Good to Be God by Tibor Fischer

shopping holy at all times, because you never know who might snoop into your basket. The Hierophant is doing the weekly shop and his trolley is heaped with spare rib, but I have only a loaf of bread and some price-reduced papaya in my basket. Like 70

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    everything else, if you make frugality a habit it’s quite easy, and it makes the splurges all the more enjoyable.
    As we join the queue for the checkout, four aisles over, I spot the Krishna. A group of four. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a devotee solo. Probably they need one person who knows the way to the supermarket, one person who knows the way back from the supermarket, one to steer the trolley and one to deal with the cashier.
    “Don’t look,” the Hierophant whispers to me. “Act natural.”
    As our items are processed I wonder what acting natural in my case would involve? Act like an unemployed lighting salesman? Act like an unemployed lighting salesman acting like he’s God?
    Outside, we load our goods into the car, but the Hierophant doesn’t start the car up. He smears some dirt on the number plates. He ushers me into the driver’s seat and then surveys the exit. He fiddles in the glove compartment and produces a Miami Heat cap and a pair of sunglasses which he dons; he fiddles some more and finds another one for me, and produces a pistol.
    “Tyndale, I can’t see any cameras out here, can you?” I look around. If we’re on camera, I certainly can’t spot it. “Drive as I tell you,” he says ominously.
    The Hare Krishna appear and load up their people carrier.
    The Hierophant cocks the pistol and says, “The .22 is a weapon that is appropriate for a holy man.”
    I’m shitting myself. I’ve already been courting decades in maximum security and if I end up behind bars I want it to be my fault and not someone else’s. We trail the Krishna and then the Hierophant leans out and fires three rounds through the length of their people carrier, rounds, I assume, designed to shatter the 71

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    glass rear and front, to terrify rather than injure. We speed off in the opposite direction.
    “I can’t help myself,” says the Hierophant. “You know how at school there’s always a kid that everyone beats on, and you feel sorry for the kid. And then there’s another type of kid at school everyone beats on, and you just want to get your licks in too.”
    As far as I’m concerned (as long as I’m not jailed) the Hierophant could take a chainsaw to them, because I’m humouring the Hierophant, because I’m not hugely bothered by anything much these days and because I still have vivid memories of being overcharged for a dismal carrot salad at a Krishna restaurant.
    “This poor sinner believes the Hierophant is right.”
    G
    Back at the church we prepare some turkey subs. We’re going to distribute some eats to the needy. “We don’t want to get there too early,” the Hierophant explains. “Hector takes care of people at 6.12.”
    We arrive where the homeless congregate, round the back of the Omni, about twenty past six. Two guys are munching some enormous empanadas, which even from afar give off an irresistible meaty aroma. Half a dozen trolley-pushers gaze at them wistfully. “So where’s this Hector?” I ask.
    “He was here at 6.12,” says the Hierophant. “He could feed a thousand people if they turned up at 6.12. You can have almost anything you want. One time he even had caviar and freshly buttered toast. But woe betide those who come at 6.16.
    Some say he hates handing out food and some say he hates the unpunctual.”
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    Hector had been in the open sea for two weeks on a raft from Cuba that had gone badly off course. He had been moments from death when he made a deal with the Santeria divinities: save me, and every day for the rest of my life I’ll feed anyone who needs it. He was picked up by a fishing boat at 6.12 p.m.
    within a minute of making his pact.
    “He kept his vow,” says the