Celebrity Roast

Celebrity Roast

by

Hank Gross

Published by Hank Gross at Smashwords 2013

Copyright © 2013 by Hank Gross

All rights reserved.

License: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are entirely coincidental.

Part One

Chapter One

Alexander the Great, the extraordinary Macedonian warrior and king, was valorously leading the charge against ten thousand Persian soldiers when suddenly Bucephalus, the sinewy black stallion upon which he was riding, halted and began galloping backwards. Simultaneously, hundreds of arrows reversed direction in midair and were sucked back, like rebounding yo-yos, to their bows and quivers. Supply-bearing elephants lumbered awkwardly to the rear. Alexander himself was yanked off his horse and trotted backwards in jerky, comical strides. Incredibly, the entire ferocious battle at the river Hydaspes in India was pulling apart at the seams.

It was hilarious to watch, and everyone in the audience in the open-sky screening area in Heaven was laughing. The merriment ceased abruptly as God held up his hand to the assembled angels and other celestial functionaries. Freeze it right there, said the Lord; and, as one of his assistants pressed a switch, the clattering 8mm projector on the table in front of God’s throne halted. For a moment or two, God contemplated the image cast upon the flat white cloud suspended several yards away in the heavenly blue. No, a bit forward, God amended, and it was done. Now, on the screen of history, Alexander the Great remounted his noble steed and again raised his sword to summon his troops to action. There, said God again and this time pointed his finger at the picture in divine command. Abruptly, the 30-year-old Alexander was transported, horse and all, from the field of battle in the year 326 BC to the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York City in the year 2000.

As Alexander swung his sword through the air, it brought a plush velvet curtain down around his head. Savagely, he shook it off. Whoa! Whoa! he cried to his skittering horse.

Atta boy, Alex, said God. He beamed at his chief assistant, the supremely trustworthy George Washington – a Father himself, of sorts – wearing a red cutaway coat with ruffled wrists, black velvet breeches, square-buckled shoes, a tricorne hat, and a powdered wig with corkscrew curls. That’s why they call him ‘The Great,’ George, said the Lord. Man’s got a pair.

Yes sir, said George, wetting his lips. The Lord was a bit macho for Washington’s refined nature, and the President had always felt slightly uneasy around him.

As staff members loaded a different reel of film into the projector, the curly-haired king looked about the Waldorf’s Grand Ballroom in bewilderment, as completely confused as were the other luminaries now gathered in the huge, luxurious hall. These included Confucius, Aristotle, Marco Polo, Queen Victoria, Columbus, Napoleon, and Mahatma Gandhi. Alexander didn’t recognize any of them. Frowning, he sheathed his sword and dismounted. What the fuck? he said.

Okay, said God, that makes thirty-- Uh-oh. God raised his gaze to a far corner of Heaven and saw that his beloved son, Jesus, was heading toward them. Quick! said the Lord to his assistants. "Hide the projector. I want his birthday party to be a complete surprise.

Yes sir, said George. Right away, sir.

Within seconds, the makeshift screening area was cleared, and all of God’s helpers but George had left the area. God sat back in his throne and smiled as his son arrived.

Hi, Dad, said Jesus. He was dressed casually in robe, sandals and crown of thorns, and his voice was rich with love, respect and happiness.

Hello, son.

You sent for me?

God nodded solemnly. Something very important has come up.

What’s that, Dad?

The Second Coming, son.

Christ’s face fell. Of me?

The time is ripe for it, son. God tapped his wristwatch. It’s been two millennia, give or take a year or two.

Dad! I thought we’d canceled that! You said if they didn’t get my message the first time—

I know, I know. But a promise is a promise.

Jesus winced. But Dad, that crucifixion the first time really hurt, you know?

I promise you, no crucifixion this time.

Oh, I’ll drown, right? Or fall off a building. Or get stepped on by—

Jesus Christ! exclaimed God impatiently.

What, Dad?

No, I mean— God gave his son a sharp look – was the kid putting him on? He took a deep breath to calm himself. Son, he went on, I promise you, nothing bad will happen. I’ve scheduled you to appear on Earth this evening at midnight at a hotel called the Waldorf Astoria in New York City.

Midnight! Dad! Tomorrow’s my birthday!

I know, I know. God cast a conspiratorial glance at George Washington, who winced uncomfortably at the deception. It wasn’t the first time George had been asked to cover for the Creator – on numerous occasions he’d had to tell callers that God wasn’t in when everyone knew God was always in – but it still went against his grain.

Jesus too knew immediately that something was up but also said nothing; his Dad, he knew as well as anyone, had a penchant for working in mysterious ways. Still, a trip to Earth on his birthday was about as welcome a prospect as, well, a trip to Hell in a handbasket, whatever that meant. Dad, come on, he petitioned with feeling. I’m going to be two thousand, give or take a year or so. Luke and I were planning to—

Your birthday will have to wait, son. This is—

But—

God slapped his forehead in exasperation. Jesus! he swore.

What?

No, no, no! I was just . . . never mind!

Aw, Dad.

God looked at his son sternly. Do you want to be sent to your room?

No, Dad, said Jesus sullenly.

Then mind me.

Yes, Dad.

God blessed his son with a benign look. Trust me, my beloved child. Now, hurry along and get ready.

All right, Dad.

Jesus hugged his father and went off to his quarters. Isn’t he a good boy? God marveled lovingly to Washington.

George, celestial toady that he was, nodded his agreement.

And you can be sure he’ll be there, too. The kid makes a promise, he keeps it.

Yes sir, said George. He summoned back the other assistants, and soon the projector was set up again and another roll of history threaded through its sprockets. As humanity’s chronicle appeared again on the cloud before him, God swelled with good feeling. Ah, Eleanor Roosevelt, he said to the assembled staff. One of the most distinguished women I ever made.

She’s crying, said an angel.

And with good reason, said God. Let’s pick her up right about...here...

As the autumn of 1918 rolled through God’s projector, Eleanor Roosevelt, aged 34, could be seen sprawled face down on her four-poster bed in the Roosevelt townhouse in Washington, weeping into her pillow and tearing at her hair in anguish. The cause of her despair was classic: she had just learned that Franklin Delano Roosevelt, her husband of 13 years and, at the time, U.S. Assistant Secretary of the Navy, was having an affair with Lucy Page Mercer, Eleanor’s social secretary.

God peered at Eleanor with compassion. A party will do her a world of good, he said; and with a divine dab of his finger, the Lord transplanted the good-hearted, simply-dressed woman from the nation’s capitol, 1918, to the Big Apple on the crisp December day before Christ’s birthday.

Oh my, said Eleanor, abruptly realizing she was sobbing not on her mattress but on a long buffet table shared with platters of fried chicken, cold cuts, pate foie gras, and gourmet potato chips. Where am I?

Madam, said a bow-tied waiter standing nearby, turning to look at the freshly materialized woman, you are perilously close to being in the cream of mushroom soup.

Eleanor was totally bewildered. Oh, excuse me, she said and began climbing carefully off the table.

Here, said the man, offering his hand. Allow me to help you. My name is Pierre.

Thank you, Pierre. The future First Lady straightened her plain, long dress and looked about the ballroom in amazement. Where am I? she repeated.

You are in the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, the waiter informed her. And who are you dressed as?

Eleanor cocked her head at him. Dressed as? Suddenly light dawned. Why, everybody’s in costume!

Yes, ma’am, said Pierre. The hall’s been booked through tomorrow for a surprise party for some bigwig – nobody knows who it is yet. Don’t you hate these things?

Heaven’s, no, said the woman who’d made her society debut at the age of 18 at the posh Assembly Ball in New York. I’m used to them. And look! she exclaimed.

What?

Their faces are in costume, as well! I recognize them from my history books.

Indeed, said the waiter, so blasé he found nothing peculiar in the fact that the guest list included a sopping wet Benjamin Franklin with a kite in his hand; the Lesbian poet, Sappho, who’d written the word clutch on a piece of papyrus in 600 BC and was now, two-and-a-half millennia later, rhyming it with the word butch on the top of Socrates’ polished head; and a gold-helmeted Hannibal sitting in a basket astride an elephant that seconds before had been relieving its bladder in the Alps in 218 BC and was now completing the transaction on the floor of the Waldorf’s Ballroom in the fading hours of way into anno Domini.

Why, that’s Hannibal! exclaimed Eleanor.

You don’t say, remarked Pierre.

My goodness! Eleanor was beside herself. And look over there! That elderly man with the long curls and the little black bag! That’s Hippocrates! The Father of Medicine!

Is that right?

Absolutely. Her gaze shifted to the rather pretty woman in her thirties or so who was talking with the ultimate physician. I’ll be darned! she exclaimed. That’s Florence Nightingale!

The nurse? asked Pierre.

Yes! And that man over there with the telescope! Why, that’s Copernicus! The founder of modern astronomy!

They all seem to be historical figures, observed the waiter. Must be some kind of theme party. And whom might you be?

Why, myself, of course, said Eleanor, and a startled look crossed her face as she got her first inkling that something infinitely strange might be afoot.

Don’t tell me, said Pierre with a smile. You’re . . . Lady Godiva.

Come on.

I’m teasing. You’re Eleanor Roosevelt, of course.

That’s right!

You look remarkably like her.

Well, naturally.

And how is Franklin?

Franklin? Eleanor’s eyes turned inward with sudden sadness.

The waiter winked. Your husband, remember? Presi—

She looked at him in surprise. President? He’s going to be the President?

Yes, ma’am. And one of our best. Four terms, as I recall.

That bastard!

Ma’am?

Eleanor’s eyes pooled with tears.

I didn’t mean to—

The gawky young woman shrugged, trying to conceal her confused feelings of hurt, jealousy and anger. Suddenly, her mouth dropped open. Striding boldly toward her, his muscular torso rippling beneath his tunic, his piercing blue eyes meeting hers directly, was Alexander the Great. Instantly, Franklin’s dalliance was as remote as the time in history from which Eleanor still didn’t know she’d been transplanted. Oh my, she murmured, wiping her eyes and patting her hair into place. He’s cute.

Next, said God.

Here you are, sir, said George Washington, starting the film. The Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. In his hotel suite in Washington, approximately three hours before making that famous speech of his.

Yes, said God, as the images flickered across the cloud before him. Marty really outdid himself on that one.

I watched it on TV, recalled George. Made me proud to be an American, though a mite chagrined, I must confess, at having owned Negro slaves myself at one point. Of course, it was the custom of the time, and I always treated—

Do you mind not talking while the picture’s on? snapped one of God’s angels.

I’ll talk if I want, Washington snapped back.

The angel turned to God to complain, but the Lord was watching the screen intently. Coretta’s helping him with the speech, he noted. They can’t seem to—

’I have a . . .’, ‘I have a . . .’ what? Martin Luther King was asking his wife, as he paced back and forth in frustration. He was wearing a dark conservative suit and thin tie and was sweating heavily in the summer heat.

An idea? suggested Coretta.

No, no . . . Frowning, the minister paused at his cluttered desk and thumbed again through his thesaurus.

A suggestion? suggested his wife.

No, no, that doesn’t quite say it. ‘A few thoughts’? -- no . . . The great civil rights leader pressed his hand against his eyebrows. I have a . . .

A few words you’d like to say? offered Coretta.

No . . .

A backache?

No, no!

God sent a burst of energy through his index finger and into the late morning of August 28, 1963. Instantly, Martin Luther King was catapulted into the now fairly populated ballroom of the Waldorf, where his next agitated pace sent him nose first into the side of Geronimo’s horse.

How, said the handsome, stony-faced Apache warrior, looking down at the intense Afro-American who’d just walked into him.

No, no, said King. That doesn’t work at all. That— He backed up a step and stood stock still in sudden confusion. What? he asked.

Geronimo held his tasseled staff in the air. Peace, he said.

King stared up at the black-haired Native American. Well, of course, he said. But where’s my wife?

Geronimo held both hands up in the air. Me no have her, he said. Maybe in little girls’ room. The sharply chiseled features of the man in the headdress creased into a smile. Wukkum to heap biggum party, he said cordially. Here, have an hors doevre. And, kicking his horse, he cantered off toward the buffet table for more.

Sigmund Freud,