The Subscriber is Temporarily in Heaven

For Io the Gambler, death was an annoying hindrance. It had interrupted the best game of his life, one where he, holding nothing but trash, had bluffed his opponent into folding a full house. The last thing he remembered was the loser's crimson face and his own sense of boundless triumph. His next memory was the smell of sulfur and a faulty heating system.

"Welcome to Hell," a minor devil rasped, nudging him toward a giant cauldron. "Your order number is 900-666. Please proceed to the initial boiling procedure."

Io looked around. People were moaning, screaming, and repenting all around him. Deadly boring. He noticed two older devils in a corner, shooting dice for the souls of the newcomers.

"What's the game, gentlemen?" he inquired lazily, pulling a worn deck of cards from out of nowhere. "Eternal torment. Want to wager yours?" one of them smirked.

An hour later, that devil was standing in nothing but his loin-horns, having lost not only the souls but also his trident and the rights to his annual vacation in the Bahamas. Within a day, the entire cauldron department was empty. Devils, imps, and other fiends crowded around Io, betting everything they had: their chains, soul contracts, sulfur deposits, and even their personal frying pans.

Io never lost. He wasn't lucky – he was a system. He read his opponents like an open book written in a very large font. He won his cauldron, the firewood beneath it, the water within it, and even the stoker himself. Hell's bureaucracy went haywire. There was nothing to boil the sinners in and no one to prod them with. An administrative collapse had begun.

Word reached the Man himself. Lucifer, appearing in the guise of a weary top manager in a perfectly tailored suit made of ash, summoned Io to his office.

"You are destabilizing the production process," he began without preamble. "The entire staff is demoralized. You've even won the pass to my personal parking spot. What do you want?" "To play against you," Io replied simply. "One game. I bet my soul against a return to Earth." Lucifer chuckled. His eyes glinted with the fire of a board of directors that had just figured out how to restructure by firing ninety percent of the employees. "Deal," he said. "For me, it's a no-lose scenario either way."

They played poker. The game lasted an eternity, or about seven minutes. In the final hand, Lucifer had four kings. He revealed his cards smugly. Io, his expression unchanged, laid a royal flush on the table.

A silence fell over the office so thick you could spread it on the bread of despair. Lucifer stared at the cards for a long time, then at the gambler's impenetrable face. "You win," he hissed. "A deal's a deal. The exit is over there."

Io nodded and, without looking back, walked toward the indicated door. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he was blinded by a brilliant white light. He had expected to see his hometown, a smoke-filled bar, familiar faces. Instead, he was standing on a cloud, surrounded by flying, chubby, winged infants.

Back in his office, Lucifer watched the disappearing silhouette and let out a malicious laugh, turning to his deputy, Beelzebub. "Let them have the headache now."

---

The story in Heaven turned out to be indecently predictable. The angelic host, accustomed to harmony, psalms, and a complete lack of the concept of bluffing, was the first victim. First, the Cherubim lost their harps. Then the Seraphim bet their flaming swords and were left empty-handed. The Archangel Gabriel lost his famous horn, and Michael lost everything, including his halo and sandals. Heaven was left without guards, without music, and, for the most part, without pants.

The panic reached the very top.

He was summoned to a place with no walls and no ceiling, only light and a sense of presence. Before him, at a simple stone table, sat an Old Man with eyes that reflected billions of stars and an infinite weariness.

"They say you wish to play against me as well," the voice was as calm as the cosmos between galaxies.

"That's right," Io confirmed. "Same rules. I want to return to Earth. That is my only stake."

"And if you lose?" There was no threat in the voice, only interest.

"Then I will stay here and play with your boys forever. I think they need the practice." For the first time in several eons, the Old Man smiled faintly. "Very well. Someone has to defend the honor of the uniform. Deal the cards."

The game was not long. It was the essence of every game ever played. The final combination lay on the stone table, shining with its mathematical perfection. It was a victory. Absolute and final.

Io, feeling something akin to awe for the first time in his life, looked at his opponent. He had outplayed the first cause itself. "I won," his voice was firm, but it held the echo of a question. God nodded slowly. The universe seemed to hold its breath. "You won." "So what now? I expected to return to Earth, but... the stakes have obviously been raised. What do I get? This throne? Power over all that exists? What is my prize?"

God looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, an active thought process was occurring in his galaxy-filled eyes. The first thought that flashed through his consciousness was one of relief: "A vacation, at last." After all, this is why He had created man in his own image and spirit—a gambler, a risk-taker, capable of shouldering the entire weight of the universe. But he immediately answered himself: "No. How banal. Too simple, too human."

The second thought was more formal, more structured: "Congratulations, you're hired." It also captured the essence—the transfer of authority to the one who had proven his worth. But it too was dismissed: "Too dry. Too bureaucratic. As if I'm not handing over the universe, but a shift at the supermarket. Not right!"

He looked at Io again. On his face was not the joy of victory, but the burden of responsibility that he was only just beginning to comprehend. He hadn't just won a game; he had won the right—and the obligation—to keep playing, but now as the dealer. And in that moment, it dawned on God. He found the words that were not just an answer, but a new beginning, a new rule for the great game.

He smiled with the very first smile he had used to greet the dawn of creation and said aloud, calmly and definitively:

"Now, create someone who can beat you."