Baalzebub stood up to leave — gulping down the last of the forty-five-percent alcohol content straight from the bottle like it was mere water — and not even a flicker of tipsiness betrayed his balance. But just as he made to turn, something seemed to occur to him. He paused mid-motion, frowned faintly in thought, then deliberately lowered himself back into his seat.
"By the way, just so we're clear," he began, casually dusting an invisible speck off his coat sleeve, "Raph is short for Raphael. But you already knew that, kiddo. Subsequently, Raph here is none other than the one and only Archangel Raphael The Healer — which explains how he was able to reactivate this dead vessel of mine after you deactivated it."
He turned meaningfully to Gozie, who was still absorbing the weight of what was being said.
"Perhaps you've heard of the expression 'Jehovah Rapha,' which means—"
"God who Heals," Gozie interjected, nodding knowingly.
"Ultimately," Baalzebub continued, wagging a finger with a smug smile, "Raphael is God's Ordained Doctor — or, G O D. Isn't that right, Dr. Rapha?"
Raph sighed, exhaling as though the air itself was too weary to stay in his lungs, and rolled his eyes disgustedly.
"As for me," Baalzebub went on, puffing up again with theatrical flair, "I represent different beings to different cultures across the parchments of human history. I existed before Time itself dared to crawl out of the cosmic womb. First, I was Bel. Then I evolved as Baal — which my dear Gothic worshipers corrupted to Bael. I rose further as Pir Bub, and finally was crowned as Baalzebub... though Convention, in its infinite stupidity, twisted it to Beelzebub. But who stinking cares?" He snorted derisively. "I'm still who I am — the Phoenician God of Envy — and there's no escaping my identity. No! I've overused that expression, haven't I? You already knew that. Allow me to rephrase: I'm still who I am and there's no stinking thing I, or you, can do about it."
"Is it possible for you to prattle on with your flibbertigibbetic gibberish without the use of further profanity?" Raph asked, his tone struggling to suppress a building rancor.
"Of course, it's stinking possible. But who freaking cares?" Baalzebub fired back, as though daring language itself to challenge him.
Raph made a defeated gesture, raising both hands skyward as if presenting his resignation directly to the heavens. "Lord, I told you it would be a blunder to assign this loud-mouthed moron to me as a partner — but you wouldn't listen."
"But at least," Baalzebub replied with mock sincerity, "you'll agree with me that this 'loud-mouthed moron' happens to be your most suitable partner for this assignment. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been... God-chosen. Get it? God-chosen." He guffawed at his own pun, nearly slapping the table.
"If not that you turned traitor to your own kind, Baalzebub," Raph said, jaw tight and temper laced just beneath the surface, "you would not have smelled this job — and you know it!"
"All for the Good of the Whole, wouldn't you agree?" the Daemon shot back triumphantly, as though he had just checkmated a celestial board game.
Raph groaned silently, lifting his gaze upward again. "God help me."
"I was once so powerful," Baalzebub mused, eyes faraway now, "I was actually worshipped as God. You know. I still am in some quarters of Earth, under different names. So sometimes when you pray to Big Boss up above, you might as well consider channeling that energy to yours truly — me."
Raph threw his hands up. "I give up."
Baalzebub scoffed. "And I haven't even started. Anyway, as Bael, I was a Legion Lord — commander of sixty-six legions of spirits. As Baalzebub, I was the Philistine Lord over the Seraphs and all that Flies. But those lousy worshipers twisted that into 'Lord of the Flies.' Can you imagine? Lord of the Flies? Such arrant insolence!"
"I see vanity talking here," Raph interjected dryly.
"That would be Lucifer himself — he's the Vain One. Speaking of which, I was Lucifer's second-in-command. And I hate him. You know why? Because of him, I fell from Paradise to Prairie. And let's be honest — I prefer to be first-in-command. Still working on that, by the way."
He leaned back, his grin creeping once more.
"Anyway, I was the God of Weather and Meteorology. I was the west wind that soared the dragon's wings when dinosaurs and giants ruled the Earth. I was the Word of Power that parted the Red Sea. I was the fierce whirlwind that propelled Elijah's Chariot of Fire. I was the discordant resonance that shattered Jericho's Wall. I architected the unfathomable mystery of the Triangle of Bermuda. I controlled the airways when the Nephilim visited and ruled the Earth. And oh, did I mention I was also the healing god Baal Zebub of Ekron back in the Days of the Gods?"
It was rhetorical, of course — but Raph answered anyway.
"Vanity took all those powers away from you."
"Envy, you mean?" Baalzebub corrected him. "But again, that is my nature. And I will get them all back. I promise. Oh, how I wish I could fly again."
"You wish!" Raph scoffed.
"Anyway," Baalzebub concluded, turning once again to Gozie, "both Raph and I are your handlers, my boy. Inasmuch as you may find Raph's method of training genteel, mine is rather rugged, ruthless, and harbors zero tolerance for failure. Bear that in mind, my boy. Peace, out!"
With that, Baalzebub raised two fingers in a playful victory sign and faded from view like a dream evaporating at dawn — his Devil's Grin the very last thing to vanish from Gozie's field of vision.
No one else in the bar seemed to notice the mysterious disappearing act.
Nor his presence when he was there.
Gozie, still slowly digesting the avalanche of revelations being dumped on him, appeared to be handling the chaos rather well. He understood something now: while Raph sought to gently usher him into this surreal new life, Baalzebub preferred the bulldozer approach.
"What's that babbling all about?" he asked, trying to keep his tone casual, even though his insides buzzed.
"Baalzebub enjoys talking too much," Raph replied with a tone caught between regret and warning. "Always with one poison in mind: exposing everybody's secrets. He's a glutton for gossip — even when it's the truth."
"A truth that's told with bad intent—" Gozie began, quoting the mystic poet, William Blake.
"—beats all the lies you can invent," Raph finished knowingly. "But Baalzebub doesn't see it that way. To him, it's all fun and game."
"Then hit him back with his own game," Gozie suggested. "Find a secret on him that'll put him in the cooler."
"That's the problem. He has no secrets. And the ones you might think are secrets to him — he shares them openly. Without reservation. Without shame."
"Everybody has a secret," Gozie said, now narrowing his eyes slightly. "He must have one. Maybe you haven't dug deep enough."
"Perhaps..."
And in the quietest recess of his mind, Gozie began to nurture a secret plan — a plan to dig up Baalzebub's little secrets.
With his own little secrets now revealed, Raph resumed his story...