Nice work if you can get it.

[MANICHAEAN]

NICE WORK IF YOU CAN GET IT.

PART 1.

Albert was lounging on his cloud, when a call came through that the Big Fella wanted to see him.

“I’ll give it to you straight,” God said. “Lucifer recently has been taking the Mick down on earth & I want you to go down & even it up a bit. Comprendez?”

“Why me Lord?” said Albert.

“Because your record shows that if ever a man could rile people & get under their skin, given half a chance, that dude is you. Are you up for it?”

“I’m your man,” said Albert, actually relishing a chance to get stuck in down below.

“Ok,” said God, “That’s fixed then. Anything you want to say before you go?”

“God Bless,” said Albert.

“Don’t be so bloody cheeky! Now bugger off.”

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 2.

President Mugabe sat in his office, gaunt and worried, surrounded by 30 acres of the most heavily guarded real estate in Africa, when Albert walked through the door.

Mugabe went for the alarm bell, as on three previous occasions over three previous weeks, but as before, it did not work.

Albert dressed in a dark blue suit, strode forward arm extended, “Hello Mr President, and how are you today?”

Broad smile, white teeth, warm dry handshake & just the right amount of cuff exposed.

“Oh suffering wild life, how have you got in again?” said Mugabe.

“I was in the area & have just come by to try and persuade you to buy some life insurance,” said Albert.

“I don’t want life insurance, I don’t want anything.”

“You don’t think you need life insurance? “

“No, no, no. Please! Last week it was double glazing, the week before a quote to clean my windows. Why don’t you leave me alone?”

“But what about provisions for your loved ones, when you have passed on Bob? May I call you Bob? What about them?”

Mugabe broke into a sweat. “Ok, ok just give me the papers to sign, but leave me alone.”
Albert was celestially acknowledged as one of the best “closers” in heaven.

[MANICHAEAN]

PART 3.

Later that week Gadaffi woke up in a cell in Alabama with Albert sitting in the lower bunk dressed in prison fatigues. He did not know how he got there, who Albert was; let alone what he was supposed to do. He was as dazed and incoherent as when he gave speeches to his people back in Tripoli.

“You awake Muhamad?” came the voice from below. “Well, I’m off soon, getting released today. Wonder who your new roommate will be?”

The warder came; Albert said his goodbyes to Ghaddifi and was on his way, cheerfully whistling as he was led down the corridor.

Half an hour later, the cell was unlocked and the new prisoner entered. He was a big man, built heavy with no neck, substantial mammary glands and a paunch.

The warder gone, the Beast towered over Ghadiffi, who was up near the hole in the floor. The new prisoner looked down and said, “So you’re my new *****!”

Over the next week or so, there was from that cell, shouting and there was whimpering, alternating courage and submission. And when Ghadaffi left each morning for breakfast, he strayed out, pallid and preyed-upon like a ghost, eyes broken also in their expression.

"Now, you hurry on back now, you hear me?" were the words that followed him.

In the dark woods opposite the prison, Albert melted into the universal shadow knowing too well the actuality of humanity.

“Where to next Lord?”
“By their works ye shall know them,” was the reply.