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When Dr. Viceroy entered his lab, he had but one mission on his mind. His task was to create the perfect man, the holiest man; to be used as a vessel for the Second Coming of Christ.
After all, it was what the Church commanded to him. What God commanded.
The procedure was quite simple, so simple that even a child could do it. All he had to do was procure two corpses, one of a man and one of a sheep. He was to then remove the heads of both. After he removed the heads, he would stitch the sheep’s head to the human’s body (he was to dispose of the extras, that being the sheep’s body and the human’s head. However, the doctor would probably keep the head. He had those sort of tendencies). After he stitched the parts together, he was to then attach these stitched parts to an electric apparatus. Once he turned on the apparatus, he would finally have his perfect Messiah.
Although it seemed like an easy procedure, getting all the materials was much easier said than done. First there was the body.
Getting the body required Dr. Viceroy to trudge through numerous graveyards, which smelt horrible and made his cassock almost impossible to clean. Once he got there, he walked up to one of the graves. On the tombstone read the name Algernon Thompson. As he thrust his shovel into the dirt of the grave, one of the undertakers lumbered over to him. The undertaker was a comparatively large man, donned in a large black coat and a wearing a tophat that was slightly bigger than his head. The man’s face was pale, so pale that he could easily blend in with the corpses in the graveyard; and that pale face was curled into a firm frown.
“Oi, you. Father Whatsyername,” said the undertaker, pointing at the doctor. “What’re you doing here?” Dr. Viceroy turned over to the undertaker, and smiled at him.
“My friend, I’m simply taking Mister Thompson for a walk,” said the doctor as he began to lift the body.
“A walk, eh?” asked the undertaker, pointing at the body that was once Algernon Thompson. Dr. Viceroy chuckled and smiled at the undertaker once again.
“Yes, my friend,” said the doctor. “A walk. That’s all.”
“Funny you say that,” said the undertaker, shaking his head. “‘Cuz last time I checked, corpses can’t exactly walk,” The undertaker took another breath. “In fact, corpses can’t even-” but before the undertaker could finish his sentence, Dr. Viceroy took his shovel and plunged it into the undertaker’s head, knocking the large man down. The doctor then took the body and ran off into the night.
Once he had the body in his possession, Dr. Viceroy then set his sights on the sheep. To get a sheep was easy; after all the only thing he had to do was go to a farm, and ask one of the farmers for their sheep. However, no farmer was willing to give one to him, so Dr. Viceroy had to take matters into his own hands.
As Dr. Viceroy walked around the countryside, he could see nothing but fields upon fields of sheep grazing. After some more walking, Dr. Viceroy found a particularly neglected looking farm; one whose wooden fences were on the verge of rotting and falling apart. In a surprising show of athletics, Dr. Viceroy managed to leap over the fence and he prepared to grab of the sheep. As he did, a sheepdog that was resting near by ran over to the doctor and barked savagely at him.
“Shoo!” cried the doctor, swatting the dog away. As the dog continued to bark, a young boy dressed in farmhand’s clothes walked up to the priest and pulled the dog away.
“Awful sorry about little Percival here,” said the farmhand. “He’s been in a bit of a bad mood today,”
“All is forgiven,” said the doctor, on his way to leave.
“Ah- hold on, Father!” shouted the farmhand. “What’re you doing with Zebediah?” The doctor tilted his head, and stared quizzically at the boy.
“Zebediah?” asked the doctor.
“Yes! That’s my sheep!” cried the farmhand. “You can’t just steal people’s sheep like that.” For a moment, Dr. Viceroy looked moved; as if the boy’s words had any effect on his actions. The doctor placed the sheep down, and opened up his arms.
“I suppose you’re right, boy”, said the doctor, a small smirk on his face. “Perhaps I was rash in taking your sheep,”
“Yes,” said the farmhand, a frown on his face. “You were,” the farmhand stepped forward, ready to have another word with Dr. Viceroy. Before the farmhand could get a breath in, Dr. Viceroy wrapped his hands around the boy’s neck; crushing his windpipe and knocking the young one out. Dr. Viceroy then grabbed the sheep, and ran away before anyone else could notice. To get the sheep was rough, and may have incurred the wrath of a few farmers; but all things are possible through God, are they not?
As the doctor stitched the parts together and prepared to bring it to life, a flurry of thoughts went through his head. First was the doubt.
What if my creation isn’t good enough? Will He forsake it? Will He let it die?
Then came anxiety.
Of course it won’t be good enough! No god would want that thing as their newest vessel!
Finally, reassurance arrived.
Nonsense, nonsense! Of course the creation will be good enough. God loves all his creations after all. This one will be no different.
After all of his deliberation, Dr. Viceroy finally turned the machine on. …Flick. BUZZ! As his creation jolted to life, the Doctor couldn’t help but shed a few tears of joy. “Look at him!” cried the Doctor as he raised his hands to the sky. “Look at my boy! My Saviour, O my Saviour!” He rejoiced. How wonderful his new creation was, with the head of a sheep and the body of a man!
Once the doctor got all of the joy out of his system, he turned to face his Creature. “My boy,” said the doctor, leaning towards his creation. “Speak for me, my boy,”
Silence.
The doctor cleared his throat. Perhaps it did not hear him? “Godling? Little Savior?” He asked.
Another stretch of silence. Suddenly…
“BAA!!” bleated the creature.
Dr. Viceroy was at a loss for words. How could this be possible? How could his own creation not understand his words? “My boy. Surely you can say something, can’t you?” asked the doctor. “Speak again, my boy,” The creature turned to face Dr. Viceroy and tilted its head.
“BAA!!” the creature bleated once again.
Of course, thought the doctor. Of course this wouldn’t work! Dr Viceroy hurried over to a bookshelf that was nearby, and grabbed his gnarled copy of the Bible. “So you cannot speak,” said the doctor with gritted teeth. “Perhaps, you can mimic?” He flipped the pages over to Proverbs. Third chapter, fifth verse. “Repeat after me, my boy,” commanded the doctor. “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding,”
A long stretch of silence. The Creature quizzically looked at the doctor, as though it was trying to decipher the verse. The Creature then huffed, and bleated once again. “BAA!!”
“I understand, my boy,” said the doctor, forcing a smile. “The verse was too hard for you. How about we try a different once, yes?” The doctor flipped to another page within his bible. Romans, chapter ten, verse nine. “That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved,” read the doctor. “Now repeat,”
And again, the same set of events. Another stretch of silence, another huff, another bleat. This cycle of events would continue for another hour. The Doctor would open to another verse, read it aloud, and wait for the Creature’s repetition; only to be met with silence, a huff, and a bleat from the Creature.
Finally…
“AUGH!” cried the Doctor, throwing his hands in the air. “Surely, SURELY! You are able to repeat SOMETHING! SOMETHING! Show me how much of a messiah you truly are!” The doctor slammed his hands on the operating table, causing the creature to flinch. “Repeat to me the Apostle’s Creed,” commanded the doctor, before reciting the beginning lines. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty. Creator of heaven and Earth. and in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived-”
“BAA!!” bleated the creature.
This was the doctor’s tipping point. Without another word, Dr. Viceroy stormed out of the room; slamming the door behind him with a thud, and leaving his creature alone in the darkness of his lab. He deliberated on the words of his colleagues, on the words of the farmers he confronted. They were all true, every single one of them; and he was not but a fool for thinking otherwise. Everyone knows that sheep cannot pray.