. He won't feel a thing. He'll just wake up in Heaven.
He pulled the trigger.
That he actually hit anything without having zeroed the weapon or adjusted for windage and elevation was incredible: a one-in-a-million shot. Even Donner, the poor reindeer who took it in the gut, might have been impressed if he wasn't bellowing in pain.
Damn it. Judah worked the action, took out the brass, and fed in a new round, but by the time he'd put his eye to the scope, the sleigh was already plunging to the ground. Gonna have to catch up to him on foot.
*
After running less than two blocks Judah was out of breath, and after three he had to veer into a bougainvillea bush bordering a nativity scene to throw up. I hope this job doesn't kill him. Me. Chest pains notwithstanding, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and went at a jog, trying to find a track, a blood trail, some spoor, something to indicate where Santa's sleigh had crashed.
Nothing. All he could see were tract homes after tract homes, distinguished only by the model of car in the driveway and the profusion of Christmas lights in the yard. Some went all out with multicolored flashing bulbs, massive inflatable Santas, and animatronic reindeer that cocked their heads, while others were more subdued: white icicle lights and wreaths. He could wander Cactus Ave to Cactus Rd to Cactus Ln for hours and not find--
"Just go, Nick. Don't worry about me. Just do the job."
The voice was low, whispered, urgent. But where was it coming from? Cactus Blvd or Cactus Pl?
"We gotta get you to a vet or something, Don! I can't just leave you!"
That had to be Santa's voice: a basso rumble, shaky with concern.
Cactus Dr or Cactus Way?
"If it's my time, it's my time. Do it, Nick. Get out there and deliver those presents. Do it for the children."
Crossing Cactus St, Judah saw them at the corner of Cactus Ct and Cactus Ter: Santa's reindeer standing in a rough circle, freed from their harness and talking in low voices. Cupid and Vixen were faced outward, their black eyes bright with anger, while Prancer wept and Comet released frightened pellets of reindeer shit onto the asphalt. Santa Claus knelt in the center, pressing a handkerchief to the wounded Donner's abdomen.
They haven't scented me yet. Won't get a better chance.
Judah rested the barrel of the rifle on a mailbox, sighted, and shot again. At this range, he couldn't miss.
*
Fucker runs like a jackrabbit. Who'd've thought the old man had so much speed in him?
This time, he was easy to track. Judah had winged him, sending the reindeer scattering in terror and Santa sprinting down the street. They weren't used to being hunted, even if most of them were deer.
Keeping his eyes on the ground, Judah followed the scattered droplets of blood down Cactus Tr to a house with its porch lights on and a Christmas tree clearly visible from the front window. Damned coward, taking refuge in somebody's house. I'm not hurting anybody else, but they'd better stay out of my way.
Grimacing, getting maybe a teaspoonful of breath with each heave of his chest, he kicked the door open.
Nobody move! I just want Santa! he tried to say, but what came out was, "Heeeyeey hhhhehh, ssseeehhheehehh!"
Overall, it was actually a very nice house he'd broken into. Everything was tastefully done: the pillows on the couch in the front room matched the rug, the red and gold of Chagall's Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers brightened the taupe accent wall, and a faint hint of cinnamon scented the air from the Glade plug-in behind the TV. The small table by the door had a plate of cookies and milk for Santa, as well as a little dish of carrot sticks for the reindeer. Opposite the Christmas tree, a menorah bearing the melted stubs of Hanukkah candles sat on the mantelpiece, flanked by a Kiddush cup and a stack of kippot.
A tallish, balding man wearing a bathrobe stood protectively in front of the cowering Santa Claus, holding a fireplace poker in a shaking hand. Next to him in a matching bathrobe was a red-haired woman with a cell phone.
Judah took all this in in a heartbeat, thinking that Rivka might like one of the newer Chagall prints for her sewing room, and unslung the rifle. "Move...I...just...want...St...Nick," he managed between heaving breaths.
"I called the police! You...you just better get out of here!" the woman cried.
He couldn't point the rifle at innocent people, so he just held it at a low 45. "My beef's not with you. Get out of the way and nobody else has to get hurt."
From the top of the stairs, a small voice called out, "Mommy?"
"Please," the woman said. "Don't hurt my children."
"Jesus Christ, lady! What kind of man do you take me for?" Judah said.
"Uh, the kind who wants to shoot a Santa impersonator in my home."
"Hey! I'm not an impersonator," Santa Claus said. "I'm the real thing."
"Great," muttered the man with the poker. "Another lunatic. I told you we shouldn't've moved out here, Maureen."
"Not this again," Maureen said. "Long Island was better?"
"The food was."
This's starting to get out of control. Judah raised the rifle muzzle an inch. "I'm not going to say it again. Get out of the way."
"You just did," came a bored, teenage voice from the stairs.
Judah blinked. "Did what?"
"Said it again."
"Sharon Siobhan Shapiro-O'Shaughnessy! Take your brother and go to your room this instant!" Maureen shouted.
"Come on, Mom! I never get to do anything!"
This time, at this distance, I definitely can't miss. Judah slipped his finger into the trigger guard. It was time to end this and go home.
*
"Cease!" came a booming voice from behind him.
Getting soft in my old age--
Judah whirled, bringing up the rifle, but it was ripped from his hands by a tall, muscular man in matte black armor formed to resemble human musculature. His face was mostly obscured by a mask that left his mouth free and came to twin points near the top of his head.
Holy shit, it's--
The black figure grabbed Judah by his shirtfront, pulled him close, and said, "Your quest was doomed folly from the start, conceived in inebriation and executed with foolishness. 'Tis time for you to return from whence you came, if the Gates of Heaven will allow you entry."
"Says who?" Judah snarled.
"So say I, William Bradford, former Governor of Plymouth Colony, now inhabiting the body of Tyler Beyersdorf, actor in the MGM Grand's Justice League live-action show, held over for another month." He shook his head as if to clear it. "What wert thou thinking, foolish man?"
"I'm trying to save the holidays!" Judah hissed. "Take him out, and we end the commercialization--"
"SPARE ME!" Bradford shouted, shaking Judah so that his teeth rattled. "Do you think that you are the only one whose holiday was squeezed through the colon of modern culture until it came out shite at the other end?" He dropped the other man, pushing him away. "'What was once a celebration of thanks unto God is now a four-day weekend full of hormone-laced turkey and football games!"
"Yeah, but--"
"But naught! Your time here...our time is over. The wheels we set a-turning centuries past have spun in their own direction, and where they go is no longer our concern," Bradford intoned sententiously.
Judah's eyes flicked over to the fallen long gun.
"Try it not," Bradford said. "I am younger and stronger than thee, and will buffet thee across the head and shoulders most vigorously if challenged."
Judah slipped his hands into his pockets. "Fair enough. How did you know where I was?"
"Mine old comrade Myles Standish overheard thee in colloquy with the angel," Bradford replied. "When Uziel became sober once again, I went to him and demanded the means to an end to this madness." He stooped to pick up the fallen rifle and said, louder, "Our apologies for disturbing the sanctity of your home, good folk. I pray that in the fullness of time, you will find it in your hearts to forgive us."
"Uh...it's okay, I guess," said the man of the house, and put the poker back by the fireplace.
"What about him?" Maureen asked, jerking a thumb at Santa Claus.
Santa drew himself up to his full height and said, "It was only a flesh wound. Though...perhaps some of those cookies might help me feel better."
"We'd better get out of here before the police show up," Judah said.
"Mommy, am I dreaming?" the boy asked from the stairs.
"Nope. Batman stopped Elvis from murdering Santa Claus in the living room," his sister replied.
Bradford followed Judah out, shaking his head. "Returning to Heaven will not be an easy task," he muttered.
Judah walked a little bit ahead so he could lead them away from where Donner had crash-landed. "Oh, shit. How do we do it?"
"Swallow the feather."
Pulling his out of his pocket, Judah said, "Well, it's a little yucky, but it doesn't seem so bad."
"Where didst thou find thine?"
"Up my nose."
"I wish I had."
David Dubrow is a writer who lives on Florida's west coast. He has published two novels, several essays, and a non-fiction book on surviving a zombie apocalypse.
Review by Margaret
Dec 20 2014
2 of 2 liked this
Hilarious!
A demented pastiche with uproar for all. Loved it.
Would be delicious to read just a final paragraph with him back home--wife's comment, new attitude, condign punishment imposed by God, drinking-buddy summation, whatever.
Would be delicious to read just a final paragraph with him back home--wife's comment, new attitude, condign punishment imposed by God, drinking-buddy summation, whatever.