How to write flash fiction
The one with God
When Escobar dropped his baton, two or three people were aiming to pick it up, with none more prominent than Gustavo Gomez, known to all as El Matador. He was just as ruthless and bloodthirsty, and astute businessman that he was in less than six years he was reputed to have accumulated a personal wealth of 28 billion US dollars. And that, after having given more than half his ill-gotten gains to charities of various sort, for he was a deeply religious man with his own chapel in his latifundia/ fortress. He counted the Bishop of Santa Maria among his friends. The president and prime minister were known to have attended his last birthday party, in spite of promising the electorate that they would clean the country of the scourge of drug cartels.
For his child’s baptism he had organised a huge (and expensive) banquet at which the Bishop was going to officiate and bless the child.
El Matador was seated in the garden of El Paraiso sharing champagne and caviare with the man of God, discussing questions of morality and he mentioned that he did not fear death, and was prepared to meet his maker whenever the latter thought fit to summon him.
Emboldened by drink, the man of the cloth dared to wonder aloud whether dear Gustavo was not afraid of retribution for his many crimes, mentioning the many tragedies caused by drug dealing, the number of people he had killed, including a good few by his own hands. On hearing this El Matador guffawed merrily.
Oh yes, he readily conceded, I have committed very many mortal sins.
So?
Listen to the words of my mouth. Whenever you give alms in this world, once you die every single peso is returned to you a hundredfold. So said every priest when I was a child_
Yes, of course.
So, Reverend Pappa, let’s call my alms $10 billion, right. A hundredfold will make my share one trillion, and I’m talking US dollars.
Yes, but what makes you think this has any value in the eyes of the Lord?
Reverend Pappa, you make me laugh. If here on earth, I have anybody I need in my pocket, I mean, begging your pardon, your reverence will do a break dance if I come knocking on your door even at midnight and order you. The President is in my pocket, the Prime Minister, the Chief of Police … what makes you think God is different?
