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i hope there are no typos
I
"God," said Mr. Spade, "obviously does not exist. The very idea of his existence is mythical in the face of how the world actually works. The people of two thousand years ago, in fact, longer than that, had nowhere near the scientific knowledge we have now, so they could not have possibly made a scientific conjecture that rivals ours. We know how the entire universe works now!"
"How do you know that?!" barked Mr. Cook.
"The things we have seen," explain Mr. Spade, "act accordingly to the way things work on Earth. The moon swings around the earth, asteroid belts revolve and large bodies of matter act as weight on the fabric of spacetime! And this is only in our own solar system!"
"Have you seen the entire universe?" asked Cook.
"Of course not!"
"Then how do you know these things you call facts are true everywhere in the universe?" asked Cook.
"It's called using the power of knowledge and reasoning!" said Spade.
The other men in the room all sat in their own ways of shallow dread and expressed their boredom in the way they held their heads in their hands, reclined deeply into their chairs and peered attentively at things other than the clear conflict of the argument of Science and God. They didn't want to be there anyway; this was their job, and it was what they did. It was a brainstorming board at the History Channel offices whereat programs were born - the shows with theses that challenged ideals and investigated seriously in-depth subjects which were never resolved truly in the end, because such extraordinary subjects require extraordinary thoughts to resolve, not the thoughts of a bored council of repressed men.
The meetings were no longer about coming up with show ideas, they were war-stages for Mr. Spade and Mr. Cook, the big-league thinkers who were hired years ago and never failed their superiors thereafter, meaning they received nothing but promotions. Now they were the laborious elite, and were presently battling tooth and nail to produce a 40-minute television show - or so their superiors thought. Their arguments went on for hours. Most of the other members of the board knew they were going in circles, but they didn't care, because it was their job, and they were being paid to be there.
Whenever the superiors wanted a status update, Zapph wrote it. Zapph was the one who seemed to always sit in silent solitude, contemplating some ideological intricacy, the likes of which made no sense to anyone but him, unless he spoke it and put it in a way which could be understood, in which case it was brilliant. He got promoted to an equal position as Spade and Cook in less time than both of them, and many of his colleagues knew he would, in no time, surpass them. Zapph was methodical in everything he did, and when the meeting commenced, he pulled out a fat spiral notebook and started writing with the utmost fury. No one knew what he was writing, and no one ever would know, because he always moved too fast to talk.
The two screaming men would commonly make errors in speech in their vigor, implying that they sacrificed actual perception and sophistication for raw energy. The fact of whether or not they walked on two legs ceased to matter; all they knew was their stance on each others' methods of perceiving the real world, assuming the real world exists at all. And every day, Mr. Cook walked in and took a seat, and waited for Mr. Spade to show up late, which he did every day. He would burst in and immediately raise an issue, usually the last one they discussed the day before. And everyone else just sat there and basked in the glory of being able to get paid to do nothing - except Zapph, of course.
"Ideals come and go," proposed Mr. Cook, "and they destroy people; but Jesus has done nothing but good! He's always there for everyone!"
"Then what do you have to say about the Crusades?" asked Spade. "What about all the violence and tragedy caused by Christianity?"
"Those people were evil!" refuted Cook. "Thou shalt not kill - they ignored that and used faith and glory as a medium to do what they want!"
"So you just say everyone who ever did anything bad was evil?" asked Spade.
"No!" shouted Cook."
Mr. Curtis had a terrible tendency to daydream. He was only 27, and he got the job because of his natural ability to remember whatever date and event in history, and his collection of such information seemed to grow infinitely. He recalled, in his interview for his first position, every important date in the third Crusade, then the entire campaign of Alexander the Great, and as a finale he told the story of the Soviet regime backwards. He was practically hired through the door.
"Back in 1AD," said Spade, "people didn't think the world consisted of many groups of people with different cultures; they only thought there were good people and bad people. People who wanted to kill and steal weren't evil, they just had different motives than people who didn't!" Cook began to interrupt him as Spade said, "Society just doesn't like killers and thieves!"
"You're talking bullshit," said Cook. "So you're fine with people who want to rape your daughter and steal your car?"
"No!" repudiated Spade. "I'm just saying-"
"So you're contradicting yourself?!"
"NO!" shouted Spade.
Curtis found himself standing at the train station one Saturday, waiting for the next shot into town. He felt at ease in places of transportation, such as Airports and train stations, because it they are all designed to make everything go smoothly. In his boredom, he pulled out his Blackberry - which he thought was an absurdly complicated machine - and scrolled through his Contacts until he came to Zapph, second to the bottom, above his other friend, Jack Zychter. He took a moment to formulate his future, and try to have an idea as to where he would be in a few hours. He called Zapph.
"Hey Curtis," answered Zapph. "What's up?"
"Oh, not much," replied Curtis. "I was just heading into Manhattan, you wanna get lunch somewhere?"
"Sure," said Zapph. "Let's go to Mark's, I want some wings and beer."
Zapph had known Curtis since third grade. They grew up together watching television, skateboarding, drinking soda and playing video games in a suburb in Indiana - the 90's was a wonderful year for suburbanites. They used their minds for good on a very subtle level, and only employed their intelligences when necessary. When they did try, however, they usually left the scene with a high reputation. Some called them Rain Men.
The two of them sat down in the dark restaurant and ordered Guinness and buffalo wings. They didn't have formal meetings, business lunches or social transactions; they got wings together. Both of them threw off their suit jackets and undid their ties, then took to indulging in the wonders of animalistic eating.
"What do you think about the titans?" asked Curtis.
"Who?"
"Clash of the titans," explained Curtis. "Cook and Spade having an angry philosophy jerk fest."
"I don't give a shit," said Zapph. "I'm writing the whole program myself. That's what I'm always writing."
"You're writing the show?" asked Curtis, as though his monocle had just fallen off.
"Yeah," replied Zapph. "It's about the Crusades. It's a big adventure-toned program about the beginning to end story of the Crusades, and I'm hoping it'll be narrated by Liam Neeson."
"That's amazing," said Curtis. "How much do you have written?"
"Half done," replied Zapph. "I need your help, though. I need to get dates straight and stuff."
"You're nuts," said Curtis.
"Nuts as shit," confirmed Zapph. "Let me grab my notebook and show you."
The two of their pored over the writing, scribbling things out and connecting things here and there. The first Crusade technically began in 1095 AD, thought it's only more practical to say 1096. The Normans had an age of power only 30 years before, and so Europe's view on conflicts had become slightly obscured. "No, that's weak," said Zapph. "Let's not put it like that."
II
"Religion is perfect," said Spade, "because everything about it can be explained out of rationality. If someone asks why God did something, they are responded to with, 'God works mysteriously,' or 'because we did something wrong.'"
"Is there something wrong with that?" asked Cook.
"God is amorphous!" shouted Spade.
"Oh fuck you," said Cook as he sat down and dropped his head into his hands.
As they continued to exchange curses, the other members of the board all slowly came upon a realization. Zapph and Curtis were missing. Each member raised their posture and widened their eyes while they looked around the table for the prodigal youths. They exchanged messages with their eyes.
"Where's Zapph?" asked an older board member, interrupting the two debaters. "And where's Curtis?" Cook and Spade stopped and looked around the room. Suddenly, something very very strange, as though there was something wrong with the picture of the room. The room was not the same without the two of them.
"That's strange," said Spade. "Where did they go?"
"They didn't come in," said another senior member, Mr. Jones. "Let me asked Ms. Jackson, outside."
He leaned forward and hit the big blue button on the intercom to the receptionists' desk. "Ms. Jackson," said Mr. Jones, "do you know where Ralph Curtis and Derrick Zapph might be?"
"They're right here," replied Ms. Jackson.
Right after, Curtis and Zapph entered the room, Zapph holding his notebook and two white envelopes. They stood at the door like they were Vincent and Joules.
"I've got a couple updates," said Curtis. "Firstly, the program is completed and has been approved. Zapph wrote most of it, but in the second half of its production, I collaborated with him and we referenced just about every board member except for Mr. Spade and Mr. Cook. The second update is, as our superiors wanted me to inform, is that Mr. Spade and Mr. Cook are fired."
There was an explosion of mental gasps, and the two debaters stood in utter disbelief of what was happening. The routine with which they were so familiar had been shattered and stomped on by the day's events.
"We're fired?!" shouted Mr. Spade. "Why?"
"For wasting the company's time and money. Simple as that. Our superiors asked about why we were the only ones working on the show, and we had to inform them. They were outraged by what we told them. I'm sorry. Everyone else stays, though, because we referenced everyone's abilities in the last few weeks to finish the script."
"So that's it?" asked Cook. "We're fired?"
"I'm sorry," said Zapph. "You both are fired. They're giving you a week to get your things out."
The entire room stood still. Zapph and Curtis stood with sullen looks on their faces as the debaters looked at each other and, eventually, shuffled out of the room. The two young men, veritable saviors of the program, went on to present it to their colleagues while the two defeated seniors of their generation piled their personal belongings into what bags and boxes they had, and it came to be that they met each other in the elevator. There was little ice between them anymore; by now, they had both processed in their minds that it was defeat which brought them to the same level, and that they were in the same boat now. Their ideological differences were pale thoughts in the wake of their current statuses.
"We've just fucked ourselves," said Cook.
"Indeed," commented Spade. "I don't know what I'll do now."
"I know you might not like this," said Cook, "but I think you should join my church. It might really help you out."
Spade felt the hatred reinvent itself in his veins. His expression grew gruesome, and he said, "I'm not going to join your church. Jesus is dead! God does not exist! He could not possibly physically be or do anything!"
The doors opened, and Spade went marching away in an unstoppable manner. Cook exited slowly, allowing Spade to take his distance. The two men never met ever again.
The word of Spade and Cooks' termination and the reason for it thereof had been spread around by their past superiors. Both of them applied everywhere they could - including every job their age permitted them to do. Spade took to shoplifting. Time and time again, he would be caught and kicked out, but he still continued to grow into a state of kleptomania. He asked his family and friends if he could live with them, but the little family he had had no intention of giving him a hand, seeing as how his entirely family hated him. In time, his finances hit the ground, and he was cast into the streets of New York City.
He dealt with the scum of the streets and disdained everything, and he stole everything he had a chance of shoplifting. His face became recognized not only by the pimps and beggars, but as well by the police. As his dereliction pushed on, his homelessness became expressed in his appearance. He walked the streets a bearded vagabond; an elder and wise man in the realm of tenements and alleyways, no more.
On a rainy Sunday he walked into yet another convenience store (the cashier giving him a hard look) and he saw a face he would never forget - Curtis. He took a moment to truly absorb who he was looking at. He said, "Curtis? Ralph Curtis?"
"Yes?" said Curtis.
"It's me, Spade!"
"Oh my God," said Curtis. "How've you been doing?"
"Absolutely shit!" said Spade. "I'm...I'm a bum now. I have no home. I tried to work but no one would hire me. I don't wanna die like this, Curtis."
"I'm really sorry," said Curtis.
"Have you heard anything about Cook?" asked Spade.
"Yes, I have," replied Curtis. "He's doing fine now, actually. Someone from his church let him live with them, and now he has a job playing guitar at a cafe in this four star hotel downtown. He's really good."
Spade took on a truly defeated look - one of far greater depression than the day he lost his job. His eyes seemed to go blank and his brain turned black. He dropped his head and walked out of with store without a crumb of nourishment in his hand.
He walked for a while, pondering the error of his ways. The sights of the city bore massive skyscrapers and pristine architecture. People walked by him and suits and ties that shattered bank accounts, and the weight of their footsteps rattled the ground beneath him. Crossing the street he slowed and looked at the ocean of cars stopped at the light - hundreds of people who had places to go and things to accomplish. He was alone there.
As he came to a small stone bridge in Central Park, one connecting a small hill to another and which generated a tunnel beneath it, he saw lying on the ground in the center of the mouth of the tunnel a three-and-a-half foot tall wooden crucifix, the paint of which was peeling off. He thought of all the people he had disgraced - those who now, because of his personal actions, distrusted his methods and disdained his ideologies. Those whom he had provoked to destroy him. He had taken advantage of what he was given. The world defeated him for who he was. The world was, for the first time, dangerous to him.
He fell to the ground in front of the crucifix and hugged it to his chest as tight as he could. He was curled there on the ground for some time in front of the tunnel, and those passing him stared at him strangely. He whispered into the statue over and over again, "Please forgive me."
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