Julius Chance
Gregory
“Will you help me even if He didn’t?” Serge continued to moan.
“Yes, but one have to pay for everything,” Gregory stated.
“I’m ready, but what can I give you? You already have everything?” Serge exclaimed.
“Render God’s things to God, Caesar’s – to Caesar, and Gregory’s to Gregory,” the egregor replied.
“What do you mean?
“Emanations, my friend, emanations. We are the energetic entities. We feed ourselves from the energy of our human herds, like the ancient tantric gods did.”
“Somewhat abstract for me,” Serge admitted.
“Every time you take a puff, I give you a little bit of euphoria to catch. But in return I take for myself two or three such pieces from your health,” the heavenly guest explained.
“It is so merciful, because you, the Gods, could take at least a hundred pieces for one,” Serge reasoned.
“The greed will kill the thug,” god L disagreed.
“It turns out that you, the Creators of the world, do use our earthly proverbs too?”
“Actually, you are my creator.”
“How so?”
“Back in the Stone Age, when the first of the Mayans lit a roll of tobacco leaves and experienced euphoria, the first energetic emanation of smoking was sent into Space, and I was conceived.”
“Immaculately?” Serge blurted out inadvertently.
Gregory looked at Serge as at a fool. He hesitated, whether he should laugh, or severely punish the reckless interlocutor right here and now. A pause hung in the air. Serge sensed danger and hurried to apologize:
“Forgive a stupid lost sheep of God.”
“Hm … better call yourself a sheep from my flock,” the egregor frowned.
“Well, I’m ready to be your sheep, just save me from my nasty habit!” Serge begged.
“But in order for the sheep to leave, it must bring in its place another sheep, or rather ten. Is it logical?”
“Why ten and not one?” Serge wondered.
“Because there’s no reason for me to bother opening and closing the corral if the number of sheep does not increase.”
“Well, then one sheep could bring two; one for itself and the second for the trouble at the gate.”
“What about overheads?”
“Then three.”
“And what about business development?”
“Well, four.”
“And taxes?”
“Let it be five.”
“Plus business profit?”
“It turns out six.”
“Nice number, but my last word is nine. Deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“In order to release yourself from the smoking habit, you must bring nine new smokers to my realm,” Gregory clarified to the gullible client.
“No, I can't go for such a deal,” Serge squeezed the phrase out of himself with effort.
“Can't you..? Well, it’s up to you, but you still have to pay for my visit. Accountant, bring an estimate of our transport and other costs!” the egregor snapped his fingers the way a waiter is usually called in restaurant. An elderly, presentable accounting lady with gray-haired smoke floated into the room and handed him a sheet of layouts.
“So, according to the recalculating table, for such transgression he’s sentenced to get a cancer to one of his lungs. Will he survive?” Gregory asked, looking at the numbers.
