Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

Of Anal Probes and Ivermectin

Gabe surveyed the room. It hadn’t changed in a decade or so. To call the style eclectic was an understatement. An interior designer would not blush but run away screaming. It wasn’t the wall colour — white with gold highlights; nor the curtains — magenta with silver stars; nor even the travertine marble flooring. No, it was the clutter. A clutter that had no overarching theme. In normal rooms you at least knew in which century you were. But not in Peter’s office. A collection of parchment rolls lay in their usual spot a top of the IBM386 PC running Windows 95. Several leather-bound tomes sat open on top of the scanner, their yellow pages curling under the harsh white fluorescent tubes. Two harps were carelessly sitting on top of the wastepaper bin, two of their strings broken. Scanning the large room, he couldn’t see his boss for the collection of detritus — Ethiopian spears, Chilean Chinchorro mummies, a crate of Australian Grange Hermitage, Japanese paper screens, North American arrows…

Eventually, he spied Pete sitting in the corner, under the birdcage containing Barney, their stuffed parrot. Pete had his head in his hands and his boots rested on a small gold and ruby-inlaid throne. Eventually, Peter looked up at Gabe and blearily said a simple “Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt again, boss, but another group has arrived demanding entry. I’ve asked them to wait. The Big Boss wouldn’t be too happy if we let this lot in. They’re very demanding.”

“Another entitled lot,” said Peter. “What ever happened to the meek inheriting the earth?”

“Most of the meek are still down there, so I think Mathew 5:5 is okay for the moment.”

“I’m really not sure how things got so bad. We’ll have to have an enquiry. The Plan never anticipated such, such… stupidity. Honestly, we don’t have enough staff to process them all. It will take us ages to check their credentials.”

“We handled large numbers last century. Remember 1939 to 1945? That was an exhausting six years.”

“True, true,” nodded Peter, “but also recall that the vast majority were innocent of any real moral failing. They were either on the wrong side, part of machinations of a culture that they had little choice about, or simply innocent of any crime. And as for the Jews. Jeez, they were a shoe-in. No need to check them after what they had been through.”

“The Nazi cabal was a problem.”

“Your memory is fading, Gabe,” said Peter with a wan smile. “Remember? They went straight downstairs. We didn’t need to sort them at all. Along with Stalin’s goons, and a swag of those brutal Japanese with their strange ideas of honour.”

“That’s right. I remember now. They were more or less pre-sorted, weren’t they? Good of them to all carry those nifty little emblems that sent them so quickly to the right spot.”

“Don’t this lot have any items that we can use to pre-sort?”

“Strange you ask that. This rabble have lots of tattoos or small flags, or red baseball caps. The tattoos have pictures of the Eureka flag, the US flag — again — that’s always popular, and something that I haven’t been able to really work out. It says QANON or MAGA.”

“MAGA? QANON?”

“Beats me,” shrugged Gabe.

“And why the Eureka flag? That’s an Australian symbol, I recall. Used by small time gold miners who only wanted to make an honest quid against an oppressive colonial master.”

“… and the swastika was originally a Hindu symbol meaning good fortune. Hitler ruined it. A good start doesn’t mean it has a good end,” added Gabe.

“Well of course. It’s just that the Eureka flag is such a pretty little symbol — all twinkly in the right places — that it seems a shame that these people have debased it.”

“Them’s fightin’ words,” said Gabe, grinning.

“Honestly I’m fed up,” said Peter, taking his boots off the throne, standing up and giving his wings an angry shake. “The Boss gave them all very functional brains and yet so many of them are failing to use them properly. Their critical thinking skills seem to be nonexistent.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t wise of the Boss to go all hands-off after the Golden Boy was returned to us.”

“True. That probably has been His biggest mistake. No miracle has been promulgated since he left earth. The water to wine was the last biggy.”

“Loaves and fishes?”

“Hmm. Maybe. But I reckon the water to wine lark was more impressive. The loaves and fishes thing was just like whacking paper through a photocopier while the water to wine lark actually involved some clever molecular transmutations.”

“It wasn’t very good wine, though. Not quite a Grange or a 2014 Yellow Tail Shiraz.”

“Have you been at the cellar again, Gabe?” asked Peter raising an eyebrow.

“Me?” said Gabe innocently. “Actually,” said Gabe, his wings slumping, “it’s about the only thing that gets me through these long days. I am so disappointed with how the Plan is going. I really believed that humans were the pinnacle of the Boss’ creation, but every day I am thinking that it was the dolphins or other cetaceans which are top of the evolutionary tree. They don’t seem to be shitting in their nest like the humans — well, physically yes, but metaphorically no.”

“I know what you mean,” said Peter, “but it will do you no good in the long run to hit the bottle after work. You need other techniques to deal with your disappointment. Let’s go to the pub tonight, knock back a few and discuss strategies for improving your mental wellbeing without alcohol.”

Gabe looked at Peter and wondered if this was one big fat joke, but then the Boss had never forbidden cognitive dissonance amongst his arch-angels, and so this suggested that Peter was quite serious. Anyway, what was wrong with a few coldies after a hard day’s labour? “Sure,” he said. “Should we do something about the lot waiting in purgatory?”

“How many are there?”

“By category?”

“Yes, please.”

Gabe looked down at his clipboard. He had never got the hang of iPads and generally preferred the feel of a quill over a mouse. He was an old-fashioned kind of guy. “We have 456 Ivermectin, 48 bleach, 12 UV anal probes, 826 Hydroxychloroquine, 7900 unvaccinated and 3 vaccinated.”

“From which country?”

“AUKUS.”

“Where?”

“I believe it’s a new nation made up of countries that like nuclear submarines.”

“What?”

“It was apparently created last week. I haven’t caught up on the latest briefing from Newscorpse. My guess is that it has something to do with distracting the good denizens of Australia from their current woes caused by botched quarantine and vaccine rollout.”

“That’s pretty normal political behaviour. Not moral but normal,” sighed Peter. “At least there are no cow urine or dung victims, in that collection.”

“No. AUKUS is not Hindu. Predominantly Christian — well in the US bit of AUKUS.”

“So, you’re telling me that these so-called Christians have decided to ignore vaccinations in preference for a good dose of horse de-wormer?”

“Apparently.”

“The Boss gives them brains so that they can come up with a system of epistemology called ‘science’ but instead of using their Boss-given brains they go into la-la land and scoff horse-dewormer and stick light probes up their arse?”

“Apparently so.”

“And they think that they can enter heaven?”

“Camels and needles.”

“They’re all poor then?”

“No, I think there are a bunch of Pentecostal preachers amongst them. At least two own private jets and the size of their mansions are quite remarkable. Preaching the prosperity gospel is obviously lucrative.”

“They’re from Hillsong then?”

“Only the ones with BMWs.”

“Have you ever wondered why the poor put money in the plate every Sunday so their pastors can drive Beamers?”

“I have.”

“What did you conclude?”

“I have no idea whatsoever. Ever since the Pope abolished indulgences, I have no idea.”

“Neither have I,” sighed Peter. “Regardless, send all the pastors downstairs.”

“They’ll appeal,” said Gabe.

“I don’t care. They’re nuts. I’m tired. They go downstairs. But as for those three vaccinated ones? Let them in.”

“But we haven’t graded their sins,” protested Gabe.

“Come on, Gabe! It a bit of bad luck being vaccinated and still getting Covid. Give them a break. Let them in.”

“You're the boss.”

“Now, what about the large unvaccinated number. Could they not afford the vaccine?”

“No, AUKUS governments give the vaccine away for free.”

“Good. That’s just what I’d expect. Therefore, were they all immunocompromised or were they all afflicted with some other medical condition that the Big Boss had given them?”

“A few. Eighteen,” confirmed Gabe after checking his clipboard.

“Just eighteen? Righto. As long as they have no other Grade A blemishes, let them through. So, what about the others. What’s their excuse?”

“Eighty-two didn’t know about the vaccine being available and sixty-nine were too young.”

“They can enter.”

“Ninety-six were waiting for Pfizer.”

“Never satisfied. Their scientists come up with a perfectly good Astra-Zeneca vaccine and they don’t take it.”

“Because of the risk of blood-clotting apparently.”

“Didn’t they want to come to us?” said Peter with a wan smile.

“Not yet,” said Gabe.

“Let them in, even if they were just silly,” said Peter. “And?”

“Five thousand, nine hundred were Soviets.”

“Soviets?”

“That’s what it says here,” said Gabe squinting at the copperplate writing.

“Are you sure? The Soviet Union imploded years ago.”

“It clearly says ‘Soviets’, but you’re right about that implosion. Yeltsin and Gorbachev wasn’t it? I certainly know Yeltsin enjoyed a vodka after work.”

“It didn’t do him much good,” said Peter, “although I do believe he is in the fifth precinct harp orchestra. I heard them practising last week. God awful. Anyway, please check with the guard angels what they meant.”

Gabe fluttered down to the reception desk and questioned the two angels, who were struggling to keep the rabble quiet. “They keep saying they don’t have to follow the rules as they are Sovcits,” said one to Gabe.

“Sovcits and not Soviets? You wrote Soviet on the clipboard.”

The guard looked at what she had written. “Oh, sorry, sir. I think I was a bit frazzled.”

Gabe looked at the red-capped, flag-waving mob and felt sorry for the guard. “What are those in fluoro doing here?”

“Who sir?”

“The ones in hard hats. Aren’t they tradespeople?”

“Tradies, I believe they’re called.”

“Good. Put them to work. The plumbing needs repairing in the kitchens and then get the sparkies to fix up some of the lights in the main hall. It’s been looking a bit dingy since the Boss insisted on changing the chandeliers over to compact fluorescent lightbulbs last decade… and he used those harsh daylight white ones rather than warm white. Get them to put is some decent LED displays. They use even less power than CFLs. We’ve got to watch the budget. Anyway, I’ll report back to Peter and come back with his decision. Hang in there!” With a sympathetic look, a wave, and a genial stroking of the guard’s starboard wing, Gabe headed back to Peter’s office.

On entering, he saw Peter quickly sneaking the bottle of Scotch back into the bottom drawer. He pretended not to notice.

“So, what did they say?” asked Peter.

“Not Soviets. SovCits. Sovereign Citizens.”

“Oh for God’s sake! We don’t want them here.”

“I don’t know much about them,” admitted Gabe.

“They call themselves living people.”

“Well, they’re dead so they aren’t living, so there’s no problem.”

“If only it were so simple. Logic does not work with these … these … imbeciles. They’re happy to take all the benefits of civilisation but as soon as their supposed ‘rights’ are even slightly curtailed they throw a toddler tantrum and claim that they are not subject to laws because of the United Nations Magna Constitutional Legal Human Rights Act of 1326 or some such garbage. They are the ultimate plonker.”

“You don’t like them, I gather,” said Gabe.

“How did you guess?”

“So, what do we do with them?”

“Downstairs!”

“All of them?”

“All of them. Now I reckon that still leaves us with one thousand seven hundred and thirty-five unvaccinated humans without a reason.”

“Anti-vaxxers, sir,” said Gabe with conviction.

“Like an antimacassar? Keeps the grease off the chair?”

“What?”

“Joke, Gabe. Joke. I need something to make death bearable. Have you thought of anything so idiotic as anti-macassar, other than anti-vaxxer, I mean?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I’m just showing how stupid humans can be. Humans are vain. Back in the nineteenth Century some clever clogs in Britain realised just how much men were worried about going bald so invented a hair tonic which they said came from the mysterious island of Macassar in Indonesia. It was some weird oil — probably dredged up from the local abattoir — which was died black with octopus ink, goat urine and coal dust and smeared over men’s hair. This was all very well and it seemed to make the men feel virile and strong but it left a terrible greasy mess on the back of their high-backed chairs so the same people who invented Macassar came up with washable bits of cloth called anti-macassar which they draped over chairs. The purveyors of the macassar and the anti-macassar clipped the ticket at both ends and became incredibly rich.”

Gabe looked at Peter with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. “You are full of the most trivial information, Pete.”

“Passes the time,” said Peter. “I have been here for eternity and that’s a long stretch. It’s good to keep informed.”

“So what we going to do with the anti-vaxxers?”

“Downstairs with the lot of them.”

“But?”

“It’s deliberate ignorance on their behalf. There is so much reliable information out there to be found that they are being deliberately stupid. Downstairs they go.”

“Being ignorant isn’t a sin. Most of our believers are pretty ignorant.”

“True. Being ignorant is not a sin, but in this case being anti-vax is clearly immoral.”

“Immoral?”

“Absolutely. The Covid pandemic could be stopped in its tracks if everyone got vaccinated. Just as they got rid of Smallpox, they could eradicate Covid but because some of them are so fucking selfish, they won’t be able to do so and people will die. Many, many more people will die, mostly miserable deaths, well before their time.”

“You’re right,” said Gabe thoughtfully. “It is immoral. Thou shall not kill.”

“Nah. It’s not the fact of death so much,” said Peter. “They’ll all die eventually.”

“What then?”

“Work! Their anti-vaxxer stance means that we have millions more people clamouring to get into heaven when we just don’t have the infrastructure ready! We weren’t set up for this pandemic and they are making it worse. They are so thoughtless. Why does no one ever think of the angels? Send them down!”

“Fair enough,” said Gabe. “Can I have some of your Scotch?”