Tabula Rasa by Eirik Gumeny

Greyson’d seen the old man ‘round before, standing on the corners, talking and lecturing on to anyone who would listen and, lot of times, to those who wouldn’t. The old man liked to say he was a prophet. Spreading God’s word and saving people from their sins, talking ‘em ‘way from temptations and damnation. Greyson’d only talked to him once his own self, explained to the preacher how he’d killed God, stabbed him with a knife, and how he felt real bad about it. Told the old man it was by mistake, though, Greyson wasn’t to blame. And the preacher man said not to worry, said God’s a tough old bastard, harder to kill than that, and just about filled to busting with forgiveness. Greyson, well, he sure felt better hearing that, he did. So when Greyson seen the prophet man comin’ round again, he knew good things were in store for him.

The old man was on a bus bench, sittin’ and eatin’, biting into a White Castle hamburger with a whole bag more on his lap. Greyson could tell there was more food in there than the old man could handle, more’n enough to share with Greyson. So Greyson asked the old man for a burger and the old man said no and Greyson said he’d pay the man and the old man said yes. But Greyson, Greyson didn’t have no cash. Didn’t have anything worth anything, neither. The preacher man shrugged and kept on eatin’, right there in front of Greyson.

Greyson watched him, saw him shovel another hamburger into his big ol’ beard. Greyson was staring at the cracked lips and cracked teeth hidden behind all that fur when Greyson started remembering some of the old man’s speechifying. Great, loud sermons about fire and brimstone and eternal souls. And Greyson realized maybe he had something worth something after all.

Greyson asked the old man if he’d trade, a barter to help Greyson fill his belly proper. He’d been walking since yesterday, hadn’t had the time to eat and he was damn near starving now. The prophet man, he was leery, but Greyson, Greyson could talk, too, and he convinced the preacher he was sincere.

Way Greyson figured it, he wasn’t getting into Heaven, not after all he’s done. Greyson sure wouldn’t be comfortable with living with God anyways. No one would, not if they’d killed ‘im once, even by accident. So Greyson didn’t need his soul for Heaven. And Hell, Hell didn’t seem like too great a place neither. Not somewhere you’d look forward to spending forever. So Greyson didn’t need his soul for Hell. And, fuck it all, if the preacher was willing to part with a bagful of greasy meat in exchange for one lousy soul, who was Greyson to argue. He was hungry. So he sold his soul and took his hamburgers.

And that’s when the old man, he shook his head and started preachifying, saying, “Where’s that leave you, boy? Where’s a man without a soul? What is a man without a soul? He’s not a man, I’ll tell you that. You can’t take this lightly, boy. You’re messing with things you don’t know.” And then the prophet started getting loud, stood up on his bench and started shouting out to his congregation, yelling up to his God and down to the people, “That boy is dangerous. Can’t see how near he is to damnation.” Greyson thought that was funny, man as smart as the preacher being so wrong, so he laughed and walked away. “You see him? You see that boy walking among you? He is trouble now, trouble that needs to be stopped!”

Now, Greyson here, he’d done some nasty shit, his soul had taken a beating. Slightly used and mostly evil, yeah, he was more’n willing to part with it. Figured it could be a turning point for himself. Greyson could start over, live a good life this time round, make up for his past sins.

But Greyson just went and sold his sins, didn’t he. Gave ‘em away to an old man selling sidewalk religion. That’s a clean slate then, nothing to make up for. No, no. Greyson didn’t even have no fuckin’ slate no more. Soulless, slateless Greyson, that nothing could stick to. Greyson smiled.  Good and bad and virtue and vice, Greyson didn’t need to worry about none of it. Greyson was a free man now, emancipated to do as he pleased. And, oh, Greyson. He had some pleasing to do.

***

Greyson saw a woman, a young woman. Lonely on the street corner, looking like she needed some help. Standing there as the wind gusted, looking so lost and confused. Now Greyson, Greyson knew there wasn’t no need to help the woman no more, but Greyson didn’t see no reason to start things off on the wrong foot neither. So Greyson, he helped the poor thing. Helped her find the right avenue, her hotel, helped her around back, behind a dumpster and up under her skirt. Greyson was pleased. Oh, and the woman, the woman was pleased too. She was crying, tears of joy pouring out her eyes and dripping down her face she was so happy.

Greyson now, he’d been worried about the woman for a second there. The pretty young thing was dry, like she didn’t like it, and Greyson didn’t like it neither. But then things got slippery and she stopped fighting and started moaning and that’s when Greyson knew she was feeling right. And then she was calling to God, yelling his name, the same God Greyson had killed, and so Greyson, he tells her, tells her that God’s dead, that Greyson killed him. And the woman was happy at that. She stopped crying and started screaming, she was so happy to hear that.

Then come the preacher man. Sneaking up from behind Greyson, looking to talk at him some more. And the lady, she yelled to the preacher man. Telling him how Greyson was helping her. And so Greyson, what he does is, Greyson tells the preacher he ain’t in the mood for a lecture right now; the White Castles are gone and a deal is a deal. So then the prophet man, what he does is try and help the woman, too. But he don’t help the woman right. And so Greyson helps him help her, shows the man the right way to touch a lady. And the woman cries for joy again. But then the woman suddenly starts squirming like she don’t want the preacher’s help. And the preacher, he don’t want Greyson’s help no more either. He shoves Greyson and makes him bleed, bleed against the sharp-cornered dumpster, telling him not to do evil things. So Greyson tells him, says Greyson’s got no slate left, old man, there ain’t no evil anymore. Greyson can do as he pleases and right now, preacher, you ain’t pleasin’ Greyson. Then the woman, the pretty young thing, she ran off. She ran off and Greyson got angry.

So Greyson punched the prophet man, punched him until his knuckles were bleeding like his head. But the man kept shouting about God and retribution, kept thrashing about, and Greyson kept telling him that he killed God and he didn’t need retribution. That he had no sins, that nothing was able to stick to Greyson, that there wasn’t no right or wrong no more. And the man kept talking, kept telling Greyson about evil and the devil and the eternal damnation of his soul. The prophet man, he just didn’t understand, and Greyson was getting tired of talking, tired of hearing him. So Greyson kicked the man, kicked him hard. And then the preacher man, he didn’t preach no more.

Eirik Gumeny is the author of the novel Exponential Apocalypse, and editor of the literary journal Jersey Devil Press.  His short fiction has appeared in Thieves Jargon, Defenestration, and Mud Luscious, among others.