O l i v e r B e n j a m i n
“But we’re not saying that any of us are God, we’re just—”
“Right. Gotcha. Only that’s the way its gonna come across unless
you play it real cool out there. What I want you to do is just go along
with Letterman and laugh at his jokes, even when they’re at your
expense. But stick to your story and don’t let him make you look like
a bunch of dopes. The less you say the better you’re going to come off.
Keep it simple. And whatever you do, don’t try to insult him or fight
back. If you do, you’re dead.”
“This man sounds like quite an formidable being,” said Gautama.
“Are you sure he’s merely human?”
“He’s savage,” said Gareth, with a trace of admiration.
“Hey, God Squad!” the young man announced, sticking his head
into the room, “You’re on!”
David Letterman was grinning so hard you’d think his face would
have a hernia. “And now folks,” he bellowed to the studio and
television audiences, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Hang
on to your hats, because, making their first Late Show appearance,
straight from the sands of time and into your living room, we’ve got
not one, but
six
gods for you to listen to and enjoy! Come on out here
fellas!”
As the prophets walked confidently across the stage and up to the
podium to shake hands with Letterman, the band played a rock
version of “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” with the musical director
Paul Shaffer wailing in the fashion of a low-rent lounge singer and
ending with a great, drawn out crescendo:
Mine eyes have seen the coming
of the glory of the Lord,
he has loosed that fateful lightning,
of his terrible swift sword—
ouch!
His truuuuuth is ma—ha—ha—harrrrrrch—ing
—innnnnnnnn!
Hallelujah!
Yeah!
“Hey! How ‘bout that!” Letterman roared, to the audience’s
overwhelming approval. Despite the fact that he was Jewish, Paul
bowed and crossed himself. Letterman now turned his attention to
the seated prophets. Yeshua sat closest to his desk, and so was fated
to bear the greatest burden of the interview. He had to admit, though,
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