Who Made Who?

It was a gloomy, rainy afternoon when the young writer/freelance journalist walked into the small but cozy well lit cafe. Ordering an orange and spice tea, sitting down at a corner table by the window, the journalist proceeded to wait for the latest assignment to arrive. No sooner had the thought crossed the mind, than a tall, paled skinned man with black neck length slicked back hair and sharp hazel eyes. Wearing a fine black suit and shirt with red satin bow tie, hankerchief in the breast pocket, a fedora in one hand and cross in the other walked inside the cafe.

"Speak of the devil and he appears." the journalist thought taking a sip of tea. Trying to knock the uncomfortable feeling about the man out of mind. Feigning interest in the writing and tea at hand the feeling of being watched lingered and braving a glance up the journalist noticed the man sitting at the little corner table with (him or her). "I can tell you all things about your devils and your God(s). About the start of humanity itself, and even how most of you, including yourself do so well at being the perfect deceived and deceiving beings. Selling your souls for absolutely nothing. Doing that which you know is wrong before you do it but don't care. I mean there is no God right? So why should you resist temptation? There is no one to condemn you, right? No eternal damnation, no judgment, no punishment..." He says almost conversationally, but, speaking with an air absolute knowledge, no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just absolute in the conviction and meaning behind his words.

Then the stranger chuckles, a dark ominous, humorless laugh. As though he is hiding something in plain sight, knows a secret that is not really a secret at all. One perhaps I should have already known the journalist thinks. "Should we get this interview started then?" Another dark smile from the stranger and the journalist begins the task at hand, " That was quite the uh, interesting introduction there sir, you say you can answer all my questions about existence. Though you should know that I have no faith. So you're talking religion with the wrong person."

"Yes, I know that. Which is why I both loathe and vaguely like humans of your caliber." the stranger says with a strange mix of glee and something less joyful, not quite anger but not sadness either. But all the same something which serves to further un-nerve the journalist. "You must be very old then." the journalist laughs nervously. "I am."

"That is not possible, no one is that old. No one can be that old. You would have long been dead if you were half as old as you are implying!" A mix of anger and nerves fluster through the journalist's words as the stranger chuckles darkly once again. Silence stretches before the journalist speaks again, "Lets just begin, enough with the talk of things that do not exist!"

"So, jaded. Absolute in your belief of no God, no devil and certainly no hell. You're the kind that I love. Eager to be led astray, eager to run and do all the evil you can. You love and protect evil, you do all the things I want done. You enable all the things I want done.So hard to do that which is right. Given so many chances, so much mercy. Mercy that is not deserved and I hate you for it. I hate you for the love and grace that you are freely given and yet have so thoroughly rejected. Casting your free ticket to eternal paradise behind your back without remorse, or second thought." The stranger says with a low voice and snarl upon his face. "But I digress".

Reaching for the cup of tea the journalist, finding it empty, settles for gently twisting and turning the cup between in the hands. Ashamed and more alarmed than before the journalist starts to rise. The stranger however has other ideas and reaching over grabs the wrist and pulls the journalist back down into the chair. "I'm not finished.I'll ask you a question it is not a trick. But all the same one you should give much heed and thought to, so here it is, Who made who, who made you? who made who, ain't nobody told you?"

"Now you're talking, who made who, who made you? Who made who, ain't nobody told you?" The journalist grinds out sharply for only the stranger to hear."Evolution made me, or chance made me, but I don't believe some invisible thing-person made me! That's like asking who made God and the devil! Who picked up the bill, and who made who?" Who made who is irrelevant, such things such as the devil doesn't exist! There's just us, and life after death does not exist, just like you can't sell a soul if you don't believe people have souls and as for you sir, I am quite frankly finished with!"

"Who made who, who made you? Who made who, ain't nobody told you? Well my dear I'm here and I'm telling you! That that question is the most relevant thing of your life because had you known who I was when I walked through the door you would have been praying indeed.Notice how many of the other guests have deserted you, deserted this establishment?" The journalist took a scant, shaky moment to notice how yes, the place was mostly deserted save for the few workers nervously trying to ignore them. So now, my dear, you may think we're finished with each other. However, I'm far from finished with you.

You see while God made you and God made me it was Jesus who turned the screw, he picked up the bill. When who made who, who made you was the most relevant thing you should have known. For, unfortunately your soul depended on knowing." The stranger set a strange looking book with many different seals upon the table and with a flick of the hand the book flipped open to a picture of the journalist on one page and on the page beside it all the information about said journalist. Shakily the journalist reaches a hand out to the book and flipping through a few pages realizes with shame and horror that everything about them has been written down into that one strange book.

Turning pale with a hint of blue and eyes wide and scared like a rabbit trapped or caught in headlights the journalist tried to breathe. "Oh God! I'm going to die. I'm going to die, and I'm going to hell." The cup fell to the ground and shattered as the journalist made frantic gestures. Faintly the journalist thought they could hear the sound of ringing bells. Leaning over to whisper in the ear of the journalist, the stranger's final words rang in the dyeing's ears "Yes,you are going to die and yes you are going to hell. And I'm going to take you there." Straightening, the stranger watches as the pages glow a faded golden white hue before returning to faded brown and ink pages. Slipping the book closed and pocketing it inside his coat the stranger disappears where he stands.