Idol

Holding the wooden idol in front of himself like a shield, the customer enters the shop. Dangling chimes echo in disharmony when the door hits them. The shop drips from its high ceilings to its floor with religious paraphernalia.

At first, the shopkeeper smiles when he recognizes his customer from yesterday. His smile fades when he notices the idol; a sign duct taped to the cash register screams no refunds or returns in all capital letters, with an unnecessary amount of exclamation points afterwards.

“Hello, Sir,” the customer says. “When I got home and took this idol out of the box, one of the legs was already cracked.”

“So? What do you want me to do about it?”

While the customer argues back and forth with the shopkeeper about customer service, defective products, morality, and one-star reviews on Google Maps, a couple of teenage boys listen by the back wall of the shop. They’re there just to buy a stock of incense that they can burn while playing The Last of Us on PlayStation for the next twelve hours.

“So, God comes in a box?” one of the teenagers jokes quietly to the other a la Beavis and Butthead.

“God has legs?” the other quips back.

“Yeah, and God’s leg is broken.”

“Maybe God forgot to get his polio vaccine.”

“Now God needs crutches,” the second teenager manages to say after recovering from stifling a hard laugh.

“Give me a discounted price, at least!” The customer demands, yelling now.

“What kind of a fool asks for a discounted price on an idol that I’ve already marked at only $10!?”

“Are you so thick-headed that you forgot what kind of an economy we are living in!? Don’t you care about your fellow brothers and sisters in your own community? Even the price of flour has quadrupled! We need that idol for prayer and every penny we can get.”

The teenage boys slink out of the shop amidst the commotion of the argument, two packs of incense concealed in the jacket of the second boy.

After the shopkeeper suggests that the customer’s pretty daughters become working women–the street-walking kind–the customer reaches his boiling point. He hurls the idol over the counter. It spins and flips in the air over and over before fatally striking the shopkeeper. His final pose is face down on the floor as if in worship to the idol that is seated in front of his head. A red puddle spreads out under both of them.

~

“Open and shut case,” jokes the rookie member of the city’s crime processing team. “God killed the shopkeeper. Must’ve set his prices too high.” The other unis chuckle quietly.

“Send this to forensics for processing first,” another cop says, bagging up the wooden idol into an evidence bag.

“Should we swab God’s cheek and run his DNA too?” the rookie says. This too gets a quick laugh from the others.

The case detective pops and snaps his bubble gum while he meticulously examines the scene inside the shop. His cell phone rings.

“Yeah, whaddya got?”

“Suspect says he didn’t do it,” the detective’s partner says, having just finished a line of questioning back at the police station.

“I got three old timers at the tea stall across the street sayin’ they saw him here.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Yeah, the witnesses say the suspect ran outta that Idols-R-Us head shop with pygmy eyes just before the body was discovered.”

“Ok, but get this: he says the idol did it.” Both the detective and his partner share a wheezy laugh together over the phone.

“He’s gonna rat on God like that so easily? Sheesh! Where’s the loyalty nowadays.”

“Why don’t you drive God down to the station and I’ll try to get a confession outta him. Just make sure you buckle him up for the ride; wouldn’t want God getting hurt now would we?”  

“Will do. I’ll find out if he likes curly or crinkle cut fries. Maybe some food in God’s belly will loosen him up for talking.” The detective hangs up and sticks his cell phone back in his breast pocket. “Ya can’t make this stuff up,” he says to no one in particular.

~

A speedy bench trial is followed up closely by the customer’s sentencing hearing.

“…and an abundance of unshakable hard evidence as well as testimonial evidence has led to this court’s guilty verdict,” the judge says, monotone. “And yet, the defendant has stubbornly maintained his innocence. Showing no remorse, he blames this heinous and senseless death on a wooden artifact–”

“Idol! Not artif–” 

“Council, you will once again remind your client to refrain from making any outbursts out of turn in this court. I’m not prepared to tolerate this behavior once again.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Now, Counselor, does the defendant wish to make a statement before sentence is passed down?”

“No, Your Honor, we have nothing further at this ti–”

“Yes I do!” The customer jumps out of his seat and approaches a miked podium. He feverishly speaks, his mouth way too close to the mic which warbles his words through the speakers. “Look, I apologize because I know you all don’t want to hear this again and you think I’m just being unruly or crazy or whatever, but I’m telling the honest truth! I swear to the idol that I did not cause the death of the shopkeeper!” The courtroom is silent. Most people look at the floor. A few pinch the bridges of their nose in tension. The defendant is entitled to an uninterrupted statement, afterall. They’ll have to endure it. “If you would just directly ask him, Your Honor, he can tell you! Please, don’t send me to rot in prison for something I didn’t do!”

The only sound in the court for a long moment is the shuffling of the judges papers. Then he lets out a slow exhale before saying, “Alright, I’m lame duck anyway. Might as well indulge this farce.” The judge turns his chair to face the evidence table. Each exhibit is marked clearly with a tag. He removes his glasses, laces his fingers, and rests his chin on his hands. His tone is patronizing. “Excuse me, Exhibit F–oh pardon me, I mean Mr. Idol–have you murdered any shopkeepers lately? Praytell, why did you decide to murder the shopkeeper in this case?”

The judge allows a silence that is uncomfortably long until the mouth of the wooden idol slowly opens and it says, “The shopkeeper undervalued me. So when I was flung into the air, I came down and stabbed him in the jugular with my splintered wooden leg. I’m worth more than $10.”