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Johnny scratched, thoughtfully. “I take it you’re one of me ancestors, then, mate?”
“Oh. Indubitably, dear boy. Quite indubitably. In a manner of speaking. Now, to get back to my original question. Where am I?”
“Only if you’re one of my ancestors,” continued Johnny Two Bones, “why are you talking like a poofter?”
“Ah. Australia,” said Johnny Two Bones’ mouth, pronouncing the word as though it would have to be properly disinfected before he said it again. “Oh dear. Well, thank you anyway.”
“Hello? Hello?” said Johnny Two Bones.
He sat in the sand, and he waited, and he waited, but he didn’t reply.
Aziraphale had moved on.
CITRON DEUX-CHEVAUX was tonton macoute, a traveling houngan:41 he had a satchel over his shoulder, containing magical plants, medicinal plants, bits of wild cat, black candles, a powder derived chiefly from the skin of a certain dried fish, a dead centipede, a half-bottle of Chivas Regal, ten Rothmans, and a copy of What’s On In Haiti.
He hefted the knife, and, with an experienced slicing motion, cut the head from a black cockerel. Blood washed over his right hand.
“Loa ride me,” he intoned. “Gros Bon Ange come to me.”
“Where am I?” he said.
“Is that my Gros Bon Ange?” he asked himself.
“I think that’s a rather personal question,” he replied. “I mean, as these things go. But one tries, as it were. One does one’s best.”
Citron found one of his hands reaching for the cockerel.
“Rather unsanitary place to do your cooking, don’t you think? Out here in the jungle. Having a barbecue, are we? What kind of place is this?”
“Haitian,” he answered.
“Damn! Nowhere near. Still, could be worse. Ah, I must be on my way. Be good.”
And Citron Deux-Chevaux was alone in his head.
“Loas be buggered,” he muttered to himself. He stared into nothing for a while, and then reached for the satchel and its bottle of Chivas Regal. There are at least two ways to turn someone into a zombie. He was going to take the easiest.
The surf was loud on the beaches. The palms shook.
A storm was coming.
THE LIGHTS WENT UP. The Power Cable (Nebraska) Evangelical Choir launched into “Jesus Is the Telephone Repairman on the Switchboard of My Life,” and almost drowned out the sound of the rising wind.
Marvin O. Bagman adjusted his tie, checked his grin in the mirror, patted the bottom of his personal assistant (Miss Cindi Kellerhals, Penthouse Pet of the Month three years ago last July; but she had put that all behind her when she got Career), and he walked out onto the studio floor.
Jesus won’t cut you off before you’re through
With him you won’t never get a crossed line,
And when your bill comes it’ll all be properly itemized
He’s the telephone repairman on the switchboard of my life,
the choir sang. Marvin was fond of that song. He had written it himself.
Other songs he had written included: “Happy Mister Jesus,” “Jesus, Can I Come and Stay at Your Place?” “That Ol’ Fiery Cross,” “Jesus Is the Sticker on the Bumper of My Soul,” and “When I’m Swept Up by the Rapture Grab the Wheel of My Pick-Up.” They were available on Jesus Is My Buddy (LP, cassette, and CD), and were advertised every four minutes on Bagman’s evangelical network.42
Despite the fact that the lyrics didn’t rhyme, or, as a rule, make any sense, and that Marvin, who was not particularly musical, had stolen all the tunes from old country songs, Jesus Is My Buddy had sold over four million copies.
