I was feeling pissed, even though I mostly liked Earth duty. For one
thing, it's not Hell -- don't laugh, it's true. For another, the boss
is petty, infinitely vindictive, and with more experience hurting
people than any million other people combined, so distance between
my intact skin and the Home Office is a damn fine thing.
But I digress: the only downside to Earth duty is angels, but it's a
doozy. And in point of fact, an angel was the very reason I was
pissed. Fortunately, I was about to feel a lot better: the angel had
somehow gotten the notion that I was tired of my evil ways, and had
come to evangelize the glories of kissing God's big white butt. Back
in reality, I was actually planning on evangelizing the glories of
shooting my enemies in the face with .357 magnums.
So, the scene was this: we were in my office, and she was on one side
of my desk (made of real mahogany imported from an evil Burmese
dictatorship, natch), and I was leaning back in my swivel chair with
my legs on the desk and aforementioned .357 magnums pointed at Rainbow
Brite. Such situations arise only very rarely, and I was not about to
pass up the chance to gloat villainously. Frex: "You've been a bad
little girl," "Your beauty gives me great pleasure, but your death
will give me more," et cetera et cetera. You know the routine.
I was having a blast -- I even had some cool shades on, and a this
wonderful black leather poser jacket -- when there was a great big
DONG in the structure of the universe and the Whoopi Goldberg of the
archangelic scene manifested in my office to lecture me on my evil
ways and blast me back to the stone age. Before she could do either, I
grinned my shark-grin (the one that I used up three drama coaches
developing) and said the magic words.
It was WONDERFUL -- her terrible glory went out like I had shot a
light bulb, and while she was looking confused, I vaulted over the
desk, snagging the tire iron I had left on it, and beat Novalis to
death. That's right -- I beat the frigging Archangel of Flowers to
death with a tire iron. No, Strawberry Shortcake didn't do anything,
because everything was supposed to get better once her archangel
showed up. She didn't even resist when I shot her in the face with my
.357 magnum.
The rest -- descending to Hell, breaking my Heart, and leaving a
mash-note for the Game -- was straightforward. Easy as these things
ever get, anyway. So I am my own boss now; captain of my destiny,
master of my fate, all that crap. Yeah, and sure, I'll teach you how,
too.
Back to the INC Mainpage.
Back to the Songs page.
Send mail to the Curator