Free A Handicap of the Devil? by Allen Lyne Page B

of her homemade brew. She did not see them, and they waited until she was well out of the way before they moved outside. Not that they were afraid of Mrs. O'Reilly.
    The two soft, fat, little, white bunnies—who looked so solemn most of the time—stirred Mrs. O'Reilly's maternal instinct. They touched her Irish heart and were the cause of the occasional poteen induced tear in her eye as she surveyed them. Mrs. O'Reilly didn't know it, but what stirred her about these two little bunnies was the fact that she was childless. Although Mrs. O'Reilly pretended to have a stern indifference to the rabbits, Bugs and Thumper became child substitutes.
    She tried giving them salt, but fortunately they ignored her.
    The bunnies did not ask to be allowed to communicate with God and Jonathan, or to be the conduit for good against evil. In fact, if it hadn't been for God being so nice and persuasive, they almost certainly would have declined—preferring to go on doing the usual things that rabbits do. No animal on Earth likes its routine disturbed less than the bunny—and especially the Netherland-Dwarf bunny at that.

Chapter 7
The Key
    Jonathan missed the 7.27 and was late getting to work the next morning. His head still ached from the application of the five iron, and he had slept even worse than usual. The man sitting next to him woke him when the train arrived in the city. He walked groggily to his office, only to find the lift out of order—again.
    No fat woman screeched from inside it, and the alarm did not peal. The lift simply sat on the ground floor—mute—looking as though it would never move again. Not that it mattered to anyone other than the employees of Jones P. & Son. The company owned the building, and the other floors were empty, pending a major building renovation in the coming year.
    Jonathan realised that of the forty-three years he had worked there, the elevator had been out of commission almost the entire time. The only time the elevator had worked was years ago—when he had first started work—at the age of twenty-one. He wondered how any piece of equipment could be so inefficient. Never mind. ‘The exercise has been good for me all these years. Heaven knows I get little enough of it, sitting behind a desk five days a week.
    Miss Bloomingdale sat fatly, demolishing a large watermelon piece by piece. Many other fruits surrounded it. She looked wetly up as Jonathan came into the office. “You're late.” She belched with obvious satisfaction. “Sign the late book.” She sneezed and farted loudly, then stared at Jonathan—daring him to say something.
    The ‘late book’ was an innovation Jones P. junior implemented the first week he took over as head accountant. It was demeaning and belittling—something one might expect for primary school students. Jonathan mutely took the book from the watermelon besmeared Bloomingdale and signed it with date, time and reason for lateness.
    "You look different.” Bloomingdale looked closely at Jonathan. “Is something wrong with your head?"
    "It's nothing, thank you. Just a slight bump.” Jonathan sat at his desk, switched on his computer monitor and began the day's work. He couldn't concentrate. Images of the handicapped people, God, policemen and policewomen and talking rabbits came back to him. The thought kept recurring. How do I become a Messiah? Do I simply go up to people and say, “Hi, would you like to be a disciple"...? How do I go about it?
    Eastman looked over from the next desk. “What's up? You've been daydreaming all day."
    Jonathan took the plunge. “I've got a message from God."
    "Oh, yeah?"
    "No, really. I got hit on the head last night. Here's the lump, look ... And then I finished up dead and temporarily went to heaven. God said he wanted a messenger, well a Messiah actually, to return to Earth to save the planet from itself."
    "What's the punch line?"
    "No punch line. I'm telling you the truth."
    His colleague was silent for some time. The only