High Finance

The angel of the Lord came among us and sat at the head of the table of the World Bank and said, "You shall not lend money at interest."

The economists of the House of Mammon immediately explained, with graphics and statistics and jargonated theories, why this ruling was impossible to obey.

And the angel of the Lord said. "Usury is forbidden. Leviticus 25:35-37."

"But you don't understand," whined the economists. "If we were to obey the Lord then the amazingly complex, totally irresponsible, morally bereft edifice of capitalism would collapse."

"Good," said the angel of the Lord.

The President of the World Bank, who had been silent until now, rubbed his smooth chin and eyed the angel of the Lord with a calculating gleam. "And if we disobey?"

"There will be consequences," said the angel of the Lord.

"Well," said the President. "It can't be Hell." He clicked his fingers and an acolyte produced statistics. "Hell already has a ninety two percent occupancy rate. No room at the inn for us."

The angel of the Lord frowned.

"And it's not as if you can punish us with war because we're already at war. And plagues are a dime a dozen, not to mention rabid cab drivers. And our actuaries tell us that the Apocalypse is a handy few centuries distant."

The President leaned forward. He smirked. "So tell me, out of interest, how will you punish us?"

The angel of the Lord glared and adjusted his slipping halo. "We will ...," he paused. This called for guile. This called for cunning. "One moment," he said, and dialled a number on his heavenly communicator.

When he returned the communicator to his robe pocket, the angel of the Lord's smile was anticipatory -- diabolical, we'd have said if he hadn't been the angel of the Lord. "I've called in an expert. The World Bank's always quoting expert advice."

The junior economists trembled in their Guccis. They knew the dangerous treachery of experts. The senior economists, who were experts themselves, rolled up their sleeves and prepared for battle.

"Ahem," said the expert, preliminary to dispensing wisdom. "While I could dispute the figures provided for the occupancy rate of Hell -- particularly given the recent World Bank loan for Hades property release 3000 -- I think
on this occasion it would be best if I simply laid out the consequences of usury."

He paused, but no one interrupted.

"The penalty of usury is capitalism."

The juniors unfroze first, laughing in relief. The seniors waited for the catch.

The expert peered over his granny glasses and said. "And of course, you all realise that the currency of capitalism is souls?"

The juniors choked mid-laugh. The seniors loosened their ties.

"Of course," said the President of the World Bank courteously. "The fact is known to us." He became mildly nostalgic. "Why I sold my soul in the summer of '69. I've never looked back since."

"Ah," said the expert. "But who did you sell your soul to?"

The President became stern, just a little pitying. "To Satan." You fool, went unsaid.

The expert positively smirked. "Excellent. Excellent. And of course, Satan sold it on."

The President's superior air fled. "To whom?"

"Well, now," the angel of the Lord clicked his fingers and some records appeared. He flicked through them. "Ah, most recently ... yes, mmm, indeed." He looked up with a bright smile. "What a good thing that this was brought to our attention. The purchaser was the Pope."

"What?" thundered the President of the World Bank.

A senior economist stepped into the breach. "Surely," and her voice was sweetly smug. "It is inappropriate for the Pope to enter into a transaction with Satan?"

"Exactly," the President seized the point. He glared at the angel of the Lord.

The expert, overlooked, hummed a little tune and smiled dreamily at the ceiling.

The angel kept a careful finger on the record of the President's soul.

"Quite right. For the Pope to purchase your soul directly from Satan would have the appearance of impropriety. However, the Pope bought your soul from your wife." A small pause allowed the President to assimilate the idea. "I
believe you were married in the summer of '70?"

A moment of silence, and then the President rallied. He spoke aloud, encouraging himself. "The Pope's okay. He understands the way the world works."

The expert cleared his throat. Was that a gleam of enjoyment in his mild brown eyes? "The Pope sold you on. Yesterday. To Greenpeace."

"Noo-ooo!"

"Really?" the angel of the Lord raised an eyebrow.

The expert nodded. "I apologise that the official record is a fraction behind time."

A dark and deadly silence engulfed the table as World Bankers schemed their scramble for position. With Greenpeace owning the President's soul it was clear that he could no longer fulfil his function. Why Greenpeace might insist on the resurrection of his conscience! A shudder shook the economists and they averted their gazes from the dreadful possibility. The President, a mere shell of himself, tottered from the room.

"Well, now," the angel of the Lord began briskly.

"I'm sorry, we don't have time for you right now," said a senior economist, equally brisk. "We must elect a new president."

The expert shook his head. Some people never learned. It seemed that he must spell matters out.

"As I mentioned earlier -- but I don't believe you grasped my point -- usury creates capitalism by demanding something for nothing (that is, interest on the original amount borrowed) from people who own only themselves. Consequently, the ultimate tradeable good is the soul -- people lose it. My colleague, the angel of the Lord, is saying that this must not
continue."

Then a junior economist stood and earned a number of economic points. "Who are you, a clerk in soul brokerage, to lecture us?"

World Bankers nodded in unison, faces assuming expressions of conscious importance. That a jumped-up supernatural expert should dare to lecture the wise World Bank -- the matter was laughable.

Certainly the expert laughed, and the angel of the Lord's mouth twitched.

"A clerk in soul brokerage," the expert fought for breath. "Ha ha ha."

From the corridor came the sound of the ex-President singing woefully off-key. "I once was lost ...".

And there crept through the room the unsettling realisation that the expert was laughing at THEM.

"Who are you?" whispered the junior who had been so brave just a minute before.

"Didn't I introduce him?" the angel of the Lord was impossibly innocent."This is Gog, King of Magog, Finder of the Damned."

Gog smiled modestly. He looked around the table, making eye contact with each and every economist. "And look what I've found, today."