We’ve all been left behind…

In view of the impending rapture, I thought I would share something that I wrote for an event some years back. It was going to be a series of spoofs of the Left Behind series, but in the end I figured that the series was probably beyond spoofing. So anyway, here, without further ado is…

THE BIG BEHIND

A story about people too fat to be taken up in the rapture.

PART ONE: Tribulation Farce

It was a Thursday when the rapture occurred. Around half past three in the afternoon.

Ray Strong, former test pilot and all-American hero, was watching a football match on TV when the goalkeeper disappeared just as he was about to save a penalty. His team – ‘Mostly Evangelical Christians Utd’ lost not only their goalkeeper, but the two centre backs, a left-winger, three coaching staff and the bloke in the mascot’s uniform (a giant fish). Arsenal won the game 72-nil. (Strangely not a single Arsenal player was taken.)

‘Hmmm. That’s strange,’ thought Ray. He called out to his wife, Miriam. This was the kind of thing she’d understand. But when he called out to her there was no answer. He went into the kitchen and she was gone. All that was left was a pair of marigold gloves and a well-thumbed book called ‘Dispensationalism for Beginners.’

‘I should have spotted the signs’, said Ray to himself. There had been hints that she was getting serious about religion. Little things, like reading the Bible, praying, becoming a nun.

Ray was not religious. He, his suddenly missing wife Miriam, and their eighteen year old daughter Daisy-Maisy lived on the corner of Agnostic Avenue and Not -serious-about-the-faith crescent. (Let he who has ears to hear, listen).

He tried to be good, of course, but he always had a nagging feeling that good deeds were not enough and that what he really needed was to repent of his sins and be saved by the blood of the lamb. Or something like that.

Ray switched channels, but the entire TV network seemed to be in chaos. Camera men had disappeared. TV Directors had gone awol. Songs of Praise had been cancelled. ‘Oh well, at least something good has come out of this,’ said Ray.

He went to the door and looked out. Thunder filled the sky. Or was it a ripping sound? Sounds like somebody tearing a scroll up, thought Ray to himself. Or possibly the bleating of a very, very large lamb.

Suddenly a car screeched round the corner and out jumped a strange, lumpy figure in a camel-hair coat. It was a camel. And behind the camel was Buck Cluckentucker Junior. The Third. Ray knew him from the church but not that well, because, like Ray, HE DIDN’T GO THAT OFTEN (let he who has ears to hear, keep listening). Buck was a thrusting young journalist. Some say he could have been editor of Newsweek if hadn’t been for all the thrusting.

“Ray!” Said Buck, his pelvis shuddering in an apocalyptic fashion, “Have you heard the news? Millions of people have disappeared. Two men were walking up the hill. One is gone the other’s left there still.”

Ray sighed. “I wish we’d all been ready,” he said.

“And the United Nations has taken control of the entire world. Led by Nikolai Calpol.”

“Calpol!” exclaimed Ray. “You mean the strangely swarthy, yet charming East European dictator?”

“That’s right,” said Buck. “I know we should trust him, because his voice is so soothing and confident. But there’s something about those horns growing out of his head that makes me a mite nervous.”

At that moment a raven haired young woman walked round the corner. “Daddy,” she cried, shaking the ravens out of her hair.

It was Daisy Maisy, Ray’s eighteen-year old daughter. She was a beautiful girl with an hour glass figure (Glassy, transparent and with sand in her bottom.)

“Daisy!” exclaimed Ray. “Your mother’s been raptured!”

“Oh was that what it was?” said Daisy. “I was with her in the kitchen when I heard a swooshing sound, but I thought it was her old problem.” She saw Buck. “Hello Buck,” she said. “How’s the thrusting?”

But before Buck could answer a car drove by with a loudspeaker on the top. “Attention all citizens!” said a voice. “Do not panic. Nikolai Calpol is now in charge. Any enquiries just phone our apocalypse helpline on 666-66666-6. Extension 7.”

Then lots of things happened at once. Trumpets blared, lambs bleated, there was the roar of a dragon and the ground started to shake. The stars started to fall from the sky and the moon turned red.

“I don’t like it,” said Ray. “It’s too quiet.”

Suddenly around a corner came a pale horse ridden by a very thin man in a big black cloak.

“Excuse me,” he said. “You haven’t seen any other horsemen have you? Only I was supposed to meet them at the pub but they haven’t turned up.”

The horseman trotted off, waving his scythe in a rather disappointed manner.

Ray narrowed his eyes. Then he lengthened his stride, widened his stance and heightened his expectations. Which made his eyes water.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he said. “I just have this feeling that we’re in a battle now. I only wish that I’d spent more time in worship services and reading improving Christian fiction.”

Let he that has ears… well, you know the rest.