Good Omens

dear boy,” he said to himself, out loud, in precise, enunciated tones. “But have you any idea where I am?”
    â€œWho said that?” said Johnny Two Bones.
    His mouth opened. “I did.”
    Johnny scratched, thoughtfully. “I take it you’re one of me ancestors, then, mate?”
    â€œOh. Indubitably, dear boy. Quite indubitably. In a manner of speaking. Now, to get back to my original question. Where am I?”
    â€œOnly if you’re one of my ancestors,” continued Johnny Two Bones, “why are you talking like a poofter?”
    â€œAh. Australia,” said Johnny Two Bones’ mouth, pronouncing the word as though it would have to be properly disinfected before he said it again. “Oh dear. Well, thank you anyway.”
    â€œHello? Hello?” said Johnny Two Bones.
    He sat in the sand, and he waited, and he waited, but he didn’t reply.
    Aziraphale had moved on.
    CITRON DEUX-CHEVAUX was tonton macoute, a traveling houngan: 41 he had a satchel over his shoulder, containing magical plants, medicinal plants, bits of wild cat, black candles, a powder derived chiefly from the skin of a certain dried fish, a dead centipede, a half-bottle of Chivas Regal, ten Rothmans, and a copy of What’s On In Haiti.
    He hefted the knife, and, with an experienced slicing motion, cut the head from a black cockerel. Blood washed over his right hand.
    â€œLoa ride me,” he intoned. “Gros Bon Ange come to me.”
    â€œWhere am I?” he said.
    â€œIs that my Gros Bon Ange?” he asked himself.
    â€œI think that’s a rather personal question,” he replied. “I mean, as these things go. But one tries, as it were. One does one’s best.”
    Citron found one of his hands reaching for the cockerel.
    â€œRather unsanitary place to do your cooking, don’t you think? Out here in the jungle. Having a barbecue, are we? What kind of place is this?”
    â€œHaitian,” he answered.
    â€œDamn! Nowhere near. Still, could be worse. Ah, I must be on my way. Be good.”
    And Citron Deux-Chevaux was alone in his head.
    â€œLoas be buggered,” he muttered to himself. He stared into nothing for a while, and then reached for the satchel and its bottle of Chivas Regal. There are at least two ways to turn someone into a zombie. He was going to take the easiest.
    The surf was loud on the beaches. The palms shook.
    A storm was coming.
    THE LIGHTS WENT UP. The Power Cable (Nebraska) Evangelical Choir launched into “Jesus Is the Telephone Repairman on the Switchboard of My Life,” and almost drowned out the sound of the rising wind.
    Marvin O. Bagman adjusted his tie, checked his grin in the mirror, patted the bottom of his personal assistant (Miss Cindi Kellerhals, Penthouse Pet of the Month three years ago last July; but she had put that all behind her when she got Career), and he walked out onto the studio floor.
    Jesus won’t cut you off before you’re through
    With him you won’t never get a crossed line,
    And when your bill comes it’ll all be properly itemized
    He’s the telephone repairman on the switchboard of my life,
    the choir sang. Marvin was fond of that song. He had written it himself.
    Other songs he had written included: “Happy Mister Jesus,” “Jesus, Can I Come and Stay at Your Place?” “That Ol’ Fiery Cross,” “Jesus Is the Sticker on the Bumper of My Soul,” and “When I’m Swept Up by the Rapture Grab the Wheel of My Pick-Up.” They were available on Jesus Is My Buddy (LP, cassette, and CD), and were advertised every four minutes on Bagman’s evangelical network. 42
    Despite the fact that the lyrics didn’t rhyme, or, as a rule, make any sense, and that Marvin, who was not particularly musical, had stolen all the tunes from old country songs, Jesus Is My Buddy had sold over four million copies.
    Marvin had started off as a country singer, singing old Conway Twitty and Johnny Cash songs.
    He had done regular live concerts from San Quentin jail until the civil rights people got him under the Cruel and Unusual Punishment clause.
    It was then that Marvin got religion. Not the quiet, personal kind, that involves doing good deeds and living a better life; not even the kind that involves putting on a suit and ringing people’s doorbells; but the kind that involves having your own TV network and getting people to send you money.
    He