u/911neverhappene-d

The novel is a satirical retelling of the Book of Job. Basically a Mormon bishop decides to recreate the Book of Job with his most loyal member

Chapter One

“Good to see you, Brother Jensen,” the Bishop says, smiling that radiant, pearly-white grin that Tim knows had cost the Bishop a pretty penny, but of course, neither of them ever acknowledges as much. The two men shake hands and Tim walks inside the house, a smile plastered on, like the ugly, out of date, yellow wallpaper that seems to wrap around the entirety of the house’s interior. “Please, have a seat.”

Tim had already been in the middle of squatting toward the chair closest to him, and so hearing the Bishop ask him to take a seat both perplexes and frightens him. Did I try to sit too presumptuously? He wonders. Are people who sit too quickly more likely to commit other sins as well? Fighting the awkwardness forming in Tim’s stomach, he realizes that he’s been squatting in the air, half sitting, half standing, this whole time, and so he commits to sitting down, smoothing out his tie and suit jacket as he does so.

“How do you like my home?’ The Bishop asks Tim, gesturing broadly to the surrounding decorum. 

Tim, who had been so paranoid about sitting vs. not sitting that he’d had no time to check the place out (aside from the ugly yellow wallpaper) takes this opportunity to glance around the space. “Of course, yeah, it’s uh…” he sees portraits of children hung all over, none of them smiling. “You, uh…” he sees taxidermied, decapitated moose heads strung to the wall, their dead eyes locked in the permanent glance of the moment they left the world. “I really…like the…uh…” he sees holes and chips in the wallpaper, all around. The ceiling is flaky and an eggshell white that both penetrates the corneas and remains utterly forgettable. The shag, red rug beneath his chair is disgusting and completely out of place, juxtaposed disturbingly against the clash of colors from every other surface. Even the chair Tim sits in is sagging and old, covered in claw marks. It’s a stained dark brown, with white patches all over the armrest and lines like a knife had run through the seams. “You have a…the windows are so–” covered in cobwebs, dirty, almost impossible to see through, “-decorative.” Tim finishes weakly, wishing he had a glass of water for his increasingly dry throat. Tim runs a finger over the scratches in the chair and dares to add, “though I think your cat may have gotten to some of this stuff.” He chuckles and the Bishop doesn’t respond in kind.

The Bishop only stares in reply with a look somewhere between friendly and insatiably violent. “No cat,” he says, “I’m not big into pets.”

Tim gulps, unsure how to reply. “Ah. Yes. Well, I suppose some of the kids got their hands on some scissors or something–”

“No kids,” the Bishop cuts him off, “the wife and I couldn’t have them. I’m surprised you didn’t know that already.” The Bishop raises his eyebrows at Tim.

“Well, I mean…I’m always busy with my lessons and Cameron, and–”

“That’s alright; they're all my children. I’m a man of God.”

Tim looks again at all the pictures of the kids on the walls. They’re all frowning into the camera. “Yes, well…that’s…quaint.”

“Tim, I’ve asked you here today for a very specific, and frankly serious, reason.”

Oh gosh, Tim thinks to himself. What the heck does that mean? “Oh uh, goodness, I have no idea what that might be–”

“Let’s just slow our horses there a second, Timbo,” the Bishop says, holding his hands up as if to ward off an attack. “No need to get so defensive. There’s some stuff I need to ask you about.”

Tim swallows again, his dry throat aching and begging for water that he’s too embarrassed to ask for. “Okay so…so then what’s the matter?”

The Bishop waves his hands wildly. “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Brother Jensen; you've only just arrived. Let’s take some time to get to know each other. You’ve been a member of my congregation for more than a decade and I feel like we're strangers. I mean, you didn’t even know that I don’t have children.”

“Oh…alright then.” Tim says, nervously rubbing his hands together, tugging the neck of his collar away from himself as though it’s choking him. 

The Bishop stares at Tim with an expectant gaze. After several moments of silence, he rolls his hands forward, as if to say ‘get on with it.’ Tim coughs, his face burning red and he stutters and stammers until the Bishop holds his hand flat, and though he’s never done this before, somehow Tim knows it means to shut up. “Let’s get to know each other,” he repeats, staring into Tim’s face with an intensity that Tim hasn't felt since prom night. 

For the briefest moment in time, Tim thinks that maybe it is that same energy. He leans forward subconsciously, lips puckering.

The Bishop huffs and says, “ask me about myself. Let’s get to know each other.”

Tim stops puckering his lips immediately, trying to play it off like he’d recently eaten something particularly sour. “Yes, of course Bishop. So…what–”

“Well that’s a great question,” the Bishop replies curtly, “I’d say I’m sort of a jack of all trades. I work the stock market, obviously, I mean, what man doesn’t these days?” The Bishop chuckles and Tim, who has never purchased a stock in his life, laughs along. “I own a few companies, of course, and my wife owns a few. We vacation a lot, I love pickleball, and I came in first in the last tournament we had.” The Bishop pauses expectantly and it takes Tim a few moments to realize his mistake and begin clapping. “Thank you, and these days, I–oh, I didn’t say stop.” Tim, who had put his hands back down, resumes clapping. The Bishop speaks louder to make sure his words are heard above the claps. “These days I do whatever the lord needs me to, and enjoy spending every night with my beautiful wife who recently won Modest Monthly’s fashion contest of the year.” Tim claps uproariously at this last part, and the Bishop grins, basking in the sound. Tim even throws in a few ‘whoo,’ and ‘attaboy’s.

After five minutes or so, Tim finally sets his hands down without the Bishop growling in response. “I guess I should ask about you,” the Bishop states reluctantly.

“Oh, well,” Tim starts, “my wife and I–”

“But I really should give you the tour first,” the Bishop cuts him off. “Follow me.”

The Bishop stands and runs toward the stairs so quickly that Tim loses sight of him in an instant. Tim follows the ever-distant sounds of penny loafers hitting the mahogany floor upstairs to locate the man. The hallways twist and wind around enough to form spirals. Tim feels like he’s inside a behemoth serpent, maneuvering around all this unnecessary space. He finally finds the Bishop standing in front of the master bedroom, impatiently staring at his wristwatch. Before Tim can catch his breath, the Bishop opens the door and disappears inside of it.

Tim hurries to follow behind but as soon as he walks in, he’s caught off guard by the dimensions of the room, which seem implausible. There’s a massive amount of space from the door to the master bed, far more than would be expected, and all of it is filled to the brim with opulence. “Ornate wooden banisters with polished stainless steel handrails, a vanity wardrobe with built in lights and mirrors that speak to you,” the Bishop brags. “Hey mirror, how do I look today?” A voice emanates from the mirror, complimenting how sexy the Bishop appears in his suit. Tim looks for the speaker the voice projects from before he notices the way the Bishop is keeping his face turned away from Tim, lifting the back corner of his lips up and down as the ‘mirror’ speaks.

“Are you speaking through the corner of your mouth?”

“Polished wooden floors, a chandelier,” the Bishop gestures to the massive crystal light fixture hanging above the room. The ceiling extends at least thirty feet high, the walls protruding toward each other like a castle battlement. “That thing cost eight grand just to install.”

“Why is your ceiling so high?” Tim asks, noticing the emptiness of the space and how little really occupies it.

The Bishop approaches the walk-in closet, which is ironically so full of items that it is no longer accessible. Shoes, hats, shirts, and pants all spill out of the door, a pile higher than either man’s height. “Every brand of every designer you can imagine, every kind of shoe, every kind of jacket, every single iteration of Ray Ban shades that ever existed; even every pair and brand of underwear you can conceive of.”

“You mean you don’t wear your garments?”

The Bishop halts, his expression transforming from the jovial, braggadocious look he had seconds before to something hidden and secure. His face flattens, like a shirt being ironed. “I always have my garments on. I even have shower garments.” He points out two soaking wet, white garments hanging on the shower door, dripping onto the tile.

He leads Tim into the bathroom. The toilet extends twenty feet below its seat. Tim stares down into the abyss beneath the toilet, shocked. “I’m not gonna be one of these people having my own toilet water splash back onto me,” the Bishop elaborates. They walk toward the shower, which is large enough to be a bedroom. Twenty or more shower heads sticking out of the sides and one massive one, shaped like a disco ball, hanging from the center of the ceiling. “I’m big into the Bee Gees,” the Bishop explains as he nods to a stack of CD’s next to a boombox by the door.

“So what did you need to talk to me about–”

“Let me show you the dining hall.” The Bishop sprints off, Tim running to keep pace and promptly losing him.

Tim weaves between a smoothie hut with four employees inside of it, ready to prepare him something should he ask, and a BBQ grill with a full patio and tiki torches. As Tim sprints past the bowling alley and turns a corner next to the collection of classical paintings, he spots the Bishop in a massive room with a table long enough for an army. The whole table is narrow but incredibly long, and it’s a dark, almost black, brown color with random stains and designs across it. The Bishop sits at the very end of the table, a good hundred yards from Tim, and he gestures silently to the chair on the exact opposite end. Tim has a seat, and the Bishop begins speaking in a monotone voice that does not carry. 

“I’m sorry?” Tim replies loudly when he can tell the Bishop has finished speaking.

The Bishop sighs loud enough to be heard, then continues speaking at the exact volume from before. 

“Can I…can I move down there?” Tim asks, pointing to all the vacant seats surrounding the Bishop. He can hear enough muttering to understand that the Bishop is talking, but not enough to tell if he’s said yes.

He sits there, waiting, as the Bishop seems to go on some kind of tirade. The Bishop makes all kinds of angry and obscene hand gestures, his face furrowing and bright red, his veins in his forehead bulging like muscles. Tim quietly lets the rant die down before trying to ask for permission to get closer once more, when the Bishop stands and sprints off before Tim can get the first word out.

Tim follows as close as he can, the halls turning into nothing but blurs behind him as his legs beat against the hardwood and tile floors. He passes a Cinnabon and a Taco Bell, and then he barely registers the Bishop diving into a hall between a water park and a Burger King. Tim sprints after him, ignoring the kind offer for a whopper from the employee inside the building. The strong chlorine smell stings Tim’s eyes as he runs after the Bishop, who he sees occasionally in between kiosks and massage parlors. 

Finally, Tim reaches the front room, where their conversation had begun, completely out of breath. The Bishop sits in his chair, not panting or moving at all, and he waves Tim over with a hand, gesturing to the same seat from before. Tim sits in it gratefully, exhausted and gulping for breath.

“Please, have a seat,” the Bishop says, staring at Tim.

Tim, confused, stares back. The Bishop continues to hold his hand out, gesturing to the chair, smiling stiffly. After several minutes of silence, Tim slowly stands and then sits again in the chair. “Excellent, now Tim, like I said, I’ve asked you here for a very specific reason.”

“I thought,” Tim stutters, still trying to catch his breath, “weren’t you gonna get to know me first or–”

“I’m a busy man, Tim; your son is the reason I’ve asked you here today.”

The image of Tim’s seven year old son pops into his brain, temporarily assuaging his growing anxiety at the strangeness of the last half hour of his life. “My son?”

“Yes. Your son.”

Tim gulps again, and he wonders how the Bishop can go on without offering him water. “Could I maybe have a glass of–”

“Your son is accused of some…misconduct.”

Tim blinks in rapid succession. He stares dumbly back at the Bishop, like a cow looking into the eyes of its farmer. “Misconduct? He’s…he’s seven years old, Bishop.”

“One year from getting baptized,” the Bishop agrees, nodding his head and staring at his nails like he’s deciding at what length to cut them. “I’d say baptism is a pretty mature commitment, wouldn’t you?”

“I mean, yes, of course–”

“Of course, right. So then, to be only a year away from that, well, I’d say that’s a fairly mature age, wouldn't you?”

“I…guess I’d agree, sure.”

The Bishop nods and looks at Tim like he’s the dumbest person he’s ever had the misfortune of sitting across from. “So then, safe to say, that your son’s age doesn’t necessarily translate to indemnity, hmm?” 

“I mean, in the eyes of God, I think it does quite literally translate to that–”

“Some of the young women’s leaders have said that he said, well…I’m not even sure I can repeat it.”

Tim feels his heart quicken again. What could he have said? “How can I do anything about my son’s behavior if you don’t tell me what it is?” Tim tries to reassert some authority, but his voice carries no heft. 

The Bishop scoffs, louder this time. “Your son, when being instructed about Easter and why we celebrate it, told his teachers that…” the Bishop drifts off, his face in a grimace. Tim can see the man reliving a trauma as if it is happening all over again.

Tim’s grip tightens against the creased armrests of the chair, creasing it even deeper. “What? What did he say?”

The Bishop closes and opens his eyes theatrically, a hand over his heart. “It’s…it’s so repugnant.”

“Bishop, please, tell me–”

“Your son, when being instructed about Easter, which is, as you are well aware, one of the most important days of the whole year, well he…he asked his teacher what bunnies have to do with anything.” The Bishop spits out the last part of the sentence and then he whirls his tongue around in his mouth, a disgusted look on his face like he’s swallowed absinthe. “There. I said it.”

Tim releases his furious hold on the arm rests. “That’s…it?”

The Bishop, face contorted in a veil of disgust, looks at Tim. “You think this is no big deal?”

I was recently diagnosed and started lamotrigine, worked my way up to 150mgs a day. It's a wonderful medication and I'm extremely happy with the results thus far. I'm just curious if anyone else has super weird dreams as a side effect? My dreams have become noticeably more bizarre and disordered since I began the medication