We live in a time of complacent platitudes. Deep and uncomfortable truths often require shovels to set them free. For some, revelation can ease in almost unnoticed but for others it has to be mauled into their skulls at the end of a long handle. It is all about receptivity, a dangerously diminished asset of arrogance.

 "Hey! How did you get in here?" a very startled response looking hurriedly left and right and over his unexpected guest's shoulder with worried unfulfilled expectation, "Who the hell are you?"

A simple and lilting reply, " So, am I to assume that you have poor memory? Poorer eyesight perhaps? Or maybe you were even drunker than you looked on the occasion of the great saint? Hmmm? Oh, how foolish of me! I did not wear the make up today. Well, are you just going to gawk? Is this the way to welcome an old man of words?"

Man of words sparked an aborted feeling of near recognition but disbelief was still in charge. This host was an unwilling one as was given away by his severe and strained body language. A teeth clenched grimace, quite like that of a chimpanzee, was set off by laterally drawn eyes which still conveyed, Who the hell are you? and perhaps, Who the hell do you think you are? No one was supposed to know about this place. This host was very discrete and selective about what guests were invited here and this intruder clearly didn't fit the physique.

So much is conveyed in postures, a roaming scanning insistence that someone else was missing, someone important. "Where is Carlo? Huh? CARLO. CARLO!.." There was no reply.

"Oh that big fellow, Mr. Verdad? We may have hurt his feelings. He headed out."

"Out?.."

"Out, taken a new position, in quest of Lesbia's sparrow.. Want me to .."

"How the hell did you get in here!?" was being shouted repetitively, and with the degenerating stutter about birds, it was clear that aggravation was swaying toward panic, as the reply landed right on top, of another 'how the hell'.

"Precisely! That's exactly it!"

"What's exactly what?"

"Hell. I think your nice Mr. Verdad headed there in hot pursuit, though, I must observe, torn by conflict. He joined that other fellow in quick dispatch, don't know his name. Their departures may be permanent. Maybe the Old Adversary will paye both their rents." The host was groaning, as his overbearing lordly manner was quavering toward discomposure. Meanwhile, the unanticipated guest offered his host one of his own seats with a hand gesture and calmly perched himself opposite, setting forth his needs. He came on a quest. He was, he said, a man who wanted to speak to God, and while staring into wildly disbelieving eyes, asked, "You DO believe in God?"

"GOD?! What the fuck are you .."

"Watch it, mister, you'll offend Him," with an upward pointing finger. "Maybe, that's nothing to you, but I don't want any of that blaspheming around me." Then softening and apologizing for his impertinence in his guest's haunt as the who the hell are you's resumed, "I'm a simple man of words..  on a quest." The guest leaned forward, face turned down but eyes upward fixed on his host, deeply engaged and solemnly, "I want to speak to God," he said to a confused eye squint response, then clarified, "I figure you've got a connection of sorts."

There was now nothing but a very worried blank stare looking back at him, as the guest continued, "I keep asking God for signs, you know, answers. Even a heavenly buzz off would do," not pausing for affirmation nor comment. "I've decided though, you have to look in the right place. Moses had to find that bush." The guest tossed a small pamphlet onto the lap of his guest who flung himself back in overreaction as if a grenade had been tossed. He hesitatingly glanced at the offering.

"Shrubs. How many kinds would you say are listed in there? Hmm? Take a look. Go on." His guest was humoring him with feigned interest in the booklet. "Incomplete. No? Not the beat around kind, which I like a lot, nor the burning type which is what we were talking about. At least, I was. See? With all this learning at our finger tips, we have no clue. How did Moses even know to look on that particular mountain? Think about it. How many mountains did he actually climb? You figure he nailed it on the first guess? My bet would be that Moses was a regular mountain climbing machine. That's probably why his flock was down there making golden icons. No? Ole Moses, there he goes, up another frigging mountain! Lookin for a bush! That part, I'll betcha, got dropped. No? If I'm not going to keep coming up dry, I gotta find the right cock to to turn. Wouldn't you say? So here I am, Mr. Big.. oh not right of me to use familiarities."

"Cock? What the fuck are you babbling about? Do I look like a man of God? Jesus Christ!"

"No. That's just it. See?"

"What?"

"I figure, and believe me, it's taken a long long time for me to come to this, but I figure that they're very few real men of God and the rest of us just can't tell who they are! To us they are as invisible as the angels. I might as well chose randomly from the phone book. Hmm? Yes?"

"You got me from a ..."

"Nooooo. Silly. That's the point. There's no percentage in that. What chance, uhgh, no, no, no. Think of all the names that come before Johnson."

"So?"

"You can't tell the chosen, not God's chosen, anyways."

"So, so, so.."

"But the followers of the devil, his chosen, stand out in the crowd. They have an unmistakable aura."

"Of what?"

"Growth - not of the body. Devils, and devil wanna be's, they all fester and swell, dissolving what's around them.. They erode the clear boundaries that define the rest of us. Evil. It's a dead give away. Growth out of harmony. Cancer. Shapeless predatory growth. Formlessness is a dead giveaway. It permeates the body, assumes it's shape then swells. It has no hesitations, no dogmas that slow consumption. Consumption, hmmm, interesting that I should use that word." The guest paused, looking inward to a mournful bleakness, then resumed, "Evil has mastery over words. Like the sirens with song, the words of evil are sweetness, comforting, luring and laden with self evident truths, platitudes, righteous dogmas....  bait, basically.... mind bait..." The man of words was nearly drifting into a swoon with the rhythm of this account. ".. truth.. veracity.. exactitudes.. frankness.. equity.. canon.. doctrine .. precepts.. rule.. law.. Law!" He shouted the last word which startled the already very spooked listener. The guest brightened with an insight, "Hey. You're a big deal at the law school!" pausing, "It fits. You've got it all. You're no apprentice. Noooooooo. No no no. So what exactly does he call you by?"

"Who?"

"The devil!"

"What? What, wha.."

"Hear me out. I can't find God. I've looked. Trust me. Forests, mountains, storms at sea, under rocks. I've looked. Nothing. But the devil is easy. Shoulda thought of that before. I want you to ask your boss if he could contact the Big Guy, for me. I need a sign. I'm not fussy. I'm not looking for favors or an outcome, just affirmation, a sign. It doesn't have to be a whirlwind. Tell him that my head is churning with small voices, still ones and otherwise, so that can't do it. A Oujda board? It doesn't have to be fancy or original. A t a l k i n g bird. Yes. A talking bird is fine. Have the bird use a code... um.. like... mmmm .. gotta be something clear ... but not too clear, then everybody'll get it .. how about having the bird say 'Johnson's in the fire'.. huh, a good one?"

The host was shaking with his neck drawn in as he finally understood who this man of words might be and what that long hickory handle was peeking out from under a chair. Appropriately, his guest picked up on the recognition immediately and caught the shudder of attention directed to the axe handle.

"Oh. I wouldn't worry my head off over that! That one's mine. Tell me, how do you do it?" to a whispered and shaky "What? Do? What?"

"How do you lose your humanity so easily? How do you smear a wonderful lady with vile words and foul her with counterfeit imagery and, yet, carry yourself with such dignity in the company of mankind...   Mankind.   Man....  Kind.....  Kind, gentle, benevolent, humane.. humane .. of the essence of humanity, at its best, perhaps, or even of the average would be better. I think that is what the devil snake is all about. No? Is that a club secret? You just wiggle out of your human skin when it doesn't suit. Suit... hmmm... that which is worn.. worn thin? Is your humanity suit worn thin? You don't have one, do you? Just a disguise." The guest meandered a bit and recalled reading the text of his host's speech before the law school 's assembly following a dedication, "Words. Great words. Snakes with words. I come from a place where a great saint killed all the snakes."

"DROVE THEM OUT!  D R O V E  them, drove them out," Johnson was emphatic in his correction. "He didn't kill them. He drove them out, " wagging his finger in intellectual command.

The guest's eyes widened wildly, "Drove'm to hell, sir. Those snakes never popped up somewhere else. You know of any habitat which reviles Patrick for dumping somebody else's snakes on them? No. Drove them to hell.....  Ever been to Connacht?" A frenzied shoulder shrug from his guest was rather incoordinated. "Mountains of ashes... Hmm. Nice place you have here. This isn't your regular house. You fornicate here. Your wife hasn't seen this one, huh? Oh, speaking of which, your mistress couldn't make it. She's occupied," laughing at that one. "Sloppy seconds are ye? This is what to you? What kind of man.. oh... old fashioned me..  What WAS I about? Ohhh yes. Driving. That's a mere figure of speech. I can see that you are into being driven." He slumped backward quietly for a few moments of quiet consideration. "Maybe, He'll say something. Got any birds?" He quieted again.

This man of words was troubled having spent the greater part of his life in quest of a word from God, but hearing only silence. He was not comfortable about accepting such consequential communication second hand, although the allure was there. It seemed to him that God spoke to no one anymore, and he wondered if God ever would again. Thus was the foundation of his gripe with the Great Creator, a man of words, "peeved with God for being a poor conversationalist."

Mr. Johnson brightened for a moment when shuffling noises of someone outside were heard. But his guest just relaxed even more so, sitting quietly impassive for about a minute before offering, "It's a mite untidy out there. It doesn't bother him, but it does me."

Mr. B.J. didn't get to ask - him who - as a prodigious man-like aberration in improbable attire, cross leather laced heavy boots, a coarse flannel work shirt, high rolled sleeves, front buttoned only in the bottom half exposing a glimpse of an impossibly muscled chest, a big axe laden belt hanging heavily over a woolen kilt exposing calves like trees. Ducking and turning sideways to clear the doorway, he entered the room. His powerful head turned turret-like on his towering rippling body as his eyes paused on the host. With his elbows flexed, both of his hands were held away from his sides soppy with fresh blood meandering down his wrists and forearms..

"I think he needs to freshen up a bit. Where's your bathroom?" But Johnson was twitching with unintelligible nasal sounds as his only response. The giant took a step forward with a face that could crack stone and eyes that no man should ever behold.

"Nyneh, inyh nyeh ihhh ihhgn," plus flailing gestures indicated the direction of the bathroom. Mr. Johnson was never again recomposed, but at least shaking in the direction of his guest once again now that the distant sound of running water was heard. Of course the growls emanating from that room could only come from a nether world. Chattering teeth highlighted a rhapsody of trepidation.

In a decrescendo, the guest resumed his conversation. His logic was direct but seasoned. He reasoned that while God was a near mute, the devil, on the other hand could talk your pants off, often has actually. Old Scratch wouldn't miss a click to talk to anybody, any time, any place - especially for a price. Seems lots of folks get right personal with the horned bastard. Given that choice, maybe silent is better. The guest wondered aloud as to whether there might be a third choice? "The big He hasn't told me that I'm NOT doing His clean up work. This is existence, after all. It is His plan. Right? He cooked everything up, so, somebody has to tend to the offal. Marvellous, nec tu opifex horti grato sine carmine abibis.." The host was just shivering at sounds that were more knell than crux. "Where's your boss? Hmmm? Not here for you, Big Johnson? This MUST be your time. Though it makes me wonder who's boss I am working for."

The big man returned with clean but heavier hands and a lightened belt.