by Borne Wilder
Michael slipped into the fifth dimension, where he could not be seen by men. A crowd of silhouettes began to gather on the west wall of Jerusalem, drawn by the screams of battle and death erupting from the Assyrian camp.
Gabriel was seen as a blur among the fires. At a speed incomprehensible to human sight, he killed the stunned and confused soldiers, who were only able to get fleeting glimpses of the blood-soaked angel, whenever he paused to take his attack in a new direction or stop to take their life.
Scanning the horizon, Michael watched for a dimensional jump or a ripple in time, but Azazel was nowhere to be found. She never was, only the evidence of her meddling was ever seen. Michael hadn’t seen her since before the flood. She was pleasant in those days. She was the god of the Watchers, a failed attempt at destroying the potential of man.
The Watchers were selfish and lustful abominations, Azazel had disguised as advisors and helpers to lend direction to man’s otherwise pointless existence. The Father knew her plan would fail, but to deny her, her failure, would forever cast doubt among the Principalities.
The Father had nothing to prove, as far as Michael was concerned. As he watched the slaughter unfold before him, he realized her interference, in and of itself, had a way of making man’s existence, pointless.
Just before dawn and soaked in blood, Gabriel strode up to Michael. One hundred and eighty-five thousand men lay dead behind him. The remainder was probably drowning each other, trying to get across the Jordan. He could not see any expression on the angel’s face; though Michael had a feeling it was grim. The blood was thick and had matted Gabriel’s hair into a dark helmet.
“I never saw Azazel,” Michael said.
“Neither did I,” Gabriel smiled crookedly and white teeth broke through the red mask. “Well, we stand before the throne of God, Messenger.” He said. “I will see you again. Perhaps the next time we will battle the true enemy and not their manipulations.” He turned and walked east along the edge of the camp.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to go wash in the Jordan and watch the sun rise.”
13
“One day a group of scientists got together and decided that man had come a long way and no longer needed God. They picked one scientist, the smartest among them, to go and tell God that they were done with Him. The scientist walked up to God and said, ‘God, we've decided that we no longer need you. We're to the point that we can clone people and do many miraculous things on our own, so why don't you just go on and get lost.’
God listened patiently and kindly to the man and after the scientist was done talking, God said, ‘Very well! How about this? Let's have a man-making contest.’
To which the scientist replied, ‘OK, great!’ But God added, ‘Now we're going to do this just like I did back in the old days with Adam.’
The scientist said, ‘Sure, no problem’ and bent down and grabbed himself a handful of dirt.
God just looked at him and said, ‘No, no, no, you go get your own dirt!’" Jeremiel grinned at Michael.
“You told me that one before, once when we took Nebuchadnezzar out to graze, except you used magicians and then again when the Moors invaded Spain, then you used alchemists.”
“Just trying to lighten the mood.”
The wiper blades had disintegrated and the arms that had held them were now trying to saw through the windshield. Both angels had refused to give the other the satisfaction, by admitting defeat. Jeremiel had known, the overuse of the blinker would grate on Michael’s last nerve, and Michael knew that snapping off the control was childish, but neither was going to apologize first. They’d had the blinker argument before, also the seatbelt argument. In fact, at one time or another they had argued about everything in Creation.
Jeremiel is partial to the Gospel of Luke, Michael likes John. Jerry likes The Greatest Story Ever Told, but Michael likes Jesus of Nazareth. (Both agree that Charlton Hesston’s portrayal of Moses was ridiculous) Jerry's a Ford man, Michael likes Chevys. Jerry insists Mana was a low calorie, carb free, starch, Michael swears that it was high caloric and protein based. Jerry thinks Tom Cruise is straight, Michael is certain he’s gay. Jerry likes pepperoni, Michael likes anchovies.
Sometimes, they would take opposite positions on a subject, just to kill the boredom of watching and waiting. Neither meant the other ill will, but every once in a while, things would come to a head and boil over, like snapping off the turn signal. Michael had overreacted, but Jeremiel wouldn’t fault him, there were times when he too, had snapped and Michael had covered for him.
Once, after Michael had disarmed a bus bomb in Tel Aviv, Jeremiel had detonated it while Michael carried it to safety. For a seventy-cubit radius, there were bits and pieces of the archangel everywhere. Earlier in the day, Michael had told Jeremiel, that he was nothing more than a ‘glorified crossing guard’ and it had pissed him off to no end.
Later, the next day, when Michael caught up with him in Jerusalem, newly incarnate, he didn’t mention the incident, nor did he mention it to anyone else, ever.
Both of them had fought back insanity and displayed great will and endurance, while ignoring the repetitious cacophony of screeching and scratching that waved untiring before their eyes, for quite some time. It was Michael who cracked first.
“PULL THIS MOTHERFUCKER OVER!” Before the car had come to a stop, Michael had flung open the door of the car and leapt over it and onto the hood. Clawing madly, he captured and snapped off each wiper arm in turn and held them high above his head in victory. The sound of grating glass was replaced with an almost physical silence.
Jumping off the front of the car, he threw the arms deep into the night. “You caused that torture by starting your blinker shit,” Michael yelled, trying to place the blame, for his loss of the unspoken competition, on Jeremiel. He flopped into the car and slammed the door behind him. The silence was broken only by the faint hum of the engine and the tick-ticking of the right turn signal. “How do you think I can get rid of that?” He said as he reached under the dash.
Jeremiel’s fist struck Michael’s chin at almost the speed of light, the angel crumpled forward unconscious, his face pressed against the dash. Grabbing him by the back of his Sons of Anarchy cut, Jeremiel pulled him back onto the seat into a semi-sitting position. “Oh you poor thing, look how tired you are.” He said, as he put the car in gear and pulled back onto the highway. Fiddling with the radio, he found some music that was almost in perfectly time with the clicking of the turn signal.
Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man of wealth and taste...
A sharp crackling came from the rear of the car. Jeremiel rolled down the partition to find Gabriel grinning from ear to ear.
“You know he’s going to be pissed when he comes to.” Gabriel nodded at Michael’s limp form in the front seat.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I kind of lost control for a moment, he’s not as mechanically inclined as he thinks he is and he was attempting to work on the electrical parts of the car. He had to be stopped.” Jeremiel flashed a cheesy smile into the mirror.
“Michael is more of an ‘Even Steven’, than an ‘I’m sorry’ kind of guy, in my experience.”
“Nah, he’s let me slide on much worse.”
Gabriel scooted closer to the partition. “Turn that off, I hate that song.” He looked down at Michael and gave a shudder. “He is not going to be happy at all. I wish I could separate you two until he cools off, but we’re going to take a more hands-on approach to this situation.”
“He’ll be okay.”
“Well, whenever Sleepy-time comes around, we need you to capture the escapee in the diaper. Just hold onto him and follow the other two. They want to sell the shekel, but stall them until Baal arrives. For some reason, we need you all together. I don’t think that Baal’s a player in all this, I think we just need to keep him from screwing up whatever is going on.”
“Why don’t we just destroy the coin, send the idi
ot into the abyss and move on? Why do you have two archangels on an escapee?” Jeremiel asked. “Is this about removing Baal?”
“I think it’s bigger than that, but it’s not yet available to me.” Gabriel’s face became grave. “The two with the shekel don’t know it, but they are going to New Orleans to meet Azazel.”
The mention of Azazel surprised Jeremiel. She had ruled over the Watchers, from the time of Adam until the flood, when they were taken away from her and confined. With nothing to rule over, she became bitter and power mad. “What do you want us to do with her?”
“Just make sure she ends up with the coin. The naked man wants it and now Baal is after it, we need to make sure Azazel gets it. Everything I’m telling you came from the top. Something is happening. The Seraphim are really singing. No one but the Trinity can understand them.” Gabriel patted Jeremiel on the shoulder. “I think we’re going to the show.” Gabriel leaned over the back of the seat and patted Michael on the shoulder, “Tell him I said hi when he wakes up.” Gabriel switched dimensions and was gone.
When the Seraphim last sang anything other than ‘Holy, Holy. Holy,’ the Christ was born. If they were going to the show, and everything was going to reset, Michael was going to be pissed, he had always thought he was going to be in charge of the Trumpets and Bowls, not babysitting a demon and a diaper-clad dead man.
***
The lights in the shop were all lit, but from the seat of his enormous automobile, Baal could not see a shop keeper through any of the windows. He saw that Pennzoil was on sale and that a large coffee reduced the price of a Snickers, but nothing that told him whether or not the establishment was open for trade. He blasted the horn several times until a young man poked his head up from beneath the counter; he stared blankly in Baal’s general direction but gave no indication that the focus of his attention included the dark prince. A few more blasts of the horn and shoulders manifested beneath the head of the young man. Two more had brought the fellow to unsteady feet.
Though the clerk maintained a blank expression, he saluted Baal with his middle finger. The courtesy revealed no military discipline and any centurion would have had the man flogged for his effort, or obvious lack of. Baal depressed the pad on the steering wheel and held it; a long sustained bellow erupted from the beast he sat in. He would not be dismissed by a lowly shopkeeper.
The clerk shuffled around the counter and shouted through the partially opened door. “It’s self-service!” As the young man turned to step back into the shop; Baal produced another long blast and motioned for the clerk to come to him. The clerk moved slowly and cautiously toward the vehicle, dragging his heels in an awkward fashion which caused him to stumble over something that wasn't there. His head bobbed like a chicken’s from one side to the other and up and down, he appeared to be searching for the big truck’s occupant.
It wasn’t until he was at the pumps that he gave any indication, that he had truly seen Baal. “Hey man, you’re one of them little fellers, ain’tcha?” the young man said, as he approached the driver’s side of the truck, his neck seemed to extend telescopically upward a full two inches as he strained to look in the window. “I couldn’t see you in there.” More than a few teeth were missing from the man’s seemingly perpetual smile.
“My good man, Baal is in need of petroleum.” Baal had slipped into the third person, a habit that had taken him centuries to retire.
When he was viewed as a god, referring to himself in the third person seemed natural, almost obligatory, but constant chiding from angels and other principalities, obviously jealous of his standing among humans, had caused him to become self-conscience of it. Recent stressors were most likely the basis for his regress, although he did feel more like the old Baal than he had in years. A feeling he found not entirely unpleasant.
“Well mister, you can tell Baal to help himself whenever he’s ready, this here's a self-serve pump.” The man’s smile became friendlier and created two more vacancies in his oral situation.
“Sir I am Baal and Baal is at somewhat of a disadvantage when it comes to exiting and entering this monstrosity.” He replied tersely, he could feel the connection between himself and the shekel growing weaker, he had precious little time to waste on imbeciles, and it was quite clear that any elaborations on his predicament would be wasted on one so evidently unable to understand basic oral hygiene.
“I getcha buddy, you want me to pump Baal’s gas for him.” The man’s smile never wavered or faded. “Well, as much as I’d like to, I can’t do that. This here’s a self-serve pump. Over yonder is the full-service.”
“Sir, Baal needs fuel and Baal is willing to pay generously, were you to put it into the vehicle for him.” His patience was thinning. “Baal will pay you one hundred U.S. dollars to operate the pump.”
“Sheet, dawg, this mud puppy prolly holds twice that much in the tank.” The young man shoved his hands in front pockets of his baggy trousers, rocked back on his heels and stretched his grin to include a few devastated molars. “Did anyone ever tell you, you look like a little Dr. Evil, one of them Mini -me's?”
“Bullocks!” Using the steering wheel for support, Baal drew himself to his feet; he stood on the seat and leaned out the window as far as he could. “Sir, please place the fuel, in the vehicle and Baal will pay you for the petroleum and compensate you two hundred pounds for your inconvenience!”
“Pounds of what, sir?” The man’s smile shrank slightly in his confusion.
“Blast it, man! Baal meant dollars, two hundred U.S. dollars!” Baal heard his voice crack. If he would have had any hope of fueling the vehicle himself, he would kill this human, here and now, just for sport.
“Make it two-o-five and Baal’s got hisself a deal.”
“Baal says sold.” Baal scratched the side of his head, confused as to why the man would stifle the momentum of a negotiation that had been rising in one hundred dollar increments with a final raise of five dollars. It was obvious the man was simple, so a recreational dispatch of the moron’s life was out of the question. The fellow was protected by his own stupidity.
The foul odor of petroleum permeated the vehicle as it raced into the tank, though not fast enough for the principality, he could feel the shekel fade with every liter pumped. Finally, the nozzle clacked, signaling the tank was full. The simple minded fellow squeezed the lever repeatedly until petrol sprayed out and onto his unlaced shoes. The urge to kill the man was almost unbearable. The simpleton repeated the process for the second fuel cell.
After several minutes and another splash of flammable liquid to his footwear, the man returned to the demon. “You can tell Mr. Baal, that it comes to one eighty-five, plus the two oh five equals…three seventy on the button.”
Baal wondered how these inferiors survived on a daily basis. Pulling a fat wallet from his jacket pocket, he removed four one hundred dollar bills and stretched his short arm out to the grinning idiot.
The young man quickly snatched them from Baal’s hand. “I’m going to have to run inside and check these with my marker and gitcher change. Mr. Burdett said to check anything bigger than a ten.”
“Fuck Mr. Burdett,” Baal said as he fired up his monster. He jerked down on the shifting lever and poked the accelerator hard with his walking stick. The monster truck began to leap and bound away from the fuel pumps, its enormous tires barking out screeches and yelps.
He could barely feel the coin; he had to close the distance quickly. He would deal with his frustrations soon enough, the ignorant shop keep had no idea of the suffering he had escaped.
The man with the jack-o-lantern smile stood at the pumps and watched the truck jump and lurch across the drive like a cat with its ass on fire. He counted the four bills in his hand and grinned, a small sign above his head read, Full Service. “What a jerk-off.” Fancy talkers really pissed him off.
14
Waking from sleep was always confusing for an angel. Unless it was absolutely necessary, sleep was avoided. By design,
angels do not have a sleep cycle and require no rest. Yet, when incarnate, as men, they were required by the laws of biology to sleep, eat, and shit just as men do. Often they would push the human form until it was unresponsive and ready to collapse before they would close their eyes and allow darkness to overcome them.
The dream state does not exist for an angel, so sleep only produces a black void in their memory. The uncomfortable feelings resulting from these voids are probably the closest an angel will come to experiencing fear.
The sound of water dripping was in Michael’s ears, as his mind reorganized the events that preceded the darkness. Soon, he realized, it wasn’t water dripping, it was the car he was riding in that was making the sound. He remembered the turn signal and the wipers.
Slight movements in the seat next to him alerted Jeremiel to Michael’s awakening. “There’s been an accident, Michael.” He told him softly and quickly, in an attempt to prevent a retaliatory strike. He too knew the befuddled feeling that accompanied waking and he thought he might ease the reason for Michael’s sleep, into the conversation. An accident wasn’t an entirely accurate description of what happened, but it was true, that he hadn’t meant to hit the angel as hard as he did. “Wake up, Michael, there has been an accident.”
Grabbing his beard like a rope, Michael smoothed it out onto his chest and looked at Jeremiel without moving his head, which was wedged between the door panel and the side of the seat. His chin pressed into his chest by the awkward position, throbbed. His human form was experiencing pain. His mouth, along with his back ached. He remained crumpled against the door as he evaluated himself for damage. He worried that movement might cause further injury to the frail embodiment.
