FICTION: Divine Retribution by Michael Marrotti

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When God finally decided to talk back, I pulled up my pants and listened. Some things can wait, self-gratification is one of them. We conversed like long lost friends about the tragedies of life. I had questions, he had answers.

It was a life of agony, so I asked God why I’ve been chosen as the whipping boy of society. He laughed, and told me people are threatened by free spirits.

“Those who have embraced conformity over the lust for frivolous material objects will always have hate in their hearts for people who live on the other side.”

In a way it was reassuring. I was doing the right thing, living my life in good faith. I had the approval of God, all because of my modest wants, and frugal spending.

I wouldn’t have ever guessed that we shared similar tastes in music. Our favorite band is Agnostic Front. Oh, the irony of life.

Although we have different opinions of what album is the best, we both fully agree their guitarist Vinnie Stigma, is nothing but a mascot for the band in this day and age. The twentieth century is gone.

God suggested drug abuse to be the culprit behind his inability to play live. I washed down the three remaining Vicodin’s had with my orange pop, and said to God,

“Nothing wrong with that.”

On the way to work God insisted I push an old lady into the street. At first I protested the notion, telling God it would be a contradiction of the doctrine.

He told me to stop being naive. Her lousy parenting skills had resulted in the upbringing of a serial rapist.

I shoved her into oncoming traffic, and watched as her body was torn apart by Mac Trucks and Ford F150’s. Vomit spewed out of my mouth. God giggled, and told me to keep marching, reassuring me I’ve done the right thing, and that the authorities would not be a problem.

God recommended a quick stop at Marrotti’s Coffee Shop. It would be good for my troubled soul. I walked through the door, and took a gander at the menu. That’s when he insisted on two cups of coffee to go. His will was my way.

After the purchase God told me to throw the left cup in the clerks face. I didn’t even bother to inquire why, I just did it. I’ve never heard screaming like that before, nor have I ever watched the first layer of skin peel off anyone’s face.

All the patrons ran for the door. God giggled yet again, and told me it’s time for work. Get a move on.

I asked God why he felt it was necessary to punish that poor bastard at the coffee shop. He claimed the guy was a part of the small press scene, and that his writing was killing the art form.

As of now, he’s a thing of the past, no longer a threat. Ya know, come to think of it, I never did ask God if he was a Bukowski fan.

My day had actually gotten worse once I clocked in at work. Within minutes my boss was belittling me in front of my co-workers, making me look like an asshole again. It’s one of the many reasons why I despise capitalism.

God had an idea of how to rectify the situation. He told me to seize his right arm, and stick it into the fryer oil. I completed this goal with no hesitation, smiling ear to ear. God is turning me into a sadist.

After that I continued to follow his orders by taking all the money out of the cash register, and announcing my departure from this meaningless, dead end job. My co-workers appeared to be petrified. My ex boss was whimpering in the bathroom. I left never to return, free of reprisals.

God directed me towards the Baptist Church after that.

“It’s a breeding ground for bad Christians.”

God’s words, not mine.

So off I went sipping my coffee, as I carried out his will. Surprisingly I felt no grief or remorse. God told me I could thank him later. It truly was a beautiful thing. After all these years of waste, my life had a purpose.

I kicked in the pastor’s door with little effort. He had his pants down and free online porn playing on the laptop. It was a haunting image, one that plagues me to this day. He screamed out,

“Get thee behind me, Satan!” I looked to the left, by the file cabinet, and spotted a Louisville slugger baseball bat. God told me it would do just fine.

I screamed back at the pseudo-pastor,

“You’re going down pervert!” Then I swung the bat at his head. Blood was spewing out onto my face with the force of each hit. I finished him off with a total of five swings. That’s all it took to splinter his skull.

I took off to the bathroom afterwards to clean the blood off my face. This is when God congratulated me on my diligence, and recommended me to apply for a job at Wal-Mart.

“They know how to treat their employees.”

His words, not mine.

We’ve never spoken after that bloody evening, and I’ve been employed at Wal-Mart ever since, making a whopping $10.50 an hour. God works in mysterious ways, and I’m back to where I once was: hating my existence.


Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, equipped with a chemical imbalance and lack of patience. His writing has propagated the small press like chlamydia in Beechview. He’s out to make a difference through writing and philanthropy. A faithful volunteer at the Light Of Life Rescue Mission going on three years now, he believes in action. Michael Marrotti writes books that sell no more than five copies, but get 5 star reviews, like F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available on Amazon. You can reach him at


Check out Michael’s previously published fiction below:

Too Big For The Small Press


black tree

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