The Fixers

Jun 17, 2008 - 23:13 PM PST

God drives a Plymouth. It says so in the bible: “And with his [Plymouth] Fury he drove Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden”. Through time and space, he drives his Plymouth, occasionally picking up passengers willing to contribute to gas. The defined angles of the body shine with brilliant white paint, the hub caps reflect the sunlight from the west and moonlight from the east, and the car gives a satisfying rumble when God shifts into fourth. The car runs like new, straight-eight firing boldly and radio bellowing out Gabriel’s latest hit chorus. God is singing along in a bellowing tenor, with his brown hair greased back and aviators deflecting streaming solar rays. Since the incident in Eden, God has been keeping his eye on humans, especially the fixers.
A peculiar type of human were brought to God’s attention centuries ago when they took to large wooden ships and crossed a rather beastly marathon of an ocean with their perfect billowing sails, impeccable beliefs and well assured intentions, all on a gamble of discovery. After months of green in the face leans over the forecastle deck, and scurvy ridden bowls in the hold, discover they did. The fixers found themselves upon a great turtle-shaped hunk of land, full of possibility for rewards and claims and a place for “proper” civilization to blossom once more. They thanked God, watching from his Fury, for delivering all men and rats still standing. The fixers kissed the rich moist soil and set off through the wild forests of the uncivilized lands for immediate exploration and reaping. Unprepared, were these fixers, for their introduction to a special civilization, an “improper” civilization.
There were villages of hide tents and log huts, full of smoke and dirt floors and animal rugs. People emerged from their tents and huts, draped in soft skinned clothes revealing smooth rusty skin, with offers of fish and game, corn and squash. There were great fires and dances with cries from the wild echoing from every throat; celebrations for the fixers visit. After gathering goods from villages and taking a few of the new people as guests to meet the King and Queen, the fixers returned to their ships, with good weather and food and rats back across the beastly ocean home, while God watched in his Fury. The fixers returned to the turtle-shaped land in greater numbers and joined the new people, bringing along “proper” civilization with their perfect billowing sails, impeccable beliefs and well assured intentions. It was a time to fix. Over time the “proper” civilization was forced upon the new people. There were conflicts, won by the fixers who had much experience protecting progress and enlightenment through thwarting rebellions of new people. Time passed and the fixers took, warped and assimilated the “improper” civilization into the “proper” way. They brought faith of the Fury driving God, education, law and technology; the necessities of fixing. The land was soon overtaken by the fixers. For centuries they continued to come and to settle; there were wars and slaves and countries formed and new wars and progress and cities, and always the fixers fixed. Now they did their fixing almost every where.
Mother Nature is in the passenger seat of God’s Plymouth with her long toned legs bare against the black leather of the ancient bucket seats; the leather matches God’s leather jacket. Her thick waves of red hair blow up over her face loose in the wind of the open window as she rocks her head to a Beelzebub guitar solo. God turns down the volume a few notches. She has been driving with God since the fixers began their revolutions of industry, and each has a very different taste in music. Always, Mother Nature points out what the “proper” civilization is doing: choking the air with fumes, slathering the ocean with oil spills, stripping forests, melting the plains of ice in the North and South, filling the land with garbage, spewing sewage, ignoring their own destruction and pointing little fingers. She despises every city ever built. As goose bumps spring up over her tanned legs, she cranks the heat on the control panel. God feels sweat building on his brow, but says nothing. He reaches over with his hand and squeezed the goose bumped flesh of her thighs. Mother Nature grins and shoots him a sly smile.
He thought of when he first picked her up: she was dancing in a loose tattered dress of leaves; her hair was wet and wildly swirling around her face, neck and twisting down to her waist in the wind of her own hurricane. He flashed his headlights, illuminating her curved silhouette and skidded to a halt beside her. The rain beat against the windshield and poured in rivers over the white hood. When he reached over and unrolled the window she leaned her face into the heat of car and flashed a fiery look from her green eyes. Her lips were full and stained cherry red below a slender, strong nose. The light played off her high cheek bones and danced over the raindrops clinging to her pointed chin and heart shaped forehead. She was a Foxy Lady.
“Wanna ride?” God asked, flashing his pearly whites and turning off the radio. Mother Nature opened the door and slid onto the leather, thighs spread slightly. She spun her long tresses in the disintegrating leaves of her dress. As she rolled up the window, God took her in, from wet-red-head to lengthy legs and toes. He did not put the car in gear. When she turned back he had his seat belt undone and was leaning against his own door.
“Who are you?” she had her eyebrows raised, and arms folded.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he chuckled and as explained she nearly slid off the seat with a squelch on the wet leather, and an impressive display of disarrangement. After a time of talking and giggling and flirting, they ended up in the back seat, parked over London with steamed windows and suspended shocks. It had been like one of those drive-in-movie experiences where not much of the movie is seen.
Now, squished onto the rear leather bench seat are the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They squirm and their complaints of having to double buckle are silenced with a stern look from God and a threat to pull over. The Horsemen are not accustomed to sitting still for so long. War had been in the Fury the longest, waiting to hitch a ride since the crusades and was finally picked up during the First World War. He always had a warped map of the world lying open over his red robe, watching countries charge through borders and armies breed fear over all the continents. He was pleased to see the use of airplanes, bombs and guns had caught on nearly as fast as arrows had. When the Atomic bomb was used on Hiroshima he had nearly caused an accident by loudly cheering on the destruction, causing God to swerve, scraping the undercarriage over the Himalayas.
Conquest was next to join the Plymouth party. Immediately after the birth of the United Nations, during the cold war tensions, he had climbed in and proudly boasted of how the U.N mandate against all evil was like sending boy scouts against the Mafia armed with water pistols. Mother Nature had giggled when he said this, but resumed her commentary about the destruction from the fixers without delay. Since the first two horsemen’s arrival she has taken to blowing hurricanes with the force of an elephant on an ant hill, and during pit-stops, stomping the ground in rage to send tremors through the earth. She does not like to be upstaged.
It was soon discovered that Conquest had an annoying habit of whining, “Are we there yet?” Now, no one answered, as he leaned out the window, down at a Tibetan refugee camp and sighed with impatience. He has a moony face with speckled red cheeks and an offset toupee, which War has taken to stealing and attaching to the antenna like a flag whenever the opportunity presents itself.
Through the century warning whistles and doomsday bells rang left, right and center with SARS scares, Katrina, wars on terrorism, a threateningly unstable economy, starving villages, child soldiers and the looming shadow of nuclear bombs scattered over the globe. But, the fixers continue to fix, bringing their “proper” faith, education, law and technology to the “improper” civilizations (especially the ones without democracy).
When Pestilence double buckled with War, AIDS was beginning to ravage Africa and drug resistant strings of disease were well spread in each continent. His black hair was long and greasy, stuck like camouflage on the leather seats. Often, he leers at God, obviously jealously of his handsome looks and for the attentions of Mother Nature. At night he leans his pale spotted neck over the bucket seat and rests his chin just above her flowing red locks so that his long arched nose can catch her floral aroma. He had his work cut out for him on Earth and was ready to sit back and watch the plagues and droughts run wild through the over-industrialized, over-urbanized, and over-populated fixers and fixed humans. For ages, he amused Mother Nature with his stories, like how he had the former pope by the balls about condoms, and the one of when he blindfolded all the fixers against the cause of cancer. God raised his eyebrows when he told the pope story.
Mother Nature has no patience left for humans. She has a genuine NOAH & CO. fourth edition Arc in the trunk of the Plymouth ready to pack any species left un-extinct before the great rise of the oceans. A couple of each species will be welcomed, except for fixers and rats. She has the tendency to gaze at God with great anticipation when she talks of her arc. They whisper together when they think the Horsemen aren’t listening, about their plans for after the flood, for re-creation of the humans and their reign together.
Death had not been in the Fury for very long. When the human population of the planet exceeded six billion, God pulled over to let the hard working horseman in beside Conquest. Despite Death’s oppositions, God had insisted he double buckle with Conquest or he’d be sorry he ever got in the car and then he palmed his switchblade menacingly. Now, Death tugs at his thin moustache, gazes out over the thinned Amazonian forest then opens up the crocodile skin briefcase lying on his tan trousers, after a livid stare down from Mother Nature. He pulls out graphs of the population and explains its exponential growth over the past century. The red line is flat over the first three quarters of the centuries and then jolts up, chasing up from less than nine hundred million, to eight billion in the last quarter. It is no wonder to anyone why death was able to retire earlier than planned.
God pulls the Plymouth to a halt and glances at the faces around him. Everyone is there, squished together on the black leather seats, windows rolled down and the last track of the Beelzebub album coming to an end. Beside him, Mother Nature’s arms are crossed over the swell of her chest, and she is leering out across the Nairobi desert. The horsemen are still squirming; sweating from the heat and staring apprehensively, or scowling jealously, back at God.
The fixers are fixing everywhere. They have spread their faith, education, law and technology from corner to corner of most maps and continue to fix, while destructing. There are no new people anymore. They will not be on the arc.
Mother Nature whips her head to look at her companions, “One should not fix what isn’t broken.” She cranks the heat even higher, restarts the first track of the Beelzebub C.D and turns the volume up.
God turns back to face the green bullet holed sign ahead of him, “Thank you for visiting Paradise Lost”. He turns the key to the Fury, revving the engine, letting it roar and rolls the window up. The collar of his leather jacket is popped and his hair is perfectly combed back. The sun tucks its last streams of light into the horizon as God guns the gas pedal, releases the clutch and does a quick shift into fourth. He places his hand on the warm thigh of Mother Nature, exchanging reassuring smirks with her. The horsemen cheer in the back seat, “ROADTRIP!”
Below, the fixers and fixed glance up, and a few think that they see headlights heading past the cloud-cradled moon. Most wonder why starry sky can so easily make a tragedy resemble a comedy.


***Hopefully one of my last big edits....comments?****