A (post-Biblical) Job in Manhattan

So, the man, fully rewarded by his hand-picked deity, in accordance with the scripture of the Prophet, Norman Peel, sits in his penthouse suite at the top of New York City, admiring his holdings.

“I’ve been truly deserving” he says to the third of his many foreign wives. “Look at all I’ve got!”

“All we’ve got” she says.

“I stand uncorrected” he says, scrolling through his device to to show her the pre-nup he carries with him as the most excellent example of a foolproof contract.

In Nirvana, where the God of the blessed few dwells, his Socialist Fallen Angel, the former St. Nicholas, taps him on the back of his neck. God hates this.

“What do you want now?” he demands.

“See that guy down there with all the stuff you’ve given him? What do you think he’d do if you took it all away?”

“Why would I do that?” God asks.

“Because he’s a jerk and you told me yourself that you’re bored. Why not let’s have a little fun with him?”

“Set up the wager” says God. “What’s in it for me, exactly?”

“Let me think about it” Nick answers.

“Don’t waste my time” says God. “Have you forgotten that I can instantly replace you if you fail to entertain me?”

“Fine” says Nick with a sigh. “I’ll bet you that if you take his stuff away, he’ll turn from you and embrace another.”

“Ha!” says God. “Never happen.”

“And if I win,” Nick continues, we switch roles for an entire year.”

“What do you mean, ‘switch roles’?”

“Well, I sit up here where it’s comfortable, and decide what prayers to answer and in what way. You go down to the hot place and take whatever I decide to throw down.”

“Fine” says God. “Losers don’t win. It isn’t natural. You’ve never amounted to much, what with giving stuff away for nothing. Go ahead, take anything he has. He’ll never turn away from Me.”

So, Nick pushes a few buttons, twists a couple of creaky dials, and the man’s third wife announces that she’s leaving him for a younger man with better hair.

“I never thought you were all that special!” he shouts as she walks out. He touches the naked lady icon on his phone to connect instantly with the modeling agency on his payroll.

“Send me another one” he demands. “I want one from Russia this time. I like Russian girls.”

“That didn’t work out so well” God says. “You don’t know him as well as I do. Remember, I created him!”

“I’m only just beginning” answers Nick. He makes a few adjustments to his machinery, and now the man’s businesses begin to fail.

But the man presses the icon of an ambulance with a little guy running behind it, and sprays a few red-faced words into the phone. Bubbles begin to drop gently from his ceiling, dancing girls emerge from the private elevator, and a light show sparkles throughout the suite. “You’re the Man!” they all exclaim.

“Ha!” says God. “That one’s a winner. Did you see his press release? Those businesses were going down the tubes before he even took them over, and it’s only because of his genius that they did so well for him before they failed.”

“But watch this!” says Nick. He has now struck down the man’s children with a terrible plague that has turned them ugly and bug-eyed, bushy-browed and splotchty.

The man says that those are not his children, anyway, or he can’t be one hundred percent certain, since he didn’t even meet them until the youngest was seventeen. Plus, he adds with a smirk, no children of his could possibly be anything but beautiful.

“By the way,” says God. “You didn’t say what I would get if you lose.”

“I’m not finished!” Nick insists. And now he gives it his best shot. For an entire day, no one calls. There are no requests for favors, interviews, or apologies; no ingratiating compliments, no e-mails, no texts. He tweets, but there is no response. He isn’t mentioned on the air or through the ether. For twenty four hours no one on the planet even whispers his name.

God looks on in horror as his favorite mortal pounds on the door of the private elevator, now stuck two hundred floors below.

The man tries to order out, but the immigrant kid on the phone says he can’t understand his funny accent.

“I own this entire city!” the man shouts into the phone. “Oh yeah?” says the kid. “I think you’re pretty, too,” and hangs up.

The man stomps his feet. At the top of his lungs, he shouts “Idiots! Losers! I’ll fire them! I’ll fire them all! Bunch of imbeciles! I have a good mind. I can make a sandwich, and when I’m done I’ll get on my good, my excellent legs, and walk down those beautiful, excellent marble stairs, and when I get to the lobby, I’m going to fire everybody!”

But the fire door won’t open.

“Nice touch” says God. You tried, but I think we’ve got a draw, at best. He hasn’t mentioned me or any other deity.”

“No” says Nick. “I think I’ve won.”

“How do you figure?”

“It’s true he hasn’t mentioned you through all of this, but that only proves that he doesn’t acknowledge that you’re the One who gave him all the stuff in the first place. He never worshipped you at all.”

“But” stammers God, “you said he’d be embracing another.”

“Look at him!” demands Nick.

Down below, the man is toweling himself off after a shower. He looks up at his image in the mirror, throws out his chest, grabs his dick, and announces grandly, “You’re the Man!”

“Shit!” says God, getting up from his throne. “Fine! Give away the store while I’m gone. I hope you’ve had fun. Bastard didn’t even notice me.”

“Made in your image, sir” says Nick.