By "Net.cop" Scott Keith

• REM.

Macbeth was feeling very dead indeed. Being killed by a subject is one thing, but floating around the earth for several thousand years with no apparent purpose is another entirely. The biggest question quickly switched from "Why am I still here on Earth?" to "What the heck am I going to do for the next thousand years?"

Well, Macbeth did do the few obvious things that a troubled spirit would do: He tormented Banquo to his dying day; haunted MacDuff’s house and freaked out his children; cursed various enemies and their kinsmen for generations to come, you know, obvious stuff. However, after the first three hundred years or so, everyone was, in a word, maggot-food. That always was one of the problems with immortality—you tend to outlive the hell out of everyone you know. Except Macbeth was dead, technically speaking. Same results, anyway.

But the author completely digresses, so let’s begin again.

Macbeth was feeling very dead indeed. Feeling dead, for a ghost, is like feeling sane for David Koresh. It happens occasionally, but not frequently enough to be a normal state of mind.

Macbeth felt that somehow being dead again a thousand years into his death might have some kind of repercussions for him. It should of course be noted that whenever "dead" and "death" are used in the same thought, good things rarely happen. But, hey, the guy's been dead for a thousand years, so let's humor him. He deserves some hope.

He actually did get some.

At about 9:30, EST, at Shea Stadium in New York during the Mets' home opener, Macbeth was given a new purpose.

Interestingly enough, although he was unaware of it, the owner of the worst team in baseball history was a very distant relative of Banquo. Had Macbeth been aware of that, he would have been very impressed with his own cursing powers. As it was, he was just a big Mets fan, for reasons he was only vaguely aware of.

But then, had Macbeth known just what the extent of his own powers really was, I'm sure he would have been even more impressed.

At about 9:30 Macbeth was sitting in the dugout, watching the game, when a shimmering light appeared. It formed itself into a man dressed entirely in white. White 3-piece suit, tie, shoes, sunglasses, hair, everything. The new apparition floated before Macbeth.

"Hi," it said, an odd intro for an apparition, "I'm Gabriel, and I represent the Council of Major Western Deities. We've been reviewing your qualifications for the position of Satan, Lord of the Flies, for the past thousand years, and have held you in this form on Earth. We have made our decision. Sorry for the delay."

"Er, no problem," Macbeth said, casually dismissing the past thousand years of boredom, "Why did the decision take so long?"

"Oh, well, there's going to be a psychotic mass murderer executed in twenty years, and he'll be better for the job."

"So don't I get the job?" Not that he had ever considered being the devil, but it was something new and interesting to try.

"Well, you can have it for twenty years, but you'll have to relinquish it to..." He checked a clipboard that wasn't there a millisecond ago, "...Theodore 'Ted' Bundy."

"Whatever! It's something to do! I'll take the job."

"Okay. It's your choice." He plucked a thick black book out of the air. "This is the user's manual for the position of Satan. Have fun." And he was gone.

Macbeth took his seat again and looked with interest at the leather-bound book. "SO YOU WANT TO THE SOURCE OF ALL THE EVIL IN THE WORLD?" was inscribed on the cover in gold foil. Macbeth opened up the book and read the following:

"Hi! Welcome to the wild and zany world of the Supreme Evil. You know, it takes a special kind of sick, psychotic lunatic to handle the responsibilities inherent in being Satan. You're probably thinking 'What's for lunch?' That's because anyone insane enough to take this job is so distracted by inner voices that he's not even paying attention to this book. So we'll give you directions to Hell, then leave you to talk to your hand or whatever. Okay, here goes. Click your heels together 6 times and say 'There's no place like Hell' six times. The rest of the book is blank, for your convenience."

Macbeth couldn't believe what he was reading. That was it? Thanking the heavens that Macduff wasn't there to see him, he sighed and clicked his heels together six times.

"There's no place like Hell..." he began, and six reps later, Macbeth went to Hell.

Macbeth suddenly found himself in a very large and very ugly castle straight out of the Inquisition. He seemed to be in the throne room, which was built around a huge platinum throne that seemed to project light. Torture racks, hot coal pits, and severed heads were arranged in an aesthetically pleasing manner around the room as well. Macbeth whistled appreciatively at the work done on the room.

"So you like the room?" Came a voice from a connecting hallway. A person as big and mean looking as the castle walked into the room.

"Oh, hi," Macbeth replied. "I'm Macbeth, and I guess I'm here for the next couple of decades." He was unsure of his position, so he decided that politeness was smartest, considering the other guy's size.

"I'm Satan. Call me Attilla. The instruction book is in the library. Good luck." And Attilla appeared to open up a zipper in the air, about his height, and stepped into the opening it left in space. He reached out and re-zipped the opening. And Macbeth was alone in Hell. He decided to test out the throne for comfort. The cushions seemed a little soft, and he mumbled that fact under his breath. Without warning, the cushions firmed up. Macbeth decided he could get to like this. He decided to experiment a little. He snapped his fingers impudently, and thought about getting something to eat.

Nothing happened.

"You know," he said aloud, "it would be awfully nice for someone to serve me hand and foot."

Before him appeared a shifty looking fellow, wearing clothes resembling Macbeth's.

"Sorry I'm late, my liege. I am Edmund, the Bastard."

"No need to be self-depreciating. I'm not that hungry..."

"No, no," Edmund interrupted, "That's my title. Edmund the Bastard. Former Duke of Gloucester and murderer of my father."

"Ah, of course. I read about you in King Lear. I've read a lot over the past thousand years, you know."

"I imagine. Did you want something, my liege?" he prodded.

"Oh, yes. Could you tell me how to use these powers, by any chance? That would help."

Edmund snorted in response.

"Nope. Can't do it. I can get you the instruction book, but you're the only one who can use it."

"Good enough, I guess. Oh, and is there a damned soul around here named Macduff? And one named Banquo?"

"No Macduffs I know, but Banquo works for the Complaints department. Is there something you want done..." He trailed off suggestively.

"Hmmm. No, not right now. Just bring me the book and Banquo and I'll take care of him."

"Right." Edmund bowed and left. He returned in all of 3 seconds with a huge book that looked like it could hold the complete works of Shakespeare. Macbeth almost choked.

"Ack! That thing? It'll take me 1/3 of my term just to read that thing!"

"Oh. You wanted to read it? Sorry. This is made to impress big dumb types like Attilla who thumb through it until they find the Secret of Total Destruction of Everything and then forget about it. I'll get you the Reader's Digest Condensed Version." He bowed again and left for the book.

He was back in another 3 seconds with a paperback book.

"This is the version with all the crap cut out." Macbeth nodded and took it from him, the randomly picked a page. He read it over, then put the book down and reached into the air and opened up a zipper like Attilla did.

I'll have to remember that one, Macbeth thought to himself. To Edmund, he said "Good job. Now go get me Banquo." He thought a moment. "No, hang on. I'll go get him myself." And he opened a zipper in the air, on the other side of which was the Complaints department. Macbeth stepped through.

He saw Banquo sitting stoically at the desk. He decided to enjoy this.

"Banquo, old friend, what are you doing here?" he said with a devilish grin.

"I sit here at this desk, destroying anyone with a complaint, as assigned to me by Milord Satan. And I shall do so throughout all eternity."

"Right. Nice sword there, by the way. Would you very much mind impaling yourself on it?"

"Er, I don't know about that..." But Banquo's arms moved without his volition anyway.

In the interest of good taste, the next five days will not be described, but suffice it to say that Macbeth used Banquo to decorate his throne room. Very tastefully, in a Baroque style, if it matters.

After about five years, Macbeth had fully mastered the powers and abilities of Satan. Edmund, his unspoken but highly paid second-in-command and chief scoundrel/All-Around-Bad-Guy, had now become the most powerful and respected underling in Hell. Macbeth was ready for bigger and better things.

"Edmund," he said off-handedly, "get me the phone."

"Who did you want to call, milord?"

"God to start. I want to negotiate." Edmund looked at him a little strangely and went to get the phone.

For those keeping score, historians of other universes officially regard this as the starting point of the end of this one.

Gabriel was back. After living on Earth among the mortals since 1940, he was finally ready to step back into his role as the much-valued assistant to the most important deity in the universe. It was a role that made him proud, and he hoped that God appreciated his value and realized what he had been missing for the past 25 or so years. The intercom buzzed. He put it on speaker.

"GABRIEL." A voice boomed.

"Hello again, sir."

"HOLD ALL CALLS. THAT IS ALL." Click. Gabriel didn't feel that that was an especially warm welcome home. He sighed and hung up the phone.

"Michael!" He called out, "Bring me the last few decades' worth of paperwork."

The Angel Michael, Gabriel's secretary, wandered over to Gabriel's desk, with a monstrous stack of papers, from the general direction of his desk. He dropped them heavily on Gabriel's desk.

"Phew. Here it is Gabe. Have fun catching up on it all." Michael grinned maliciously at Gabriel. Gabriel simply sighed in response to his secretary's cheap shot and reached for the first thousand or so papers.

"Requisition form...application form...if this is Heaven, why do we get all the paperwork?"

"Dunno. Ask the Big Guy...he's the one who takes care of all this stuff." The phone rang again.

"Hello, Heaven and the Upper Regions. Gabriel speaking."

"Might I have a word with God?"

"He's busy contemplating Himself at the moment," Gabriel said with a heaping portion of sarcasm, "but I'd be happy to take a message." We're the good guys, he thought, I always have to be happy...

"It's Macbeth, Lord of the Flies, etc., etc. I want to negotiate terms."

Negotiate terms? Gabriel thought that was certainly innovative.

"Er, he probably won't go for it. I can come down there if you like...no that won't do...okay, look, how about we meet at Ye Olde Blood and Guttes Taverne in Purgatory? We'll talk there."

"It'll suffice. When?"

"I'm loaded down with paperwork here, so it'll have to be tomorrow at the earliest."

"Really? Why not get the lawyers to do it all, like down here."

This is TOO easy, thought Gabriel, as he said: "Because you have all of them."

"Oh, that's right. We do. How silly of me to forget. Fine, I'll meet you in Purgatory in two days...five-ish sound all right? Good. We'll talk then." Click. Twice in one day, Gabriel thought. Two major deities have actually hung up on me today. I should have stayed in bed...

When Gabriel arrived in Purgatory two days later, he found it hard not to notice the crowd gathered around the red Porsche parked outside of Ye Olde Blood and Guttes Taverne. With a license plate that read "GOD SUX", it wasn't really hard to tell who owned it. Gabriel floated over the onlookers and entered the tavern. Macbeth was, of course, already at the bar.

"My Lord." Gabriel said, sitting down.

"What? Why did you call me that? Aren't you with the Other Side?" Macbeth said, clearly in a state of confusion.

"I'm allied with the Other, if that's what you mean," he said, pausing to order a vodka and sulfuric acid cocktail, dry, "but you and God are supreme, so in fact the proper title of respect is My Lord. Nice car out there." Gabriel continued casually, sipping his drink, which was now smoking and bubbling to the point where the swizzle stick was on fire.

"Yes, isn't it though? It's from fifteen years in the future. I took the design from Mr. Porsche's mind." He ordered a scotch, soda and gasoline, all flambé (for that special touch). The bartender brought a glass of the drink and a book of matches.

"So exactly what are you looking to negotiate?" Gabriel asked, as Macbeth swigged down the drink and lit a match.

"Well, here's the plan," He swallowed the lit match. "I want to pool my resources with God..." He paused to burp, as flames shot out of his nose, ears, mouth and eyes. The bar applauded politely. Macbeth started again. "...And establish some sort of soul-sharing program." Gabriel snorted derisively and ordered a nuclear waste and tonic.

"I really doubt that God would either trust you," as he gulped down his drink, "or even be vaguely interested in such an idea."

"Why not?" As Gabriel turned 14 different shades of purple.

"Because you'd probably trick him into giving you more souls." The other people in the bar began taking strategic cover.

"So? What's the big deal about souls, anyway? If the universe is eternal, it's kind of hard to get a decisive winner, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is..." Gabriel admitted, "but...hang on a sec." Macbeth waited patiently as the Uranium-235 in Gabriel's drink reacted enough to blow Gabriel into 10 million very small pieces. Gabriel reassembled himself and continued. "Anyway, I suppose you have a point, but the Rules say you have to battle God for souls."

"I've never been one to regard rules with much more than a fleeting glance before, Gabriel. I'm sure you know that."

"Unfortunately, yes. But there are other things at work here that you don't know about." Now Macbeth was intrigued.

"Ooo, secrets. I'm impressed. As if keeping me in limbo for 1000 YEARS wasn't enough of a run-around, now there are secrets that you're keeping from me, too. You're not doing much to remain in my good books, Gabriel."

"Call me Ben. Everyone else does."

"Ben?"

"Oh, please. You sent your little lackey to spy on me back in 1946...oh, wait, that was the other Satan, wasn't it...well, that little twit Edmund did a reconnaissance job on me when I was on assignment on Earth, so if you want the facts maybe you should interrogate him, too."

"Secrets and deception. My, we are the tarnished soul today, aren't we?" "I've been through a lot. I'm not the same angel anymore."

"I'd imagine not. Maybe I'll have a little chat with Edmund when I get back."

"Don't be so smug...you don't know what we're headed for. There are much bigger things going on than you know about, and there will come a time when I'll be forced to tell it all to you out of necessity. For now, just know that I think you're pond scum, but I'm willing to listen to what you have to say, to a certain point."

"Very noble. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a universe to conquer."

Macbeth belched, shattering all the glass in the bar. Then took his leave.

"Man knows how to make an exit." The bartender commented. Gabriel nodded in agreement.

It took three years for the beleaguered souls of that bar to fully recover from the negotiations.

"How'd the negotiations go?" Michael asked as Gabriel arrived back in Heaven.

"Interesting. He seems to have some sort of plan, but he's the first in quite while to have any kind of plan. He's like Batman in that way, I think. Too bad he's only in for another fifteen years...I hope."

"Who?"

"Batman. Big comic-book hero on Earth. Favorite of mine. Studied a lot of his methods while I was down there. The man always had a plan. I see that in Macbeth."

"What's his successor like?"

"Bundy? Horrible guy. Psychotic serial killer with no regard for decency or human life. Dumb as a rock, too. Stark raving mad. Perfect combination for the Ruler of Hell. But..." he added with sudden doubt.

"But what?"

"I'm afraid our friend Macbeth might not go without a fight. The Book says so, and that means trouble. I'm afraid I'm going to end up with a self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe I should keep an eye on him."

"To keep him from interfering?"

"No, actually I'd like to pick up a thing or two from him." Michael wasn't sure if Gabriel was being ironic or not, so he just left him to his paperwork.

Upon his return to Hell, Macbeth decided he had at least won a moral victory.

"If nothing else," he relayed to Edmund while he randomly plucked vital organs from Banquo, "I have now planted in Gabriel's mind the seeds of doubt about his purpose. Now the fun stuff comes." He thought a moment. "I'll need a new disease."

"Like what?"

"A new black plague. Unleash it on a few minority groups first, then let it go rampant on the world."

"Sounds very evil. Who do we wipe out?" Edmund asked evilly.

"We'll start with the homosexuals. Then move on to the rest of the world. It'll have to be something really horrible that wipes out the victim a bit at a time, ending in a horrible death. Oh, and put the cure in something really ludicrous, like grapefruit seeds or something. I want to really mess up the human race. Make Gabriel sweat a little. You know, see if God takes any action." He grinned. "Oh, and make a new form of television show in my honor...call it...The Sitcom!"

"What! That's going too far, milord! The world will never recover from something that fiendish and disgusting!"

"You flatter me, Edmund." Banquo interrupted him with a groan. "Oh, quit whining," Macbeth snapped at him, "your heart will grow back some day..." Banquo groaned again in response. "Now then, Edmund, we need to have a little chat."

"Chat, milord?"

"About a little scouting trip you took twenty years ago."

"What about it, milord?"

"Why, who for, and what did you learn about our friend?"

"For fun, for myself, and nothing terribly interesting."

He was lying. But then he always lies, so you should expect that sort of a response. But if I told you his real employer it would give everything away, so let's just say Macbeth believed the lie and move on, shall we?

Over the next twenty years of Macbeth's tenure, he followed a very precise plan. He would trace the life and career of Ted Bundy, so as to know what he would be facing. Plus he needed to scout out of the Nether regions for other gods he could ally himself with. But where could he find other gods aside from himself and God? He asked Edmund that question.

"Other deities?" Edmund replied. "I dunno, milord. Maybe Thor and Loki and Odin and the rest of the Norse gods are floating around Purgatory, but everyone else goes to the Abyss Hotel at the end of their term. And you can't go there until your term is up, too."

Macbeth was afraid of something like that.

"Okay. I'll be in Purgatory, I guess. Torture Banquo for me while I'm gone." And with the opening of the zipper, he was gone.

Purgatory is remarkably like Earth in terms of construction, except that it is perpetually ten years ahead. Macbeth thought he should ask around a bit. He headed first to a booth marked "Information."

"Pardon me," he began, only to be cut off by the gum-chewing soul running the booth.

"Are you a citizen of Purgatory?" She asked, popping her gum.

"No, I'm..."

"Is this a business or pleasure trip?"

"Business, but..."

"For how long?"

"A few hours! Now listen..."

"Will you be seeking accommodations?"

"Shut up! Isn't this an information booth?"

"Yes, and I'm certainly getting it out of you, aren't I?" She responded smugly.

Unfortunately for her, her booth spontaneously combusted a few seconds later.

While Macbeth was in Purgatory, Edmund decided to travel to Earth to interfere a little with Ted Bundy for his own purposes, and generally act demonic. Macbeth had tried to get all the information he could get out of Edmund with regards to his tenure on Earth in 1946, and was getting a bit too close to the real truth for Edmund's liking. So he decided to make sure he had a backup plan, just in case. Putting on his most totally evil clothes (black jacket, black sunglasses, black pants and black shoes), he thought the American music scene could use a little sprucing up. So he had fourteen different bands sell their souls to Edmund for a supposed record deal, which never quite materialized. With the exception of one, the oddly named Louisiana Psycho Killers, and their dorky lead singer Richard Kreep, who he managed to make in the World's Biggest Rock N Roll Band in the space of a few years. But they'd pay later.

He then looked for a major star to kill. Lennon was his, but that was getting old so he needed someone else. He tried Ronald Reagan, the Pope, and even Barry Manilow (no one noticed that one), but Macbeth's term was running short and so were Edmund's powers as his disciple. He failed with all three, and had to settle for corruption of major religious figures, which wasn't too much of a challenge.

Running out of things to do, he switched to his major objective, namely getting Ted Bundy to do what he and Macbeth wanted him to.

He found him kidnapping someone.

"Excuse me," Edmund said by way of introduction, "I think we need to talk." Of course, appearing in front of the car Bundy was busy driving might not have been such a smart idea. Bundy hit him head on, and crumpled the front end of his car. Totaled it in fact. Bundy sort of stared at the figure standing in the middle of the road after calmly taking the brunt of a very large Buick going 80 mph over the state line. Edmund nonchalantly wandered towards the driver's side door.

"As I said, we need to talk."

"Um," Bundy began, not really accustomed to dealing with honest-to-goodness demons, "I'm kind of busy." He pointed a finger at the struggling figure in the back seat.

"Yes, well, I'm afraid this is a tad more important." As if to emphasize his point, he made the person in the back stop struggling. Bundy immediately sat up straighter.

"Hey! She was mine!"

"Cool it for a minute. She's just out for awhile." Bundy glanced suspiciously over the seat to make sure, but Edmund had already ripped the car door off. He grabbed Bundy by the collar and jerked him out of the car.

"Now look you petty little worm," Edmund began in a very nasty voice, "If you want to be ruler of Hell for any more than two days, sit down and shut up."

"Ruler of Hell? But I thought God appointed me to do His work..." He was cut off as Edmund hit him so hard his cheekbones were shattered.

"I said shut up! Now then, you only have six years to prepare, so listen up. And stop blubbering about your face...you survived a head-on collision because of my powers, and you'll survive this too. Now then, you're next in line for the position of Satan, and there are things that need to be done. You have to make sacrifices, kill children." Edmund went on to list in great detail about two hundred completely meaningless acts of violence. When he left, he had Bundy completely under his thumb, and when the time came for Bundy to take over...he almost drooled in anticipation. Now he felt more confident, should Macbeth learn just how much Edmund really knew about Gabriel and everything else that was going on.

When Macbeth finally located Thor, he just about hugged him with relief. He had to destroy about 15 information booths to get to him. He decided to get certain things cleared up right off.

"All right, let's skip the casual introductions. I'm Macbeth, current honcho of Hell, and I need a favor from you."

"You must think I'm an idiot to trust you."

"Actually, yes, I was rather under that impression. No offense?"

POW!

"Guess so..."

"We're even." Thor rumbled. Macbeth reminded himself NOT to get on this god's bad side. "Now, what do you want and what do I get in return?"

"I, uh, you aren't going to hit me anymore, are you?"

"I will if you don't stop blubbering and get on with it!"

"Right. I need you to distract Gabriel. In dramatic fashion. He's going to mess up my plans -- I can just feel it somehow. Don't kill him, just delay him long enough for me to carry everything out that I need to."

"Fine. What do you offer?"

"A piece of the action. You get to come to Hell and be my bodyguard. As my official disciple, you'll triple your power levels."

Thor thought it over. "You drive a hard bargain. And I have been pretty weak ever since the fall of Valhalla. All right, deal. But..." he said ominously, "...if you swerve me on this, I'll leave you for dead."

"Trust me." Macbeth said. And we just know how trustworthy a fellow he is, don't we...

Five years later.

It was Execution Day.

Ted Bundy was in serious trouble and there didn't seem to be much he would be able to do about it. After however many brutal, senseless, psychopathic murders he had finally been caught, tried, convicted and, finally, strapped into the chair. If he wasn't a psycho, he'd be very concerned at that moment. Being a card-carrying lunatic, however, he had a certain righteous aura about him, with the knowledge that he was about to become a major player in the afterlife, so to speak.

As the priest finished with the preamble, the warden, with a delighted smile, proceeded to pull The Lever. The jolt of electricity made him twitch for a moment. He thought he smelled something burning. Like bacon. And something else that he couldn't place, which a more experienced Satan-worshipper would have identified as brimstone.

Ted Bundy was, as you have probably guessed by now, dead as the proverbial doornail at that point; and the nation rejoiced for it. Bundy hadn't quite picked up on either point as of yet, though. In fact, he found he was free to get up and wander around.

A zipper opened.

If Bundy had paid more attention (i.e. any at all) to Shakespearean literature in English class he would have recognized the figure that stepped out as Macbeth. Of course, if he had been paying attention he already would have nailed down Edmund's identity as well.

"Hi." Macbeth began pleasantly enough. "You're dead, my friend. Want to rule Hell?"

"Huh?" Bundy replied on cue, remembering everything Edmund had told him to do.

"I'll accept that as a yes. Follow me." And Macbeth stepped through the zipper, into a medieval castle with human entrails as wallpaper. Bundy followed.

"Welcome to my humble abode. Have you ever held a leadership position before?" Macbeth asked after Bundy stepped through.

"No."

"No matter. You'll learn. First of all..."

A flash of white light in front of him interrupted him. Not now, Macbeth thought to himself in disgust.

"Hold it!" Gabriel yelled, making his standard dramatic Archangel-Entering-A-Room entrance. There, Gabriel thought to himself, he's not the only one who can make a dramatic entrance.

"What do you want, Gabriel?" Macbeth snapped.

"You were going to conveniently forget to give up your position, and I'm still in charge of monitoring this stuff."

"So?"

"So, there are Rules, you know. You can stay on as an advisor, but as of now," he snapped his fingers, "you're no longer the most evil person in the universe."

"This won't stop me, Gabriel." Macbeth snarled like a cornered dog, chewing up and spitting out each syllable at Gabriel.

"I know." Gabriel conceded, "But it'll slow you down enough to give us a fighting chance." He grinned nastily at Macbeth.

This, thought Macbeth, might be more fun than I thought.

All in all, Bundy had an uneventful run as Ruler of All Things Bad for the first few years. A disease here, a serial killer there, nothing too exciting.

Ten years into Bundy's reign as Satan, however, things got good. Macbeth decided it was no longer necessary to keep Edmund on his payroll. Edmund was expecting as much, and wasn't surprised when Macbeth called him into his office to set him on his own again.

"Edmund, my boy, as your last act before I fire you, I want a little distraction for Gabriel and the Council."

"Anything in particular?"

"Yes. Destroy the Earth and all its inhabitants."

Had Macbeth known all the facts about what was really going on, he would've slapped himself silly for that little order. But as things stood, it was seemed perfectly logical to him.

"Ummmmmmmm, isn't that just a little dangerous."

"Yes, but I have a plan."

So here's what happened.

Edmund was not totally ignorant of things, having learned certain facts about certain things from certain people. He, for instance, knew that the Book told of a giant meteor smashing the Earth into a bazillion pieces that very day. The problem was, where is such a meteor and how does one get it to collide with the Earth?

Luckily, he had a source to consult with. He stood on a large mountain of Hell, and began speaking into the vast nothingness of the Void. "Hey! Little help here, guys!"

The Creators answered.

"What is it now? More money? We just sent you some..."

"No, no, it's time! You know, the big rock, the Earth, BOOM! Remember?"

"Ah! Of course! That's right -- we did promise that in the Book, didn't we? Okay, better find someplace to hide, because in 14 Earth minutes and 57 seconds, the Earth dies."

"Um, why 14 minutes and 57 seconds?"

"You know those big cosmic jokes that always happen for no reason in particular except that some obnoxious higher power thinks it's funny at the time?" "Yeah."

"This is one of them. They'll call it at 15 minutes to impact...just wait'll you see the look on their faces when they go 5...4...BOOM! HA! Make sure you get a picture! It'll be priceless!"

"Anyone ever tell you guys that you have really weird senses of humor?"

"Yes. All the time. Sometimes I think we do this stuff just to annoy those people."

And, wouldn't you know it, at precisely the time that the Creators had said it would happen, the meteor hit the earth. Big one, too. Damn near blew the whole planet into a million little pieces. Killed everyone unfortunate enough to be on the planet at the time that’s for sure.

Elvis survived, but then he's been doing other stuff since 1979...

Michael, sitting at Gabriel's desk while Gabriel was on a break, wasn't really into high-pressure situations. That's why the hotline to Hell wasn't something he liked to see ringing. Of course, it did anyway, just because that's one of the laws of the universe. Michael picked up very gingerly.

"Um...hello, Heaven and the Upper Regions. The Angel Michael speaking."

"The Angel Michael? Good enough, I guess. This is Macbeth, Special Advisor to Satan. Just thought I'd let you know that it might be a good idea to check on the earth. It seems to be missing. Ah, sorry, my mistake. It's there -- I just mistook it for a really big sandbox. Good day."

Michael didn't hear the "click" over the sound of the death throes of the human race. Trying to be so nonchalant he thought he'd explode, he decided to give the Heaven Housing Authority a call.

"Hi, Charles. This is Michael. Listen, I'll be sending you about, oh, forty billion souls in about five minutes. Really? Okay. Yeah, I understand. Gee, I don't think Purgatory is equipped for that many either...um, I don't think the Big Guy would like that. No, I'm sure. Okay, fine, you win." He hung up, suddenly wishing Gabriel were there to make the tough decisions. He typed out the notice to post on the Pearly Gates:

DUE TO UNFORSEEABLE CIRCUMSTANCES, ALL ELIGIBLE SOULS MUST BURN IN HELL UNTIL HOUSING IS EXPANDED FOR ALL OF YOU. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE.

He thought the last line was a bit trite, but there wasn't a nice way to break the news to them. He went to post it. When he returned, Gabriel was back at his desk.

"Any messages?" Gabriel asked.

"Er, that depends."

"On what?"

"Have you had your coffee today?"

"No."

"Well then. I'll get you a cup, because you'll need one before I tell you what the message is..."

A hot, scorching fire filled the senses and minds of those around him, as the flame got higher and higher until it blazed like a mushroom cloud, looking like it was ready to singe the eyebrows off everyone within a two-million mile radius. Bundy stuck his cigarette into it, lit it, and then extinguished the fire. He took a puff of the cigarette, pensively (for a psycho) and again addressed Macbeth.

"So." he said, "Forty billion souls sitting outside my gate."

"Yes sir. That's about the whole of it."

"So," Bundy said again, using remarkable restraint in keeping himself from jumping up and down with glee at his good fortune, "forty billion souls, sitting outside my gate." He tried to make it sound like he was gloating, to cover the fact that he sounded like a total idiot. He wiped a bit of drool from his collar.

"You're drooling again, sir." Macbeth pointed out.

"Yes, yes, I know." A sudden idea came to mind. "Get me the hotline." Macbeth left and quickly returned with a neon pink phone. Bundy smugly picked up the handset and dialed 1-976-2HEAVEN. A slinky female voice answered.

"Hi there. What kinky fantasy can I fulfill for you?"

Bundy mentally slapped himself and dialed 1-800-2HEAVEN. This time a much less sexy voice answered.

"Yeah?" An exasperated sounding Gabriel answered.

"Hello, Gabriel. I thought I'd call you up and thank you for the forty billion souls you guys sent down." Gabriel nearly fainted with the sudden recognition of what Michael had done.

"Just a minute," he groaned, pain and embarrassment oozing from every syllable, "I'll patch you through to God." There was a 1/1800th of a second delay, and then God picked up.

"WHAT?"

"Hey, don't boom at me, Big Guy," Bundy chortled happily, "you're the one who sent me all these souls. Might we assume that the Earth has been obliterated beyond all repair and no is alive? Because then I win the Great Contest."

"NO! THERE MUST BE SOMEONE LEFT ALIVE!"

"Hey," Bundy said with a smirk, even through the phone, "I don't care. I've got forty billion souls. That's what matters. If you can get the human race to continue, then the Contest goes on, but otherwise I win. Ciao." He hung up.

"How tragic." Macbeth added with a grin.

"Isn't it though?" Bundy grinned back.

Gabriel, always the honest one, had not, of course, been listening to the conversation between God and Bundy. He still had a good idea of the magnitude of Michael's screw-up, however. He decided he'd better find a way to make it right before God got *really* mad. If God didn't decide to banish Michael to the farthest reaches of the universe first. Or to a 7-11 in LA as night manager. Luckily for Michael, all the 7-11's were destroyed in the explosion...

But God had other things to worry about at the moment, so he needn't have worried too much about facing anyone's wrath. Firstly, he had to determine exactly Macbeth did in Purgatory that led to the destruction of the Earth shortly after.

"Gabriel, I need a favor."

God never asked for favors. He gave commands, which indicated something was definitely not kosher in the afterlife.

"Uh, sure."

"I need to know just what Macbeth did in Purgatory."

"You're omniscient, as you keep reminding me. Why don't you know already?"

"I don't know."

"That's *two* things an omniscient God doesn't know in the same conversation. I'm losing faith."

"I'm sorry. I can't read Macbeth for some reason. I need you to check him out for me."

"If you can't deal with him, what makes you think I'm any more capable of doing it?"

"JUST DO IT, GABRIEL!" Now that was somewhat unexpected. Outbursts from God were not something to be trifled with. Gabriel quietly backed out, as God seemed to be on the verge of having a faith crisis himself. Not the best time to continue an argument with him.

After taking the Cosmic Subway to Purgatory, Gabriel decided that his best course of action would be to ask around. He noticed a black man, clutching an electric guitar, sitting on the sidewalk. He wandered over and tapped and him on the shoulder, lightly.

"Excuse me," he began, "but have you seen..."

"Hey man," the bum interrupted, "but can you spare a dollar for a cup of coffee?"

"What are you talking about? There's no money in Purgatory."

"Yeah, I know, but I like to go down to Earth and haunt Seattle occasionally. It's nice to have some cash."

"But you'd be a ghost. What can you do with money?"

"Hey, man, humor me." Gabriel sighed in response and pulled a wad of bills out of his jacket pocket.

"Okay, here, there's about three hundred thousand dollars here in small bills. But I should warn you...uh, what's your name again?"

"Jimi."

"I should warn you, Jimi, that the Earth is no longer there."

"Far out, man."

"Yeah, sure. Anyway, have you seen Jesus around here recently?" Gabriel figured that being the slimy gutter-dweller he was, Jesus would have the best source of "underground" info on Macbeth.

"Christ? I dunno, man. Try the Bloodbath Club or the Mutilation Inn." Gabriel breathed a sigh of relief, since he wasn't hanging out a *really* tough club. He started off again when Jimi began pulling on his toga leg.

"Hey, man, what about payment for my info?" He held out his hand expectantly.

"I gave you three hundred thousand dollars and you want payment for your information?"

"Yeah, sure. Money's no good here, like you said. So send me somewhere else."

Gabriel did just that, but the other place was a little hotter than Jimi had in mind...

"Another Bloody Mary, bartender."

The bartender sighed inwardly. This was the fortieth Bloody Mary this bozo had had this morning. Not that he wasn't a paying customer, but he had only ordered Bloody Mary's every day for the last decade or so. The stigmata and crown of thorns made for nervous customers, too. God, he thought, some washed up actors really get dramatic when it comes to suicide. And if *that* weren't bad enough, the weird-looking guy dressed in white looked to be scaring off some of the customers he had won over from some of the seedier establishments in Purgatory.

The fact that the weird-looking guy never actually touched the door before it opened didn't really dawn on him until he had left his place behind the bar at a fairly brisk pace. By that time it was too late to turn and run and still keep some semblance of his dignity.

"Harrumph." He harrumphed; hoping it would attract Gabriel's attention. To no one's surprise, it didn't.

The bartender, not quite over the intelligence level required to realize that this was Gabriel, the Archangel, the heir to God's throne, the Major Player in the Big Scheme of Things, kept walking towards him. The rest of the patrons who were in Ye Olde Bloode and Guttes Taverne were justifiably running for their afterlives. Gabriel was beginning to glow a very nasty shade of red. Jesus regarded him solemnly and went back to his Bloody Mary.

"Ex-cuse me, guvnor" the now damned bartender said, "but my club ain't no 'aven for deadbeats like..."

While indeed the Ten Commandments explicitly state "Thou Shalt Not Kill," nothing is mentioned that says "Thou Shalt Not Pick Up Yon Bartender And Throw Him Across The Room Like A Javelin, Out The Door, And Into A Dumpster," so Gabriel was free to do just that.

"So," Christ said, "have you come to drag me from my drunken stupor and force the responsibility of the rulership of the Kingdom of Heaven upon me? I take it my Father is dead, then."

"In order: no; rulership is not a word; and no, most definitely not. I'm looking for someone else, and the fact that you're hanging out here is a most unpleasant surprise. This is much too classy a club for you."

"You can't do it, you know," Christ continued, not listening to a word Gabriel had said, intent on keeping the dramatic mood he had set, "I'll never leave my art for the drudgery of that."

"Of course you won't, you git. We don't want you. We want Macbeth. So shut up already."

"No, no, the honor is really too much for a person as humble as myself. I couldn't accept with a clear conscience...wait a minute. Did you say you *don't* want me?"

"Yes. Now shut up. And don't ever sic your thugs on me again."

"Whaddya mean?"

"I mean ten guys dressed in 'Christ is God' badges jumped me before I got to the door of this rathole. Strangely enough, they were all dressed in white robes just like..." he looked around the room, as if trying to locate someone else in white robes, "...you."

"Me?" Christ sputtered, "Never. Besides, what evidence do you have?"

"For starters, I hung one of them over the pits of Hell by his nose hairs until he talked. Too bad I dropped him. My strength isn't what it used to be." To demonstrate, he smashed his fist into a nearby oak table, only shattering it into a million pieces, as opposed to a million ten, which was the norm for Gabriel. Jesus broke into tears of fear...

"You wouldn't hurt a man with stigmata, would you?"

"I would and I will. Unless you know what your boss Macbeth has been up to up here."

Jesus actually sputtered.

"M...m.... My boss? What gave you that idea?"

"You're not fooling anyone, you fraud. Bad enough you got all the credit in the bible for Michael's activities on Earth, PLUS you got a whole era named after you. You haven't endeared yourself to anyone Above, I can assure you. So I'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself before I toss you back into the pits of Hell from whence you came."

Now he spilled his guts.

"Okay, okay...he came up here looking for the one of the Elder Gods, and blew up about 15 information booths before he found one. I'm not sure which one it was, though. I think he needs hired muscle, so he's probably going after Thor or maybe Hercules. That's all I know, I swear!"

"Thank you. See, cooperation is the best policy after all."

And Gabriel would have left it at that if Jesus hadn't decided to push his luck.

"Say...you wouldn't be willing to put in a good word for me Up There, would you?"

Christ made quite a nice arc on his way down to Hell, it was generally agreed by the spectators.

"Well, Jesus, my friend, it appears you've really dug a hole for yourself." Bundy commented.

Jesus Christ, washed up Savior and currently a rough approximation of a pretzel (contorted into a shape only possible for the dead), could only nod, since his right foot was shoved down his throat at that moment.

"Gabriel really worked you over. What did you say to tick him off that much?"

Through charades and a very complex sign language system, Jesus conveyed to Bundy his thugs' attack, his confession to Gabriel, and his acknowledgment of someone who looked like Satan's part in everything. The last bit really piqued Bundy's curiosity, for more reasons than one. The first and most important, was the all-important rule of life that will always serve you well: If you have to rat on someone, the one person in the entire universe you don't do it to is Satan. The second reason Bundy was interested was because he didn't have anything to do with it. And that made him madder. If there was a big conspiracy afoot to rule the universe, HE wanted in on it, too.

Needless to say, Satan didn't those pesky Ten Commandments to restrain him from tearing what was left of Christ into tiny pieces. Very tiny pieces. And while souls cannot die again, they can dissipated so much that they might as well have.

"Macbeth!" Bundy yelled. Macbeth appeared via the zipper instantly.

"Yes, sir?"

"Scrape the remains of our poor friend off the ceiling and mail them to God. As a reminder."

"But he's our employee. I'm pretty sure God's never even met this loser before."

"Whatever." Bundy said, "Send him as a birthday present then, I don't care." Bundy had his mind made up; there wasn't any point in trying to change it.

"Anything else, sir?"

"Yes. Gabriel's been snooping around Purgatory, and someone dressed as me had Christ here distracting him. Do you know anything about it?"

"No. Of course not. Do you think I would ever betray you, my liege?"

"Of course, that’s why I keep you where I can watch you. But Gabriel's been snooping around Purgatory. I don't like that. Have him exterminated."

"It's already taken care of."

"What was that?" Bundy said, not liking the idea that his idea was already Macbeth's idea. Or something like that.

"I said I already had Gabriel's extermination set up years before you even came along. Don't worry about it. Things are being set in motion as we speak."

"Why wasn't I told!" He yelled, suddenly upset about his authority being usurped. Macbeth, in his younger years, might have given the real reason: Bundy was too stone dumb to understand the plan.

But this was an older, wiser Macbeth, and instead he settled for: "I didn't want to bother your Lordship with the petty details of his extermination. It's too long-term for you to bother monitoring in any great detail." That should appease the bastard, Macbeth thought.

"Mmm. Good thinking, Macbeth. Dismissed."

"As you wish, my Lord." Gabriel said, and stepped back through his zipper to where he came from...

"I really must learn how to do that someday," Bundy said aloud to no one in particular as Macbeth departed. "EDMUND!" He yelled, deciding to set up a counter-plan of his own...

Macbeth paced uneasily on the rug of his living room floor. His apartment, which looked remarkably like his old Scottish castle from the outside, resembled more of a psycho-yuppie nightmare on the inside. The walls, covered with Andy Warhol originals (painted by Warhol personally at Macbeth's castle) and portraits of great dictators, were painted a very ugly shade of blood red. Blood collected from Banquo, of course. He was thinking of hunting down Macduff pretty soon and doing horrible things to him for fun, when his doorbell, chiming the first few bars of "Sympathy for the Devil," rang. He stomped over to the door and opened it to find Jimi Hendrix, ex-guitar-whiz and current wino, standing before him looking very beat up indeed. Gabriel must have busy today; Macbeth thought to himself, not aware how right he was.

"'Scuse me," Hendrix slurred, "but I was wond'ring if you'd need a g'tar player f'r this castle?"

"Why would you possibly want to work for me?" Macbeth asked, well aware of his own reputation.

"I wanna be a very important person down here, man. You look important, so I thought I'd hook up with you. Besides, I got beat up by this guy in a white suit up there," he pointed in the general direction of Purgatory, "and I need repairs, man. You dig?" Macbeth snickered to himself.

"Gabriel beat you up, too, huh? What did *you* say to him?"

"Nuthin', man. He gave me this wad of bills for some info," which was of course a lie, "and then dumped me here."

Macbeth snorted in disgust of the pathetic creature and slammed the door in his face.

The impact of Hendrix' statement hit him 3.2 seconds later. He ran back to the door and threw it open again.

"Did you say Gabriel paid you off?"

"Uh, sure, man, whatever you say..." Hendrix said, not wanting to blow his chance. Macbeth grabbed him by the collar and brought him inside the castle, adding little bits to his plan along the way.

A very evil sounding clap of thunder was heard all through Hell that night.

Gabriel, disguised (inasmuch as any near-god can conceal his identity) as a pub-crawler, stalked into the Chainsaw Massacre Inn, looking for yet another informant that he'd rather avoid on any other day. He'd settle for a really stiff drink, considering how stressful the day had become. He sat down on the nearest bar stool and called the bartender over.

"I'll have a scotch, on the rocks, and make sure it's from the fifteenth century."

"Are you nuts?" The bartender exclaimed, "Do you think I'd have 600 year old scotch sitting around?"

"Second bottle from the right on the third shelf of the middle rack under the counter." He replied without paying attention to the bartender, while looking around the bar for seedy looking ex-rock stars drinking bad Scotch. Not including Hendrix, of course. The bartender, still in shock after finding the scotch right where Gabriel said it was, nervously poured the drink, then stashed the bottle in his private collection, blissfully unaware of the fact that when Gabriel left the bar it would disappear with him. But he would be happy for a few days at least...

Gabriel continued scanning the room, but began to hear alarm bells going off in his head. That was very bad news. It meant one of two things: either one of Satan's minions had entered the area with intent to harm him, or even worse...

"Gabe! Hombre!" The two words dreaded most by Gabriel echoed through the bar as Jim Morrison swaggered into the bar. Why he hadn't gone spiraling into the bowels of Hell immediately after his death would remain a mystery to Gabriel, but apparently had some hidden good side, and that was enough to warrant residence in Purgatory. Unfortunately, he had also taken a liking to Gabriel's pub-crawler disguise over the years that Gabriel had used it, and was sure to show up and either annoy or humiliate him in some way, and Gabriel was 99% certain this time was no exception. He was right. Unfortunately he was the best remaining informant that Gabriel had. And he had to find out for sure whom Macbeth was trying to bribe here.

"So Gabe, you been trying to convince that poor bartender that he's had 400 year old scotch all along?"

"No, of course not. It was, uh, 600 years old, actually." He finished lamely.

"Yeah, sure. So what brings you to Purgatory, Gabe, you old Archangel, you?" He playfully punched Gabriel on the arm.

"Uh, you know Jim, I am trying to maintain my cover here..." he said sotto voce.

"Yeah, whatever, you sly dog of an eternal being..." He said loudly, before Gabriel cut him off by yanking him off his barstool by the ears.

"Shut up! I'm trying to be inconspicuous, you idiot!" Needless to say, the entire bar was now staring at the pair fighting at the bar. Gabriel, ever the observant one, noticed this fact, and carried Jim out of the bar by his ears. Before he left, he turned around and addressed the bar:

"Look, if anybody here has seen Macbeth, the Ruler of Hell, and knows who was trying to pay off, or if you do see him, my card is now in your wallets. Thank you." he finished pleasantly, as he and Morrison left the bar and went out into the street.

"Do you," Gabriel snarled, having lost all his patience with the Christ Incident, "actually *know* something, or shall I throw you into the pits of Hell now?"

"Yes, I know something. But if you're going to talk to me like that..." He crossed his arms in mock indigence. Seeing the fire almost literally shooting out of Gabriel's eyes, however, he quickly changed his mind, and continued. "Uh, I saw Macbeth snooping around here a little while ago, and I thought I'd tell you..."

"Yes, I know. What I want to know is what he's doing here."

"Mainly blowing up information booths. Maybe he's looking for you, just like you're looking for him."

"I don't think so."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Besides, he probably didn't have time to find both you and Thor..."

"Wait a minute! Do you say Thor? That's who he's been trying to get on his side?"

"Sure. That's what I hear. I hear he's been making him big promises of power or something, waiting for his big plan to go through." Jim had only a few seconds to yell, "Hey, wait for me!" before he had to run to catch up to Gabriel.

Bundy paced uneasily around his throne. This meant serious trouble, since Bundy was almost never in enough control of his mental state to be worried about anything. And he never paced. At least not in front of the hired help, which was definitely what Edmund, former tutor of Bundy and head sleazebag under Macbeth, was. Their relationship had changed much since their first meeting ten years ago. Or so Ted Bundy thought.

"Where is Macbeth? His progress report was due two hours ago! Maybe he's betrayed me."

"So what did you want to do about it?" Edmund asked snidely.

"I want you find and then follow him and see what he's doing that's so damned important." Bundy replied, oblivious to any disrespect in Edmund's voice, due to his anger. "I will not be left out of this!"

"What if he's out there trying to formulate a plan to overthrow the universe and knock you off your throne?" Edmund asked, knowing full well that was exactly what Macbeth was doing.

"Don't be stupid. He wouldn't dare try something like that. Even if he does keep saying how much he'd like to try it someday. No, I'm worried that he might be spying on behalf of the Other One."

"Who? God?" A bolt of red lightening shot from Bundy's fingers directly at Edmund, striking him square in the chest and blowing him into five distinct pieces. It hurt, obviously.

"What was that for?" Edmund croaked, struggling to reconnect his scattered body parts.

"First, don't ever swear around me again. I don't ever want to hear the 'g' word again. Second, now we're even for the shot to the jaw you gave me ten years ago. I don't forget my debts."

No shit, Edmund thought.

Bundy stomped out of his royal chamber, leaving Edmund to begin the slow and torturous healing process. Bundy, he thought, will suffer for this, even more than we had already planned...

Macbeth, after traveling through the zipper to Purgatory, had spent the past few hours scouring the bars with Hendrix for more incriminating evidence to present against Gabriel at the annual meeting of the Council of Major Western Deities. He was, however, running out of bars to scour. A pretty beat-up bartender wearing a "Ye Olde Bloode And Guttes Club" T-shirt solved that particular problem pretty quickly...

The door to the Valhalla Home for Retired Norse Gods was locked.

Looks to be a pretty heavy-duty job, Gabriel thought, too bad I have to do this to such a nice lock. He snapped the lock like it was paper mache, throwing the remains of it on the ground.

"Why'd you wreck the lock like that? Couldn't you have just made us float through the door or somethin'?" Jim asked angrily.

"Sure. But that wouldn't have been very dramatic, now would it?" He giggled slightly. He was, Jim thought, drunk.

Actually, Mr. Morrison could not have off-target with regards to Gabriel's ability to hold his liquor. Gabriel was fairly prone to tipsiness, but his would stay tipsy from his first drink to his five hundredth. In fact, the only situation in which Gabriel had ever actually gotten drunk was a party in LA, where he had ventured on a whim one night. He had tried a standard drink: a martini. But due to an odd chemical reaction between the vodka and the vat it was brewed in, it was in fact methyl alcohol, or car fuel, instead of ethyl alcohol, which is regular liquor. Instead of killing him, the gas in his drink had in fact made him roaring drunk and the life of the party. He took the recipe back to the afterlife with him, and the rest is purgatorial bartending history. As for the party, Gabriel was having such a good time that he suspended time for 4.5 months in the five-mile area surrounding the apartment building. The heavy metal group Motley Crue was in attendance, and used many of the guiding principles of that party (the drinks, the length of time) as a basis for their subsequent parties.

"Uh, Gabe, I gotta go. I think Thor's in #87B. See ya." And he ran like a dog, unbeknownst to Gabriel, who was advancing angrily on the room marked "87B."

He opened it up to find...a ghetto blaster. He suddenly snapped back to total sobriety as he picked up off the table it was sitting on. A tape was in the deck. Not liking what he was about to do but doing it regardless, he pressed Play. Macbeth's voice came into the room.

"Ah, Gabe. I see Mr. Morrison did his job and lured you here like he was supposed to. You have, by now I hope, figured out that Thor is very much my buddy now. Sorry to keep bothering you like this, but I have a plan and you're not part of it. By the way, if you'll look up," Gabriel did so, "you'll notice that a pentagram medallion with a curse inscribed on it is hanging from the lights. A demon lord should drop down in a few seconds and mop the floor with you. Hell, it even gave me a fight getting it into that pentagram in the first place. If you're lucky enough to survive, you should be out of the way long enough for me to do what I need to. Ciao."

And, true to his word for once, a really huge demon lord dropped from the ceiling, right onto Gabriel.

"Down, boy!" He yelled in desperation. It didn't work. It was, however, something of a close fight, just because Gabriel was so pissed off right then. Gabriel managed to hold off the demon long enough to banish it back to Hell forever.

Gabriel, however, was in no shape to continue his investigation. He staggered out of the building, and flopped face-first to the ground, dead to the world.

"I thought you'd never get here." Thor sneered as Gabriel lay at his feet...

"So, where exactly did you land, again?" Macbeth asked the abused bartender.

"Ta dumpster. 'Ead first. 'E trew me out o' me own bar like yesterday's garbage. Then 'e beat the crap outta one of me customers. 'E's a menace to society, I say!" Macbeth thanked the bartender kindly; then, making sure Jimi had taken notes, set off for his next stop.

"MICHAEL!" God boomed, "COME HERE!" Michael, sitting at Gabriel's fake oak desk (a position which he was now terrified of), cringed. With Gabriel off doing God-knows-what for God, Michael was forced to step in handle affairs around Heaven again. He desperately hoped Gabriel would make a miraculous return and save him from the annoying pettiness of the Big Guy.

He waited patiently for a miracle. He was, after all, in the right place for one. He was supremely disappointed.

"MICHAEL! I WANT YOU TO TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK OF THIS NEW LIFE-FORM I'VE CREATED FOR THE EARTH'S REMAINS."

Michael sighed and trotted briskly towards God's office to meet his maker.

Bundy, still annoyed by the disappearance of Macbeth, began walking around Hell in random directions, mainly venting his anger by kicking the hell out of passing demons. Hard. Approximately fourteen thousand minor and major demons were dissipated from Paranoia, Destruction, War and Pestilence into Mild Anxiety, A Bit of A Dent, A Minor Skirmish, and a Nasty Infection.

Bundy felt considerably relieved. He felt a newer, kinder, gentler Satan. He breathed in the murky, sulfurous air and gazed lovingly at the red sky and the black sunset. He felt almost...dare he think it...at peace.

Unfortunately for the left-wingers reading this book, Ted Bundy is a psychopath, and wouldn't know a peaceful feeling if it bit him in the nose. So he is not undergoing a dynamic character change for the better...he just forgot to take his pills that morning.

In fact, the feeling passed about five seconds later and he beat the hell out of another fourteen thousand demons on the walk back to his castle.

At first, Gabriel thought he was in the After-after-life. But that was too stupid of a play-on-words, even for this author, so he decided it was something else. The sparklingly white walls and buxom nurses jiggling around in white outfits made him suddenly fear that he was in one of Purgatory's hospitals. Then he saw the perfectly attired Nordic doctor (in an impeccably neat Italian suit) and his worst fears were confirmed, as he tried desperately not to claw his own eyeballs out in dread.

It should be noted here that Purgatory's hospitals are notoriously bad places to be if, God forbid, you are actually unwell. As an example, to qualify for a Purgatorial Degree in Medicine, you need a degree in Economics (four year plan), a degree in Social Behavior Techniques (two year plan), a degree in Advanced Golfing (two year plan), a degree in Bedside Manner: The Art of Sounding Soothing (one year plan), a degree in Fashion (three to five year plan), and a weekend seminar on Surgery, Diagnosis, and All That Other Boring Medical Junk. Needless to say, the doctors in Purgatory, while being perhaps the best-dressed beings in the universe, are without a doubt the least qualified to practice medicine. But then, since everyone in Purgatory is already dead, their medical practices are somewhat limited anyway.

"Well, Mr. Gabriel," the Nordic, young, suave, charismatic studmuffin of a practicing physician said reassuringly to Gabriel (who was apparently checked in under the name Ben Gabriel, as per usual), "it would appear that you have a nasty boo-boo." He checked a chart at the foot of Gabriel's bed, which listed the stock quotes for that day.

"Look, doctor, uh..."

"Thorn."

"Doctor Thor, I really think there's been a..." Gabriel stopped with a jolt, "Did you say your name was Thor?"

"No! Not Thor! Thorn. Thor-n. T-h-o-r-n. I am most definitely not the handsome and all-powerful god many people confuse me with. No matter how much I wish I could be."

"Uh huh." Boy, Gabriel thought, this god is the worst actor I've ever met.

"Now then," Thor said very reasonably, "you were saying something?"

"Yes, damn right I was saying something. Why have you been taking payoffs from Macbeth? What did he offer you? And why is the room spinning..."

"Well, it appears the Happy Valhalla Psychiatric Institution is the right place for you. Anyone who would make such ridiculous claims is obviously out of his mind." Thor replied, as if talking to a three-year old.

"THE WHAT!"

"Now, now, Mr. Gabriel, if you'd just take these pretty little pills you'll feel much better in a few minutes..."

Gabriel, not normally your typical cheerful and peppy angel, was just having too lousy a day to put up with being beat up by a demon lord and institutionalized in the same day. He thought he'd yell really loudly at the god/doctor to make his point clearer.

"RIGHT! LET'S GET SOMETHING STRAIGHT! I'M GOD'S C.E.O., AND YOU'RE THE GOD OF THUNDER, SO CUT THE CRAP AND TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON!" And he turned the water beside his bed into wine as if to emphasize his allegiance.

"Oh, very impressive. But you're a minor deity, and I'm a god, so SHUT UP before I kick your ass from here to Valhalla."

Now that's a threat.

"He's lying to you, you know. Anything he offers you is simply a ploy to get you to work for him long enough to drop you like a bad habit." Gabe was becoming very frustrated now.

"That's wonderful news. Because if he does betray me, I'll have *two* deities to beat on today. But right now I have to go make a phone call. You *must* stay here for another hour or two. It's for a greater cause than you realize." To make sure, Thor pulled his hammer out of mid-air and apologetically (if that is possible) swung the hammer at Gabriel's head, not doing any damage, of course, but putting his lights out for another hour or so. He went to have a very interesting phone conversation with Macbeth. But first he placed a call to Heaven to inform them of Gabriel's tragic death...

Michael got the phone call from Thor just before his lunch break. He hated it when the phone rang just before lunch.

"Hello? Heaven and the Upper Regions, Michael speaking."

"Hello. This is Doctor Thorn of the Happy Valhalla Psychiatric Institute. I am sad to inform you that the particles of one..." Thor paused, as if checking a chart, "Ben Gabriel, real name Archangel Gabriel, were dispersed throughout eternity this afternoon, before we had a chance to save him. It was Satan's work, I'm afraid. I'm sorry. Good-bye."

Uuuuuugggggggghhhh, Michael thought, why do *I* always have to break the really bad news to God...

Bundy was getting really impatient for something to happen. He stomped back to his castle to await Macbeth's long overdue report, only to find Macbeth sitting patiently on his throne, waiting for Ted Bundy, Lord of the Flies, to arrive and meet his destiny.

"Hi, Ted. Miss me?"

"I will wipe your worthless hide from the universe, you treacherous worm!"

"Oh? Really now? And what have I done to arouse such anger on your part?" Macbeth was being really smug about this whole thing.

"I will not tolerate being left out of any schemes to conquer the universe, Macbeth! You know that!"

"Oh, I know that quite well, Ted. And you are very much a part of this one." Macbeth opened a book that was sitting beside the throne and began leafing through it. "Read much, Ted?"

"Not recently..." Bundy replied, unsure of the direction the conversation was taking.

"The Elder Gods had all sorts of neat powers and magic that they could call up when needed. I think it's something of a lost art these days, Ted, and I intend to revive it. I've got summoning demons down pretty well now, as well as opening gates to other places. Edmund, please subdue our guest."

Bundy whipped around too late, to see Edmund thrust a cross at him. It touched his chest and scorched its mark on him. Bundy shrieked in pure agony and dropped to the floor.

"Help Wanted: Overlord of Hell required. No prior experience needed, must be a really bad person," Macbeth chuckled. "I think you've been deposed," He snarled at Bundy. Bundy cursed, screamed, and swore revenge, but was otherwise helpless while Edmund continued the torture of the soon-to-be ex-Ruler of Hell. "Resign your position and the hurting will stop, Teddy boy." Macbeth taunted. "You can do it...all you have to do is say the word. Come on now, we'll make you feel all better...just say the word. I promise."

"I...quit."

"Ha! Had my fingers crossed! But thanks anyway, Ted. Nice doing business with you. Have fun, Edmund." And with that part of the plan accomplished, Macbeth turned on his heel and went to go see the Council of Deities about getting himself put back in office.

Gabriel, having awakened from his hammer-induced sleep, paced back-and-forth, patiently waiting for someone to wise up and let him out of the institution.

"HEY!" he yelled, just because he had to yell at someone, "I'M ONE OF THE MINOR DEITIES! YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE ME LOCKED UP HERE!" He waited for someone to respond. Within a minute, a concerned looking orderly opened up the door to the room.

"Hey," he said, "aren't you the Archangel Gabriel?"

"Yes, young man, I am."

"Oh boy, I'm so sorry," the orderly fretted. "You never should have been locked up in here. You're free to go."

"Thank you. It's about time someone..."

"Not!" The orderly smirked, slamming the door. "I mean, how dumb do you think we are, anyway...." He was cut off, as he collapsed to the floor, twitching in pain.

"Pretty dumb is my guess." Gabriel replied, after causing the attendant's current plight. "Now I'll just take those keys from you..." he said, levitating them from the attendant's belt...but they were snatched from the air by a large hand, which looked remarkably like that of Thor.

"My dear Gabriel, you just don't learn. You have only another half-hour or so to go, so just sit tight for a while longer. But first you're going to have to be disciplined for your mistake..."

If Gabriel wasn't mistaken, Thor now had an even bigger hammer...

The Council of Deities was convening in a Hotel Six in Purgatory that week, discussing some pretty mediocre stuff, when Macbeth strutted in, trailing the *very* battered looking Bundy by a leash behind him. Edmund and Hendrix, the cronies du jour, followed, looking like Mafioso's.

"Afternoon, gentlemen, we have a little situation here that needs to be addressed, I think."

"Chair recognizes Macbeth, former holder of the title of Satan." JHVH intoned. Some of the major deities from times past were seated around the table, including JHVH, Odin, Grog (the prehistoric god of loud noises), Zeus, Jupiter, and Ra. Gabriel was usually there to chair the meetings, but he was otherwise occupied with being beaten up at the moment.

"Thank you. As you may have heard by now, our friend here has given up rulership of Hell of his own accord."

Bundy groaned in either pain or agreement.

"See we hear." Odin replied. "Have you any suggestions for a successor?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. A fine, stout fellow who has served Hell well before and would continue to do so in the future."

"Mm-hmm..." Odin said, bracing for half an hour of listening to Macbeth ramble about his own greatness...

Gabriel's beeper began to go off in the middle of his beating.

"I'm sorry, Thor, but I'm being beeped. Hold on a second, would you?" Thor was at least polite enough to wait a few minutes while Gabriel checked his messages.

"Anything important?" The thunder god asked, trying to make small talk before the abuse resumed.

"Um, Bundy has resigned from his position, and the Council is deciding on a new ruler of Hell. I'm supposed to be there to chair the meeting, but obviously that isn't an option." He read further. "Oh, dear."

"Trouble?"

"Macbeth is the leading candidate."

"WHAT! I'M SUPPOSED TO BE THERE WITH HIM! THAT TRAITOR!" Thor literally ripped the door off its hinges and stormed out of the room.

And when I say stormed, with Thor I literally mean stormed. A thundercloud broke in the hallway, nearly frying three people and necessitating the evacuation of the building.

Which meant there wasn't anyone in the hall to stop Gabriel from leaving now. This was a novel idea; the way things had been going recently.

Being attacked by thugs he could deal with. Having four or five orderlies jump him and throw him back in his cell he could deal with. Even having Thor come crashing through the wall and slam into him. Those were things he had expected. But the empty hall thing caught him completely off-guard. All he could do for about five minutes was look around helplessly for someone who was ready to kill, betray, maim or abduct him. No such person appeared. He was even more shocked when a glance down the hall revealed a sign, which read "EXIT." Just a simple red sign. And a set of double doors. Ripped asunder by Thor's rampage, of course. Gabriel wandered unbelievingly over to the doors, stunned by such a simple escape. He stepped out of the blinding, perfect white of the institution and into the dull, dingy, lackluster grey of Purgatory. It never looked so beautiful.

About 5 minutes later, all the employees from that floor, who previously evacuated the building after the storm broke, returned. It was the head nurse who first noticed what was different.

"Hey," she called out from Gabriel's former cubicle; "the old guy's gone!" "Quick, call Dr. Thorn!" Another nurse suggested.

But when they rushed to his office, all they found was a handwritten note, taped to the door.

"GONE TO HELL, " it read, "WILL TRY TO BE BACK BEFORE NEXT WEEK." Everyone quit for the day and went to get a good stiff drink.

"And furthermore," Macbeth droned on, "I was voted 'Most Likely To Rule Hell' by my class in..."

"WOULD YOU GET ON WITH IT, ALREADY!" JHVH suddenly yelled.

"Alright, alright, I'm just trying to set the mood here."

"Well, the think the mood has been set. Wrap it up pretty damn quick or we'll just give it to one of your flunkies here and be done with you."

"Now that would hardly be fair...oh, my."

Thor was standing in the doorway. Swinging Mjolnar the hammer with a big smile on his face.

"Hi, Macbeth. Remember me? The big dumb Norse God who said that he'd leave you for dead if you swerved him? Well, I'M BACK!"

"Mommy..." Macbeth whimpered as the first shot sent him flying through the back wall.

"Well," JHVH calmly continued while Macbeth got his just desserts, "since our #1 candidate seems to have gotten himself in some prior trouble, I think we'll just flip a coin to decide this." He pulled out a quarter. "Call it, Edmund."

"Heads." Edmund said, not believing that *this* was how the process would be decided. The coin landed back in JHVH's hand.

"It's tails. Congratulations, Hendrix, you get to be Satan."

Macbeth shrieked in agonizing pain then. Whether it was from the pounding at the hands of Thor or the realization that his whole plan was down the tubes now is not certain, but it really doesn't matter in the long run.

"What do you *mean* by 'my pass is no good'?"

"Look," the Purgatory Transit Operator said the nth time to Gabriel, "apparently there's some kind of block put on you. None of your cards, bus passes, or whatever are any good." "Not even my American Express Platinum Card?" "No."

"But that's ridiculous. I'm a minor deity. My cards are good anywhere in the universe. And parts of Saskatchewan."

"Look, Mac, I don't make the rules. I just drive the bus. So either you pay $1.60 in exact change or you take the stairway to heaven."

Gabriel searched through his robe frantically, and managed to come up with six quarters and a one million dollar bond.

"Okay, I've got a dollar-fifty in cash and a bond worth one million. Good enough?"

"Throw in that watch and it's a deal."

"Throw in that...WHY YOU LITTLE..."

"Hey, either pay up or get off the bus."

"Fine, I'm not giving in to petty extortion, especially from sewer-crawling Purgatory dwellers like yourself. I'll walk." He began the trek up the tremendously huge stairway, muttering to himself all the way. Macbeth looked like, well, Hell.

After all the Major Deities (with the exception of Hendrix) had left, and Ted Bundy was brought, looking a bit smug for no apparent reason, back to his castle, and all the debris was swept away, Macbeth began plotting how to depose the devil. Again. This was getting to be a bit repetitive. King Duncan was easy -- all that took was a couple of daggers to the heart. This was brain surgery by way of comparison.

"Yo," the Lord of All Evil said, "I don't really want this gig, dig?" Macbeth's eyebrows shot up.

"You don't?"

"Nope. I can tell you want it."

"You can?" Very suspicious now.

"Yep. So you jus' tell me what to do, and you can have your job back, man."

Macbeth was beside himself. All he needed was some sort of Major Deity to witness this. Of course, this was Hell, so even a reasonable facsimile wouldn't actually be cheating... He called over one of the servants.

"Young man, go fetch me Mr. Bundy." The young demon flew off on his errand. "Now, then, Jimi, you're absolutely certain that you wish to abdicate the throne?" Macbeth was nearly crooning now.

"You bet. Hey, you're the boss right, boss?" This was, of course, possibly the most ludicrous statement made by a Major Deity in a long, long time, taking into consideration the fact that Hendrix held in his hands the potential to turn Macbeth into a big, heaping bowl of Strawberry Jell-O at will. This fact hadn't quite dawned on Mr. Hendrix yet.... But it will.

"Okay, so here's what you do. When Bundy gets here to witness this, you say 'I <your name here> do officially resign my post as Lord of All Evil and Father of Lies and do promise not to interfere in the ascension process of others, ipso facto, blah blah blah. Got it?"

"Well, everything but that blah blah blah part."

"That's where you're allowed to improvise."

"Oh. That's cool. So how come all Bundy had to do was say 'I Quit'?"

"It's a seniority thing. You're still in the trial period, so it's assumed you might do something silly like quit on a whim once you experience the horror of everyone in the whole universe plotting against you. Bundy knew what he was doing after ten years as the Ruler of Hell."

There was a knock on the door, and Macbeth's servant led Ted Bundy into the room. He seemed to be quite calm at that moment. Pain tends to focus the mind in that way.

"I'm missing out on my favorite episode of the Brady Bunch, Macbeth. What is it now?"

"I need you to witness Hendrix' resignation."

"I wasn't aware he wanted to resign." Bundy replied coolly.

Okay, at this point it should be pointed out that while Ted Bundy, former psychopathic serial killer and one-time Ruler of the Underworld, was well and truly insane and just generally a bit off kilter, he *was not* stupid. Psychopathic serial killers have two main identifying characteristics: They kill people, and they hold a grudge for an insanely long time. Bundy had a long time left to hold a grudge against Macbeth.

"So," he said to the Lord of the Flies, "you don't want to be Ruler of the Underworld anymore?"

"Not really, man." Hendrix replied, as if turning down a Golden Globe nomination, rather than infinite power. "I'm pretty sure Macbeth here wants it more."

"Oh, he does, does he? How...interesting." Something was most certainly up here, and Macbeth didn't care for it one bit. He had half-expected Bundy to be brain damaged after the violence perpetrated against him, and now he gulped audibly as he came to the realization that this was not the same man. Deep down, this man was the Ruler of Hell. Darn if he wasn't right for once.

"In fact," Hendrix continued, "Macbeth said before that the office is only a figurehead."

"Oh? Is that so. Fascinating. Ah, Jimi...may I call you Jimi?" "That's cool."

"Fine, so Jimi, I want you to do me a favor. Point your left pinky finger at that servant there." Hendrix did so. "Now say Suoicodilail Xecitrilig Afrilacrepus" Jimi did so.

The servant, in a puff of purple and gold, turned into a Betty Crocker cake mix. "Whoa, far out man..." Hendrix breathed.

"The transmogrification spell!" Macbeth yelled. "I never showed you how to do that!"

"I know..." Bundy oozed right back at Macbeth. Macbeth knew something big was going on here, and it was time to back off and call in the reinforcements.

"Now then," Bundy continued, "as you can see, you are now what we call a Major Deity."

"A major deity..."

"No, no, you must speak in capital letters."

"A Major Deity...?"

"Much better! Now, speak in all caps!"

"I AM A MAJOR DEITY! I AM JIMI HENDRIX, LORD OF THE FLIES, MASTER OF ALL EVIL! I AM SATAN!"

"Splendid! Now, do away with Macbeth."

Macbeth managed to open a zipper to who-knows-where, an instant before the flash of power came from Satan, and escaped.

This plan was getting more and more out of Macbeth's reach.

Michael was sitting at Gabriel's desk, trying to fill out an infinite number of forms in triplicate, when he heard the most welcome sound he had ever heard.

"Okay, Michael, take a coffee break. I'm back."

"Gabe!" He exclaimed, literally leaping over the desk and nearly into Gabriel's arms. "Where the heck have you been? Where's Jesus? Why did you just take the Stairway to Heaven?"

Gabriel, just glad to be back in one piece, went over to his desk and flopped into the chair.

"Look," he said tiredly, "I'll tell you everything that happened in great detail. But I need to ask God something first." "Oh." "Oh.... What? What's 'oh' supposed to mean?"

"Um, you see...when it was reported that you died, God got kind of...depressed."

"Okay, but God's supposed to be omniscient. How come He didn't know the truth?"

"That's why he was so depressed, I suppose. Thought he was losing it, maybe. Didn't tell me anything, really. He just decided to retire the Netherworld a little while ago, and *poof* off he went. Really bizarre, actually." "Um, how along ago did He abdicate, exactly?"

"Oh, a few hours ago, at least. Gee, I guess that means that you inherited the title, and you've been God since about two o' clock."

It should, as an aside, be pointed out at this time that there is no need for complicated oaths to swear in a new God. It is assumed, quite rightly so, that anyone with the necessary qualifications to be *the* God is just naturally going to fit the bill, no questions asked. It just happens that those in line for Satan's job are so untrustworthy that an oath is necessary.

Just in case you were curious. At any rate, Gabriel is gone, and God has taken his place. The king is dead, yadda yadda yadda...

Macbeth definitely needed a new game plan. PDQ. Having had his own castle confiscated by the ex-guitarist Ruler of Hell his psychotic second-in-command was not really a consideration in his original plans. In fact, he considered it his destiny to be the Ruler, no matter what the consequences. Edmund was apparently still following him to all ends of Hell for whatever reason, so he decided to hash things over with him.

"Okay, this whole plan has just gone down the toilet completely. Maybe I was being too subtle before. Maybe we should just storm the damn castle and destroy both of them."

"Senseless violence! Good plan, my liege. But how do we overpower two as powerful as them? Obviously Thor isn't working for us anymore. We'd need God himself to come down here and help us now."

"Pfft. Not much chance of that happening. Okay, let's get our shit together here before the big push..."

God was in awe of Himself. He still hadn't quite accepted the idea that He was now the big ruler of all Heaven.

"MICHAEL. COME HERE." He boomed. Michael nearly flew into his office. "You called?"

"COULD YOU GET ME A LINE TO SATAN. I WANT TO CALL OFF THE CONTEST. I HAVE MORE PRESSING MATTERS TO CONCERN MYSELF WITH."

"Gee, I'll try. But things have been sort of hectic down there. I heard rumors that Bundy's been deposed already." "REALLY? BY WHOM?"

"Well, Macbeth was obviously behind it, but some reason an ex-rock star is on the Throne."

Huge, clanging bells went off in God's head. He had ugly visions of Jim Morrison sitting as Ruler of Hell, but then common sense prevailed. His message from the Council had mentioned Hendrix was in the employ of Macbeth, so that was more likely.

"LOOK, MICHAEL..."

"Um, could you tone down the booming voice a bit, Gabe?"

"OH SORRY...I mean, sorry. Anyway, I want you to go take a look around down there if you could. Say it's a social call of some sort."

"Uh, Gabe..."

"God."

"Right. God. Even though I guess I'll be promoted to Minor Deity to replace You, I'd be torn apart down there."

"Mm. Good point. Well then, I guess there's only one option open to us. I'll just have to pay them a personal visit."

"You'll do what?"

"Would *you* argue with God?"

Well, Michael had to give him that one...

Interlude: The Nether Regions.

"Name, sir?" The gum-chewing receptionist politely inquired.

"Ahem. God." The receptionist popped her gum and sighed. Every time, she thought, that a Major Deity gave up his or her position, she had to go through the same tired comedy routine with them. It was almost as if someone was writing a goofy book about her...

"No, you see," she began, sounding quite patient but really not, "I need your real name. Not 'God' or 'JHVH' or 'Eric Clapton' or whatever."

"Oh. Um. Well, it's been so long now..."

"Okay, fine. I'll have to look it up on The Computer." She took a deep breath and turned on the enhanced TRS-80 computer, which the incredibly cheap gods who ran the joint had foisted on her desk years ago and which had been obsolete for years now. Of course, Bill Gates had yet to get his claws on the Nether Regions, but with everyone on Earth being dead and all she was sure it wouldn't be too long. "Okay, so you were which God, exactly."

"God."

"Yes, yes, I know that. But there's about 14 different denominations of the Christian church, you know, and you were God of only one of them. I need to know which one, exactly."

God seemed to lapse into thought for a minute, dredging up some long-since memorized-by-rote rank and serial number. "I was God MCMVX of the Roman Catholic faith."

"Ah, excellent. Now, if you had just told me that to begin with..." she said off-hand, while tapping numbers into the computer. "Okay, then, on earth you were known as Alexander the Great. You have suite number 10,532,987,436,542,139(A). It's fifteen million miles down that hall there, and second door on your right." "That close?"

"Well, it's been a slow millennia. We've been expecting an Elvis Aron Presley since the mid-70's and *he's* never quite shown up. Theodore Bundy should have showed up in 1989 but keeps canceling. And don't even get me started on Macbeth...oy vay..."

God, ignoring her, started the long journey to his room. Once there, he spent the rest of eternity (which was not long at all) happily playing chess with Hannibal. When the universe imploded, the final score was four hundred trillion games to three hundred ninety-nine trillion, nine hundred ninety-nine billion, nine hundred ninety-nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine games. For Hannibal. Alexander was about to tie it up when the universe ended... And now back to our show...

Macbeth was in ecstasy. He was quite completely in paradise. He had before him at least a reasonable plan to storm the castle and actually win. He and Edmund had worked long and hard on this one, and with just the right timing, it would work and all the shit he'd been through recently would be worth it.

"So," he repeated for the nth time "You're *absolutely* sure you remember the plan?"

"Yes." Edmund, machine-like, repeated for the nth time.

"Okay, then. This is it. This is where we take over the world. This can't fail. I've compensated for every possible occurrence, and we literally cannot fail. 5.... 4.... 3...2...1..."

"Hey, dude!" Someone yelled from across the riverbank they were perched on. It was Jim Morrisson, drunk again and looking for his paycheck. "You never did pay me for that job I did for you! You sure don't know much about trust and that sort of stuff, do you?"

Interestingly enough, if Jimbo hadn't screwed up Macbeth's plan, he certainly would have taken over Hell. Macbeth's master plan, involving all sorts of obscure incantations and secret rituals picked up from his time as Ruler of Hell, could only be performed at the *precise* moment that Jim interrupted. And never again. Ever. Among the more noticeable immediate effects had it worked: Bundy would have been dispersed throughout the reaches of the universe, Hendrix would have been banished to the furthest corner of the universe. And if the Earth had survived, the New Kids on the Block's comeback album would have been given four stars by Rolling Stone. It was just that effective a plan.

Yes sirree, it would have been one mighty powerful spell.

Macbeth was, understandably of course, a bit torqued at Morrisson's sudden appearance.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing? You just managed to screw up an entire world-conquering plan single-handedly!"

"Oh. Sorry, man, guess I caught y'at a bad time." He began to walk away. Macbeth, though, was not really in the mood to put up with this from his own henchman. Especially Jim Morrisson.

"Oh, no, Jim, that's quite alright. I really do enjoy your company and hope that you'll stick around and help us conquer Hell. I find your expertise invaluable." Macbeth followed by making an intricate hand-signal to Edmund, which, roughly translated, meant "go do something senseless violent." Edmund followed to the letter with something that was, indeed, senselessly violent. "I was being sarcastic..." Macbeth continued during the violence, "...in case you couldn't tell."

"Duh." Morrisson replied with what was left of his vocal cords, which Macbeth ripped out just for that smart-ass remark, which broke Rule #14B of Hell: Never be funnier than Macbeth. In fact, Macbeth ripped out a lot of vital organs during the next few minutes. Luckily for Jim, demons don't have much use for vital organs.

Strangely enough, however, the only body parts that demons are incapable of surviving without are the tonsils, appendix and left testicle. Which explains why there aren't a lot of demons kicking around. Maybe all those doctors know something the rest of us don't...

Returning our attentions to Hendrix and company for a few paragraphs, we discover that Hendrix has even bigger ambitions.

"So," Hendrix though aloud, "assuming that Macbeth's boneheaded schemes won't work, where do go from here?" "Well, what exactly did you have in mind?" Bundy asked.

"I don't know, actually. I was thinking that Rule of Hell is a nice sounding name and all, but Overlord of Heaven and Hell and Hackensack, New Jersey sounds much more impressive, don't you?"

And now, as a matter of historical perspective, we present the above line of dialogue as the exact moment when the total collapse of the supposedly infinite universe began. In retrospect, it becomes easy to see that Bundy should have ran like a bastard and begged Macbeth to take him in as a part of his little group. It certainly would have made things easier for everyone. And given the book a much less messy ending. But then I'm the author, so I can still change my mind about the ending. Probably won't though.

"Uh, sounds much better," Bundy said tentatively, not at all liking the plan of action being mulled over by Satan. Not in the slightest. And when a psychopathic serial killer in a position of immense power is unsure of something, it's time to start worrying.

"Yes," Hendrix cooed, "I think I would like that very much indeed..." He rubbed his hands together like Oilcan Harry. Harry, by the way, is Auditor General for the Purgatorial branch of the Internal Revenue Service at the point this book was written. I might introduce him into the plot to make the book even more silly and heretical than it already is, but then that would just be needless self-indulgence. As if all the bad jokes and inside humor weren't bad enough already. But I digress.

"So...what are you planning to take over first? I mean, Hackensack should be a pretty easy target, what with the destruction of the Earth and all..."

"Oh, I think I'll take an army of a few million and wipe Purgatory off the map." He said this distractedly, as if having much better ideas in mind. Bundy was almost tempted to say something, but the doors bursting open and a servant rushing hysterically into the room cut off his thoughts.

"Masters!" he cried, looking extremely freaked out, "He's coming! Do something!"

"Oh, don't worry about that idiot Macbeth, he's not..."

"No! It's not Macbeth...IT'S GOD!"

Interlude: The Creators.

The Six Creators of the Universe sat around a table, observing the universe's final days.

"Well," one of them said, "this is certainly a bad thing. All our life forms are dead at the hands of the gods, and now the gods fight amongst themselves over life is no longer there."

"Strange things, the gods," another said. "All in favor of wiping them all out and getting it over with say 'aye'."

Five said 'aye.'

"All opposed?"

One said 'nay.'

"The 'ayes' have it. Hell to be destroyed first, then Purgatory, then Heaven, then the rest of the universe. Let's get some coffee, then start again with a new one."

The dissenter slipped out the back door, however, and went to take care of something before it was too late...

Now, thought Bundy, was most certainly the time and place to be cool about things. The fact that God Almighty was walking around the room, admiring the architecture, had him thoroughly freaked out inside. But outside, it was cool as ice. Serial killers always know that someday they'll meet God, so they practice this sort of thing. "Ah, Gabe, what brings you to our humble abode?"

"Indeed. What does bring you here?" Hendrix added totally unhelpfully, just so he could get the last word in. "Cocaine?" He added again, holding up a silver platter with a heaping pile of white powder.

"No thanks, I never do the stuff, and... Hey! Didn't I meet you in Purgatory a few chapters back?"

"No, it was my twin brother Gunther. People get us mixed up all the time."

"Don't be a smart-aleck. I'll smite your ass." Gabriel had always wanted to use that line. Just could never work it in anywhere. It certainly seemed to set Hendrix back a step or two. "The Universe is in grave danger and all your little antics aren't helping things any."

"I'm sure we have things under control. Don't we, Ted?"

"Absolutely." Smile. Be cool.

"You people make me sick. Fine, when the entropy claims you and eats your little world of self-denial in one big gulp, don't come crawling to me for help." Gabriel decided to storm out now while he still had the advantage.

He met Macbeth outside the castle.

"How'd it go in there?" Macbeth asked, as if this conversation wasn't anything out of the ordinary for either one.

"Not well. Are you planning a coup?"

"I think so. Why, wanna help?"

"Love to. But I'm bound by tradition not to." Small talk between gods is always interesting.

"Ah." There followed one of those uncomfortable silences.

"It's for nothing, anyway." Gabriel suddenly added. "The universe is doomed. It's all in the books. I saw a wave of nothingness coming over the horizon when I was on my way here. We've got to get away from here as fast as possible. It's going slow now, but it'll pick up speed and we'll be dead. And those two idiots aren't helping matters. I could do something if we could all form some sort of united front, but if I have to waste months of my life destroying those two, I'll never get anything done." He thought a moment. "Oh, what the hell. We're all dead anyway, so let's get rid of these two once and for all."

Macbeth offered his hand in partnership, and against his better judgment, Gabriel accepted it.

"Now don't go thinking I like you or anything, Ben." Macbeth added. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Hey, if the mutual admiration society is about finished, could we kick some ass?" Edmund added.

Gabriel made an "after you" gesture, and the siege of Satan's castle was to begin.

"I just knew you two were in this together! I should have suspected as much long ago! Stand and deliver!"

Thor stood behind out heroes, looking mighty pissed.

"Oh, shit." Macbeth and Gabriel echoed in unison.

"So, who wants his ass kicked first? Nothing I love more than a good fight, so make sure you put up a good one!"

"I'll handle this." Gabriel stood up and decided to flex his muscles as God. "Thor, back off. You don't know the forces you're interfering with here! If you feel the need to fight us, you'll have to do it after we finish what we've started here. And besides, I'm stronger than you. You'll never win. You may have beaten me within an inch of my life before, but..." he trailed off, hoping to sound ominous, but really just realizing that he was defeating his own argument.

"I'm damned stubborn that way, Gabriel. I just don't know what's good for me!" And he went careening into Gabriel just to prove that point. The duo went crashing into the moat surrounding the castle, pounding on each other the whole way.

Thor got the better of things, as you might guess.

"Submit, weakling!"

POW!

"Take that, heathen!"

POW!

"Repent your sins now!"

Wham!

"Would it help if I surrendered peacefully?" Gabriel warbled between blows.

Thor had to stop and think about that one. That gave Edmund the chance to jump on his back.

"I've got him, guys!" Thor had to laugh at that one.

Edmund landed somewhere on the other side of Hell, rocketing at approximately 150,000 miles per second.

"That was really uncalled for." Macbeth calmly stated.

"We had a deal, backstabber." Thor snarled between shots to Gabriel.

"Pfft. I've stiffed smarter gods than you on bigger deals and lived to tell about it. As they said on the Earth before it ceased to exist, you may 'bite me.'" Knowing that you and everyone else in the universe is going to do in the space of half an hour tends to do wonders for your bravado.

Thor slammed a fist into Gabriel's face, putting him out for the moment, then turned his attention to Macbeth. Thunder and lightning lit up the skies of Hell, shaking its foundations.

"Oh, really. Do we need the melodramatics? Just give up now and crawl back to Valhalla and we'll call it even," Macbeth continued as Thor crawled from the moat. Thor deliberately paced each step towards Macbeth, setting off a thunderclap with each step. Pretty intimidating stuff. Macbeth yawned.

"I will rip out your heart and eat it."

"With what? Fava beans and a nice quiante? Really, I knew you were cliched, but this is ridiculous."

Thor responded with only a grunt, and lifted Macbeth off his feet with one hand. And squeezed his throat very hard.

"Can we negotiate?" Macbeth suddenly asked.

"You can kneel, worm."

"Okay, I can work with that." Thor dropped him into the mud, where Macbeth gasped for whatever passed for breath amongst the gods. "Hey, I think your legging is undone."

"What are you babbling about..."

"Say goodnight, Gracie!" And Macbeth opened a zipper beneath his feet, sending the Norse God of Thunder plummeting into the hellish depths of wherever the portal led to. "Moron. Okay, who's next?" He yelled to no one in particular. He made a few shadow boxing motions in the air, feeling quite proud of himself.

"HEATHEN!"

"Where did you come from..."

KA-POW!

"I'm a god too, you know. And last time I checked, you weren't one anymore. Which means your pathetic little magic trick didn't quite the desired effect on me."

Thor reared back with Mjolnar as Macbeth reeled in shock from the first blow, then took a home run swing. In Babe Ruth terms, it was a 660-foot shot to straightaway center. Although gods and deities in general can't be killed, Macbeth was certainly affected by the blow. He flew about 15 feet into the air, then hit with a thud on the mud.

"You know..." Macbeth said, gasping for air, "...you're really not very enlightened for someone who's been around as long as you have..."

"Quit stalling. And for your information, I've been seeing an analyst for the past few decades. He said I need to find my happy place. Well, I'm in a real unhappy place now." Thor said calmly, contradicting his obvious mood. "Then my analyst said I should learn to channel my angers in more constructive ways when I feel it coming on."

Macbeth knew he was walking right into one, but he said it anyway.

"So what did you do to him?" he warbled, trying to stand.

"This."

I'm sure you can think of something with your own imagination suitably violent. Macbeth sure didn't need much imagination to picture it. Suffice it to say he was literally peeling himself off the castle wall about three seconds later while Thor still advanced, having hardly broken a sweat.

"Where's the ironic comments now, Macbeth? Give us a joke, jester!" He slammed Macbeth's head into the wall for effect.

"Not tonight, I have a headache..." Macbeth croaked.

"Oh? Sorry to hear that. Here's an old family recipe I find helpful in these situations." He tossed Macbeth into the moat, right into Gabriel's lap.

"Hi, Gabe..."

"PLEASE tell me you have a plan, Macbeth."

"Well, that bit with the portal WAS my plan, actually..."

"Hi, girls. Lights out, it's past your bedtime." Thor picked both deities up and slammed their heads together like ragdolls. The two fell to the ground in a heap.

"Whose idea was it to get into a fight with the NORSE GOD OF THUNDER, anyway?" Gabriel snapped.

"I've been in worse. I survived the last fight with him. Um, barely," he added lamely.

"That doesn't quite instill me with confidence."

"Any last words?" Thor calmly asked, walking over to the rumpled heap of deities.

Suddenly, Macbeth stood up, possessed by something not of him.

"BE NO MORE!" He bellowed, and Thor, well, was no more. Quite painfully so, if the look on his face before he exploded into a million pieces was any indication. Macbeth collapsed with the strain.

"What the hell was THAT?" Gabriel yelled at him.

Macbeth seemed at a loss for words, but someone else wasn't.

"I AM A CREATOR. YOU ARE TO BE SUCKED INTO THE NOTHINGNESS IF YOU REMAIN HERE. ESCAPE IS CRITICAL."

"I had that much figured out from the books of prophecy."

Edmund came slowly flying back over the horizon, a look of sheer terror in his eyes. He bowed before Macbeth.

"I have seen the end of everything...and lived! I am truly blessed by fate. What would you have me do in these last hours, my lord?"

"THERE IS NOT MUCH WE CAN DO, O FAITHFUL SERVANT OF MINE. THESE TWO MUST ESCAPE THE DESTRUCTION IF THE PROPHECIES ARE TO BE FULFILLED AND THEIR DESTINY COMPLETED, BUT ALL ELSE SHALL FALL INTO ENTROPY."

"A sacrifice I would happily make for you, my lord. To have talked with the Creators was honor enough, but now to actually meet one...I am truly humbled." Ever the aristocrat at heart was Edmund. "I regret that I could avert the destruction of the universe, as you wished."

"I KNOW. I THOUGHT I COULD EVADE MY BROTHERS AND SAVE THE UNIVERSE I HAD GROWN SO FOND OF. I WAS MISTAKEN. THE POWER OF PROPHECIES WAS TOO GREAT."

Hendrix and Bundy chose that moment to make a dramatic exit from the castle in order to deal with the trio standing outside.

"Hey! Who wants a fight with the Lord of the Flies?" Hendrix yelled.

"Call it." Edmund said.

"I don't even want to get involved anymore..." Gabriel trailed off lamely.

"THEY'RE NOT WORTH MY TIME." The Creator scoffed. "AND WE HAVE MORE IMPORTANT PLACES TO BE. LET US JOURNEY TO HEAVEN."

"I don't know if you guys are really qualified to get in there..." Gabriel pointed out.

"I DESIGNED IT. I CAN DESTROY IT WITH A BLINK OF MY EYE, ALTHOUGH OTHER FACTORS ARE CURRENTLY DOING THE SAME JOB FOR ME. I ASSURE YOU I AM EMINANTLY QUALIFIED TO ENTER WITHOUT TROUBLE. NOW, LET'S GO." No arguing with that logic. Macbeth made a waving gesture, and the three were no longer there.

"Hey! Where are you going? We're supposed to have a big showdown and all that! I got about fifty new tricks to show you guys! You're all a bunch of..."

"HOLY SHIT!" Bundy screamed, as a wave of nothingness swept over Hell like a tidal wave, obliterating all in its path with nary a thought.

"Wow. So this is the end of the universe. Trippy." And Hell was no more.

Up in Heaven, the trio watched as everything fell apart.

"FIRST HELL, THEN PURGATORY, THEN HEAVEN AND FINALLY THE UNIVERSE," The Creator explained. "SO IF YOU HAVE ANY RELAITVES YOU HAVEN'T CALLED IN A WHILE, NOW MIGHT BE A GOOD TIME." Macbeth's old personality was showing through, much to the consternation of the Creator, who screwed up his fact in a weird gesture after making the joke, apparently not understanding it.

"So what, we just stand here and watch everything die?" Gabriel yelled.

"YES."

"That's it?"

"ARE ALL INHABITANTS OF THIS UNIVERSE AS REPETITIVE AS YOU?"

Meanwhile, in Purgatory...

Oh, never mind, too late. Wasn't important, anyhow.

"WE'RE NEXT." The Creator coldly stated. "WE HAVE TO GO TO THE MORTAL UNIVERSE NOW. THAT'S OUR ONLY HOPE OF ESCAPE."

The Angel Michael came running out of Heaven's Gate, desperately yelling.

"Oh, God, help! It's all dying, Gabe! We're all..."

But the trio was already gone before Michael's death screams could be heard. Heaven was no more.

They awaited Armageddon on Mars, which was basically the center of the universe that was left.

"This is some really fucked up shit!" Gabriel ranted as they waited for their deaths. "Pardon my language. But, I mean, I'm on the job as God for less than a day and the whole fucking universe dies on me! And all we can do is run from this while you Creators wipe everything out for your own twisted little experiments!"

"WE WILL FIGHT AGAIN. BUT THEY MUST BELIEVE ME GONE FIRST." Macbeth stated in that same robotic voice. "I WILL TAKE MY LEAVE OF YOU NOW, AND GIVE THIS VESSEL BACK TO ITS RIGHTFUL OWNER. FAREWELL AND GOOD LUCK." And suddenly Macbeth snapped back into himself again.

"Where are we?" He stammered. "Why didn't Thor kill us? AND WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!" That being the wave of nothingness rapidly devouring the universe.

"I'll explain later!" Gabriel screamed over the death of the universe. "Just open one of your stupid gates and GET US OUT OF HERE!"

Needing no further prodding, Macbeth ripped open a gate to who-knows-where, but it was still intact, at least. He jumped through first, then Gabriel.

Edmund didn't follow. The gate closed, with Macbeth and Gabriel unaware of his choice.

Edmund, a voice from nowhere said, your sacrifice will not be forgotten by me. You will be avenged.

"Thank you, my liege. But for now all knowledge of your existence must die with this universe. I have always worn the title of Bastard as a badge of courage and stoicism, and now I rest forever."

In that case, you were the biggest bastard I ever met, the voice joked. I think that my time in the vessel known as "Macbeth" has improved my grasp of the thing you call humor, he noted. The two laughed at their little shared moment of humor amidst the death, Edmund continued laughing, up until he was wiped from existence by the nothingness.

And that was that.

Almost.