by Ryan Hill
“Sure.”
Sam took a cigarette from my pack. I lit it for her. After one puff, she coughed and threw the cigarette on the ground. I snatched it back up.
“Party foul,” I said, smoking the cig along with my original.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just...”
“What?”
“Nothing.” She didn’t take her eyes off the demolished building. “Let’s get out of here.”
Sam drove down the road in her new Mercedes ML63 AMG SUV. I’d tired of riding in the cheap, “dependable” cars Heaven paid for, and bought her something more deserving of my presence. I was enjoying the SUV’s smooth, quiet ride. I wasn’t enjoying Sam’s silence.
It was weird. Normally, she would’ve been well into reading me some sort of riot act about spiking the soup and being a scoundrel and how I needed to do better, but tonight all I got was a blank, the-lights-are-on-but-nobody’s-home look. She probably didn’t even notice I was in the car with her. It made me uncomfortable. That and the solidifying Mop Top goo on my clothes, which was growing harder by the moment.
Sam wasn’t one to get depressed, or to get so low that I was no more than an afterthought. It bruised my ego. The almost angel side of her was supposed to keep this kind of thing from happening, pumping her with constant positivity and comfort from up above. The silence felt like a rash breaking out on my skin.
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” I asked. “I’m not the one who set some crazy Mop Top on everyone, you know. All I did was–”
“Set it off by drugging the soup.” She finally turned her attention toward me. “At this point, I really shouldn’t be surprised when you pull these stunts.”
“Do you want me to make a sizable donation to the church? Fund the building’s reconstruction? Would that make you feel better?” I couldn’t make a donation myself, because word getting out about me giving money to a church was unacceptable. I would, however, give the money to Sam so she could give it to the church. “Whatever’s going on in that angel brain of yours, snap out of it. This isn’t you.”
“Those people.” Sam exhaled and ran a hand through her curly locks. “They’re gone. Sucked off to … we don’t know where. They didn’t leave a body, and I’m not even sure their souls made it to Heaven.”
Because of her semi-angel status, death involuntarily bummed the Heaven out of her. Throw in the fact that she’d killed herself, and the pain of death sometimes became unbearable. For souls heading Upstairs, death was a release from all the pain and chaos that came with an Earthly existence. With Hell-bound souls, though, demons channeled sins into some delicious eternal punishment. And suicides generally went to Hell for that same treatment. Since Sam was still a teenager when she committed suicide, Heaven gave her the option of skipping the trip Downstairs and earning her redemption as an archangel. She agreed but the weight of her guilt remained—a reminder of how she’d found herself training to become an archangel. It was like the clowns Upstairs got a perverse joy out of torturing their own by doubling down on the guilt.
“They probably don’t have any family or anything. I doubt they’ll be missed.”
“You asshole.” She slammed her hand on the steering wheel, breaking out of her funk with a vengeance.
“Hey, whoa, name calling,” I said.
Sam had never called me an asshole before. She typically kept things very PG, instead calling me a jerk, meanie, or some other sort of saccharine insult. I figured my influence was starting to rub off, which would’ve been a good thing … if I didn’t feel so bad about it. Feeling bad about something that came naturally to me made things even worse, and before I knew it I was as low, if not lower, than Sam. Bless it all.
“Can we stop with the mopey Eeyore act?”
“We don’t know what that thing really was, how many of them there are, or what they want,” Sam said. “All we know is it, and however many more of them are out there, are most likely killing people. And you don’t even care.”
I needed to tread carefully, but in my own way. “I get all that, but why take it out on me?”
“You didn’t tell me you were going to poison the soup.”
“I didn’t poison anyone,” I said. “I spiked the soup with a hallucinogen. That’s a big difference. Not to mention, it helped us find what you were looking for.”
“That’s beside the point.” Sam shook her head and kept looking forward at the road. It made for safe driving, but did nothing to help the current situation. “You were reckless. You did what you always do, and people died because of it.”
“How could we have known this would happen?” I asked.
She didn’t respond. Chances were this would keep up until I apologized, which … well … fat chance of that happening. So, I changed the subject.
“Something else going on here? Is this about your birthday?”
“No.” There wasn’t a hint of conviction in her voice.
“I bought you this luxurious beauty of a car as a present, but it doesn’t seem good enough for you.” Throw in the fact that I was sitting in it, you’d think Sam would be in … Heaven.
“You didn’t get it for my birthday.” She turned left at the intersection. “You got it because you were sick of riding in my old car.”
Bless it all. That’s beside the point.
“That sounds like rotten apples to me.”
“It would.”
I ground my teeth. Seemed there was no pleasing her with my words, or anything else tonight. Though I did enjoy a challenge.
“Look. If it makes you feel better, I never even had a birthday. I morphed into existence over a period of time, but there isn’t a particular day that comes around once a year,” I gestured to myself. “Where this is celebrated.”
Even though my existence should be celebrated—nay, exalted—every single day.
“I’m sorry.” Sam sighed, puffing out her cheeks. “I like the car. I just...”
“What? Are acting like a Negative Nancy?”
“Never mind.”
“Come on.” I poked her arm. “You can tell me. I’m here for you.”
Sam guffawed. “Right.”
“Seriously, what’s up?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
I tried not to laugh. “I’ve been around for a zillion years. There’s very little I don’t understand.”
She took a breath. “You asked for it.”
I motioned for her to continue.
“I feel like I don’t exist. This isn’t even my body.” She pinched her arm. “It’s just this fleshy thing Heaven gave me that resembles me. My real body, my flesh, is buried six feet under.”
Finally, we’d reached the heart of the matter. Sam was having an existential crisis. That wasn’t even close to my area of expertise.
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t understand.”
“All the things we’ve seen, and what’s the point of it all?” she asked, as if what I’d said went in one ear and out the other. “Life comes and goes in the blink of an eye, yet people are always fighting over the dumbest things.”
How right she was.
“Your boss would call what happens on Earth a test of moral character, or something like that.” I called it a colossal joke, but I was biased. That wouldn’t help Sam at the moment, however, so I put on my metaphorical wise old sage hat in the hopes of breaking through her sadness. “Look, you can go down this rabbit hole until you go cross-eyed. It’s not our place to stop people from being snippy about whatever people get snippy about.”
“I know,” she said.
“It’s our place—well, your place, since I hung up my horns—to ensure that they can keep being snippy, so judgment can be passed on them.” I scratched at my neck. I’d been way too good tonight, and it felt like it was giving me a rash. “You can help some along the way, maybe even save some.”
“It doesn’t make a difference. Help one person, another hundred are waiting to stab them in the ba
ck.”
We moved under a series of streetlights, the passing illumination revealing her wet, glistening eyes. Great. Why did she have to cry? She knew I hated that. I sucked in my lips and tried to send out vibes telling the almost-angel to turn off those leaky faucets.
If Sam were alive, she’d have just turned twenty-three. A full-grown woman. Thanks to offing herself over being heartbroken, though, she’d been stuck at sixteen for the past seven years. To me, she was perfectly fine in her current state—but I also preferred virgins. The more sin the better was my motto. Stuck in a teen-aged body, Sam probably still had some hormonal angst rattling around that needed squashing. Maybe being back on Earth amongst the mortals had finally gotten to her. Maybe I’d finally gotten to her. Who knew?
She remained silent the rest of the ride, stewing in her own thoughts like they were chowder. I won’t say I felt bad for her, but from my understanding, angels-in-training weren’t supposed to be this despondent about things. The DNA in the bodies Heaven gave trainees like Sam were infused with so much do-gooder crap it was unheard of to have anything less than a rosy disposition. Even when she got mad at me, it was more an expression of disappointment in my actions than anything to do with her. The emotional mess before me wasn’t the Sam I knew. There was no talking her out of it, and I doubted a bottle of wine and a tub of ice cream would do much better.
This meant something was very wrong with my little almost-cherub. I didn’t want to play the trump card, but she left me no choice. If her sadness wasn’t so controlling, she’d have brought it up herself a while ago.
“Another hundred may be waiting to stab those people in the back, but whatever we stumbled upon tonight was something else,” I said. “Humans hurting humans isn’t technically your problem. That’s free will.”
“True.” Sam sounded like she’d pre-recorded the response.
“But these Mop Tops? They’re not human. Maybe they used to be, but there’s something bigger at play. And that, my non-haloed friend, is your problem.”
I extended the claw on my index finger, then went to town scratching my neck. The rash’s itchiness was uncontrollable. All this goodwill made me want to crawl out of my skin and take a bath in toxic ooze.
“It is,” Sam said, emerging from her cloud a little. “Are you okay?”
Well. Nice of her to notice me for a change.
“I’m itchy, probably from getting homeless people on me.”
“You’re terrible.”
She turned into her apartment complex and the Mercedes’ headlights revealed someone waiting in front of her parking spot. That someone was also a massive assface.
Gabriel.
The hipster angel never showed up unannounced. He was here on official business from Heaven. They must’ve known about the Mop Top.
I closed my eyes and ground my teeth. I didn’t even need to bother talking Sam out of her funk. If I’d waited a few minutes and allowed Sam to stew in her existential crisis without my help, Gabriel would’ve done the heavy lifting for me.
CHAPTER FOUR
These Legs Were Made for Humpin'
Sam got out of the car and hugged Gabriel. It wasn’t a boisterous greeting, but I still noticed her improving mood. I stepped onto the sidewalk, then lit a cigarette. Gabriel was wearing a purple scarf over a corduroy jacket, and brown jeans that fit so tight, any mortal wearing them would have worried about their virility.
“You’re looking awfully chic tonight,” I said. “Which magazine’s fall catalog are you wearing this time?”
A slight breeze blew toward Gabriel. Standing so close to the hipster with wings, I got an idea to blow a cloud of smoke large enough to waft into his face, but not enough to make him think it was on purpose. I took a long drag on the cigarette, then blew out a nice, inconspicuous, thin line of smoke, letting the breeze take care of the rest. Of course, the breeze changed course before Gabriel was hit with the entire cloud, but a little made its way into his nostrils.
“Always a pleasure to see you,” he said, waving away the remaining trail of smoke.
“Isn’t it?” I asked.
Once upon a time, when I was young, naïve, and still an angel, Gabriel was my best friend. I sided with Lucifer in the battle for Heaven, and after we lost, my now former best friend took it upon himself to throw me Downstairs. Ever since, whatever pleasure he got in seeing me was condescending in nature. The rise of hipster culture even gave him the wardrobe to match his I-am-a-pompous-prick-and-so-much-better-than-you-in-every-way-shape-or-form persona.
“No comment,” Sam said.
“Clearly you’re not accounting for taste.” I turned my focus to Gabes. “Still praying for me?”
The angel smiled out the side of his mouth. “Not as much as I used to.”
“Figuring out you can’t teach a dog new tricks?” I took a long, proud drag on my cigarette.
“No.” He glanced at Sam. “Maybe my prayers have been answered.”
Whatever that meant. I exhaled through my nose. “What do you want?”
“Let’s talk inside.” Gabriel stopped himself. “If that’s okay with you, Samantha.”
She nodded. “I’ll make some green tea.”
Sam walked to her apartment, keys jangling in her hand. I followed behind, enjoying the view of her … behind. Whatever frustration I had with Gabriel’s presence faded away at the sight of her tight rumpus. It wasn’t the most mature thing to focus on, but I didn’t care. Going up the one flight of stairs to her apartment was even more fun, providing a nice view from which to gaze upon that beautiful rear.
Sam unlocked the door to her place and stepped inside, followed by Gabriel. I flicked my cigarette out into the parking lot, then held my breath. I hated going into Sam’s apartment. For some reason, she loved the odor of vanilla-scented candles. It was suffocating. Every time I was there, I wanted to gag. Naturally, Sam found my torment hilarious, even threatening to hang crucifixes all over the walls if I didn’t stop complaining—or “whining,” according to her—about the stench. I gave up complaining, but I didn’t give up fighting. I took my displeasure underground, stashing a copy of William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist in her bookcase. I peeked at the worn novel sitting on the bookshelf, wondering if she’d ever found it. Even if she had, I doubted she’d say anything to me. She knew better than that.
Standing in the foyer, I took a moment to ease my lungs into the vanilla-coated atmosphere. Sam scooted off to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and removing the tin of green tea. I didn’t recognize the tin’s flavor. She’d been trying out different types in the hopes of finding a new favorite.
I took a seat across from Gabriel at the kitchen table while Sam busied herself with the tea. Neither Gabes or myself spoke. I patted my knees. Gabriel picked a stray hair off his jacket, flicking it away with disdain. I tried not to laugh. The angel opened his mouth to speak, then stopped himself. Good. I was more than happy to let him drown in the uncomfortable silence. Also, I wasn’t going to be the first to talk. It felt like giving away the upper hand.
“How is being free from the evils of Hell?” Gabriel asked.
Success! He spoke first! I WIN.
“Just wonderful.” I forced a fake grin. “I’d ask how things are up there, but I’m sure I’d get a bunch of sanctimonious BS like ‘Oh, I’m so blessed, I lead such an enlightened life,’ and more garbage like that.”
“Is it sanctimonious if it’s true?”
Yes.
I pursed my lips. So what if I wasn’t a Hell-bound demon anymore? Didn’t mean my hatred for Heaven vanished into thin air the second I turned in my demonic ID card. I still considered them my mortal enemy. That wouldn’t change anytime soon.
“I understand you and Sam did some investigating at a soup kitchen.” Gabriel couldn’t have sounded more sanctimonious if he’d tried. His voice wasn’t raised or anything. The bed-wetter sounded sanctimonious by default.
“We may have volunteered our time to help those in need.”
I shook my head. Of course Gabriel already knew about the soup kitchen. I bet it was the reason he was gracing us with his presence in the first place—to chastise us for what happened.
“Sam may not officially have her wings,” Gabriel said, “but she’s an angel in my book. She puts up with you and gets you to help the homeless? There may be hope for you yet, my friend.”
“First, shut the Heaven up with that talk,” I said. “Second, she didn’t get me to do it. I lost a bet, and that was my payment. A bet’s a bet, even in Hell. Remember what happened when Lucifer went down to Georgia?”
“That may be,” Gabriel’s mouth puckered up. “But from where I’m sitting, it feels like you won.”
“Of course it would.” I imagined taking that copy of The Exorcist and jamming it into Gabriel’s throat. He wouldn’t choke to death, but if I got the book far enough in, it might deform his throat. It’d shut him up at least.
“Tea’s up.” Sam carried the steaming pot and three cups in on a silver tray—another gift from Yours Truly. “It’s a new flavor.”
She set it down on the table, then took the seat to my left. The tea’s aroma gave off subtle hints of wet bamboo and dirt. If Gabes hadn’t been there, I’d have asked Sam if this new flavor was “Panda Poop.”
I held my hand up before Sam could give me a cup. “I’m good.”
“Suit yourself,” she said.
She handed Gabriel my cup of tea. He took a sip, grimacing the second the Panda Poop touched his tongue. The third cup sat on the tray, steam mercifully wafting away from me.
“It’s good,” Gabriel said, forcing a grin.
Ha, ha. Loser.
“Great as it is to see the two of you–”
I guffawed. Sam smacked me on the arm.
“This is more of a business call.” Gabriel blew on the tea, sending the smell of hot, nasty tea in my direction. The ass.
“Please say it’s to find you a more breathable pair of pants,” I said.
Gabriel carefully set down his tea and took a deep breath. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
