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An as yet untitled fic in its second draft.
The angel Lucan was having a bad day. Not that this was anything noteworthy, since the day before had also been a bad day. As well as the day before. And the day before that. In fact, every single day in his recent recollection had been bad, down to the very first one when he’d begun his new job here at the Purgatory Department, Greeting Division. It sounds cheery, doesn’t it? Greeting Division. Where all the newly deceased who are too good for Hell and yet just not good enough for Heaven arrive and mill around in a gigantic queue (boredom kindly relieved by his saintly assistants wandering about offering soothing reassurance and celestial images, “So you can relax in His Glory while you wait”) in the newly refurbished Antechamber of the Recently Dead, new name pending because certain parties down at the PR Department thought it was too depressing / considered it a tad too shocking for the fragile minds of those who were in fact, recently dead, so why would you call it otherwise. It’s what it is, isn’t it? stupid, coddling seraphims, always treading on eggshells as if the souls would suffer a nervous breakdown if you dared to remind them of their very real present status. These were the same nitwits who pushed through the Council of Eternal Life that inane policy of Harmony, through which all Angels were required to emphasize with their charges, i. e. the humans who had infested populated the Lord’s creation, for the better treatment and comprehension between their peoples so the humans would be at ease and not frightened by the radical change in their circumstances. For failing to uphold this policy and in fact flying right smack in the opposite direction, they’d given him forty citations already. Forty! For what? Being honest? Not holding the souls’ hands? Forgetting to smile as if he had a plastic surgeon nail his mouth in a permanent upwards curve? Why should be make death any easier for the souls when they appeared determined to drill into his head and yank and destroy every calm and happy thought by the root before he had a chance to experience it?
To Hell with that. If he was miserable, everyone was miserable.
“Next! Come on! Move it!” Lucan shouted at the mess of souls shuffling forwards in an awed panic, looking everywhere at once like skittish mice (and so they are, thought Lucan), at the formless ooze of white surrounding them on all sides, rising up and up like one of their beloved Gothic arches, except without the tantalizing decoration, just blandness heaped upon more blandness, formless, odorless, and in every way probably the most boring landscape anyone would ever see. It revealed nothing of the delightfully keen horrors awaiting them beyond the great door behind Lucan, also white for maximum frustration. If one stood a foot away from the edges, a narrow fissure could be seen, barely wider than the width of a fingernail. Souls might wander around for hours looking for it if the saints weren’t around to help. This was The Door. The Door all men dread to cross, quivering in fear at the mere thought of its divine wrath from the instant their mothers hold them to their bosom to that final gasping breath in their deathbeds, if they are lucky enough to have a bed to drop dead in a bed at all. It was the Door of—
“Maybe?” frowned the elderly man in front of Lucan. “It’s named the Door of Maybe? Are you sure?”
The file in Lucan’s hands whimpered as he clutched it in ever tightening hands. Was he sure? Was Lucan the Master of the Great Door, he who actually worked here and had spent half his endless existence in this horrible hole of an occupation if he was sure of the Door’s name? Stupid, insignificant twat. Could humans truly be so idiotic that they couldn’t figure out the really rather obvious fact that yes! Lucan did know the Door’s name and no, he was not lying, so please, please stop asking every single time if he was joking, because clearly in the peanuts that passed for their minds, he must be messing with their heads because it was so much fun. Such an important door could not possibly posses such a vague and confusing name as the Door of Maybe. The Lord in all His wisdom would have never allowed an impropriety of that magnitude. Of course not.
“Yes,” Lucan said, trying very, very hard not to grit his teeth. He failed “It’s the Door of Maybe. The Lord named it Himself because maybe you’ll get into Heaven, maybe you won’t. Get it? Now if we could please get on with your file—“
“Wait a moment. Maybe I’ll get into Heaven? But surely I’ve already been selected by God for salvation.”
Lucan dropped the file with a heavy breath. What was it about this species that made them so fond of using the word “surely” when they had no possible comprehension about what they were saying?
“No one is selected beforehand. You have go through the process. Now here it says t—“
“But God always chooses which of his creations is to be saved eons before our birth. Does this mean I’m damned? But I couldn’t have been meant to hear the great teachings if I were one of the damned. I can’t be!”
“You are not damned. Would you calm down? No one is damned beforehand.”
Bizarre confusion suffused the man’s face.
“But why not?”
“What do you mean why not? Why would anyone be?”
“Because it’s just.”
“Just? What could be just about being judged before your birth, before you’ve had the chance to do anything? Where did you get such a preposterous idea?”
“The great John Calvin, who’s unearthed the truth of His Word from the machinations of those papist devils.”
“Who?”
Through what should have been an impossible feat of willpower given that the man had no veins left, a furious red rose on his face.
“Why, John Calvin. The greatest preacher we’ve had this age.”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned his greatness already. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell you that this Calvin, whoever he is, has no idea what he’s talking about.”
“But,” the man stuttered. “But surely—“
“Would you please stop using the word “surely”? There’s no “surely” about Calvin’s preachings. There’s no “surely” about my being wrong about the name of the Door. There’s no surely about a single thing that is coming out of your mouth.”
“But Calvin—“
“Don’t!” Lucan stood up so quickly that the man jumped back, fear finally sharpening in his eyes. “Don’t say his name again. Do not or you will wish your soul had been pulverized before you came across me. You understand those words, don’t you?”
The man nodded frantically. At some point, Lucan’s wings had expanded behind his back, rising in menacing arches as he loomed over the desk, growing in the man’s sight while the man himself shrank, limbs quivering as he gaped at Lucan like a terrified, little child and Lucan barely restrained himself from cackling aloud with a glorious “Bwahahahahahaha.”
“Good. Now, you are going to go through that door and you are going to stay in Purgatory for 50 years until we’ve determined your spiritual worth, though I’m sure it’s a lost cause because clearly a shilling would be too much to throw at it. Then and only then will you know if you’ve been saved or not. Now move!”
The man ran to the door as if a dozen hellhounds were after him and Lucan sank down in his chair, yearning so much for a drink of that delightfully refreshing liquid Gabriel had brought from Hell that one time (strictly hush hush, of course). Why had he been doomed with this tedious task? He had been a general of his Lordships’ Celestial Army! A general! Or at least he had been until he committed The Mistake. It hadn’t been that big of a mistake. Not in the grand scheme of things, really. Just one tiny miscalculation, that’s all. What’s two miles, really, when you take into account the immensity of the ever expanding universe? Like a grain of sand to a human. Smaller, even. Surely no one who make such a huge deal over missing a distance as tiny as that. Okay, so technically, that really small distance mix-up might have led to him pulverizing the wrong city, but it was an honest mistake. It could happen to anyone.
One year. He’d accept one year as punishment. That seemed reasonable. Maybe two. He’d certainly learned his lesson by year two, would never do it again, cross his heart and hope to, well not die, since angels can’t die, but something less dire like miss the card game or forget to take a nap. But 2,000?! Two thousand years of agony and pain and sanity breaking madness was too much! It hadn’t even been a big city, just a couple of thousand people. The one the Lord sent him to destroy was at least twice as big and it was just a couple of people he was pissed at, so Lucan really didn’t see what was the big deal if the Lord was that fickle anyway, but noooo. So you will learn humility, the Lord said (And directions, a seraphim squeaked and flew away before Lucan could get his hands around his throat), You will care for the newly dead until I see fit to relieve you. Translation: I don’t like you, so you will rot in reception hell forever while I laugh my ass off. Ha. Ha. Ha.
He would, too.
“Next!”
Next turned out to be a slip of a shivering girl wearing garments so muddy that no matter how many times you dumped them in the wash, they would never get clean, as if she’d tried to bring the Earth along with her in a fit of desperation. She looked about everywhere with wide eyes the size of Florins, clutching her arms close around her as if they might fall off otherwise. In his extreme boredom, Lucan considered letting her stew in ever rising panic for another minute to see if she attacked the saint who led her up to the dais in a preemptive attack, but life here was never that interesting, so he took pity on her.
“Sara Parker?” Lucan said, in a tone so flat that it could have solidified into lead.
“Y-yes?” the girl squeaked. “Excuse me, but... Where am I?”
“Purgatory. It exists. Get over it. Now, you’ve been sentenced for five years—“
“Purgatory? There really is a Purgatory? Truly?”
“Honestly, are all of you so feeble that you can’t hear? You don’t even have physical ears anymore. Yes, Purgatory. Now, if we can please get on with bu—“
But of course, they could not, for the woman exclaimed “Yes!” with such a triumphant yell that Lucan jumped back in his chair in shock, though he’d never admit it was shock if you called him on it. he’d merely been momentarily startled.
“I knew it!” the girl cried, bouncing up and down with keen satisfaction on her face, all traces of the timid waif gone. “I knew there was a purgatory. Take that, Lord Rochford, you heretical scum! He is in Hell, right?”
“Um... Huh?”
“Oh, please tell me he is. He has to be. No man like that, if you can even call him a man, could ever deserve the mercy of purgatory. It’s straight to the flames for him. You must know, surely, if he is in hell. He got his head chopped clean off two months past. Too good for the likes of him, if you ask me. The King should have kept the original sentence of drawing and quartering, guts yanked out while he screamed and was cut into pieces. Oh, please tell me he is burning in Hell, getting his skin peeled off over and over and his tongue ripped out only for it to grow and get ripped out again.”
For what amounted to a full earthly minute, Lucan gaped in total and complete horror. These were the people that Lucan was supposed to get be “in harmony” with? These people? These deranged beasts who preyed on their fellow beings with cackling glee, tearing to bits for the sick fun of it? True, Lucan’s last profession had been to destroy cities full of humans, but it had been a quick death. One big boom, that’s all. He hadn’t tied each one up and torn out their fingernails one by one for the fun of it. Firmly keeping his eyes on the girl, he made a note in her file, increasing the stipulated penance time from 5 years to 50. No way would this woman be fit to enter Heaven in only five years of Sara’s cleansing sessions. She’d start a riot and start burning people at the stake for not buttoning their shirts properly.
“Um... Yes,” he said, gesturing to one of his assistants to take her to the Door, now. “He’s in Hell. Nice and toasty. If you’ll please follow him? Thank you.”
Go away. please. Go away.
St. (Mungus? Fungus? Whatever. He never paid attention half the time) led her away as she whooped in victory. Lucan shuddered, really wishing he could get drunk right this second.
“Next,” he called, more warily than before.
This time a young man in his late twenties swaggered up to his desk, left hand propped on his hip just above his sword, which really shouldn’t be there. Souls normally manifested only with the clothes they happened to be wearing at the time of death, the bare essentials. Weapons usually were not part of that category. But not only did this man still posses his sword, his jewels remained as well, fat rubies and sapphires adorning his sumptuously woven clothes and fingers, making him look like a walking Christmas decoration. The imperious glimmer in his eyes, icy with arrogant superiority, completed the tableau. Lucan sighed heavily, almost banging his head on the desk.
“Right then,” he said as if he was the one being dragged to his doom. “You’re in Purgatory. Please don’t comment on that. You’ve been sentenced to 30 years for not doing good works. If you’ll please—“
“Purgatory?” the man so rudely interrupted him, glaring down his nose at Lucan as if he were one of his lowly servants. “Do you mean to tell me that there is such a place?”
Not again, Lucan despaired.
“Yes. There is.”
The man scoffed. Scoffed! As if Lucan were a lying bug.
“Preposterous. There is no such place. That’s a wicked papist invention to feed their profane idolatries.”
“And yet, you’re standing right in it.”
“That’s impossible. Purgatory doesn’t exist. Every good Christian knows that.”
“No, they don’t. Look, Purgatory is real. It’s right there behind that door and you’re going in it. So if you would please g--“
“The scriptures say nothing of it. It’s all lies spread by the Devil to ensnare good Christians like me, but I will not be fooled. No, I will not. You’re not one of those papist wretches, are you?”
What?
“I’m an angel,” Lucan said, flapping his wings in consternation.
“An angel? You’re not going to tell me you’re a guardian angel, are you? Another papist fabrication to keep us blind to the true faith.”
“No, I’m not, but there are guardian angels—“
“Bullshit.”
Lucan’s temper flared up faster than a wildfire in dry season. That’s it. he’d enough ignorant insolence for one day.
“Are you calling me a liar, you stupid buffoon?”
The buffoon’s face twisted in fury, his right hand tightening on his sword hilt.
“What did you call me, you pansy?”
“An idiot and a buffoon and an impudent bastard.”
“You take those words back right now or I will cut you down this instant.”
“I will not. I outrank you, you stupid human.”
“I’m the 5th Duke of Northumberland,” the man thundered, drawing himself to his true height as if that made him any more important than a dung beetle. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m an angel! Do you not see the wings? Are you blind?”
“A real angel would never say that there’s a Purgatory.”
“What the fuck? Are you completely stupid? This is Purgatory. Who cares if it isn’t in the Bible? The Lord isn’t obligated to inform you of every single decision He makes. It was probably mentioned in one of those dozen gospels your moron ancestors decided to feed their fires with because they didn’t fit within their asinine view of dogma. You think I give a shit about your dogma, you pathetic waste of breath? I’m sick and fucking tired of telling all you dumbfucks that Purgatory is real. I don’t care what Luther or Calvin or any of those other ponces said. This is the Truth of God. But if you’d rather not go through Purgatory since it’s such an overblown waste of time according to you, I can send you straight to Hell right now. You want that? Do you, you stupid swine?”
In the last 200 years, Lucan had never cursed as much as he had in these two minutes. At some point during his diatribe, he’d risen up in the air, wings stretched out in full battle array, their crystalline white darkening to an ominous black of death as he loomed over the human insect, his own sword materializing in his left hand, a four foot long broadsword designed to chop off demon heads, always there waiting to be called, always ready. He just needed a reason. Some fool to come along and get riled up enough to throw out all his hammered in angel discipline and let it all out, all the frustration, the annoyance, the anger, the homicidal urge to grab someone by the neck and beat him to ash.
Or so he let the human think, his best Psycho from Hell expression gleaming on his face until Lucan had him quivering in a heap of spiritual jelly, pure terror wracking every limb, arrogance extinguished into a “please don’t kill me” face made more hilarious by the fact that the man was already dead, so Lucan really had nothing to threaten him with. He almost burst out laughing, the situation way too hilarious, but he swallowed it in, opting for malicious glee instead.
“Good,” Lucan grinned in delicious satisfaction. “Now. You are going to go through that door and you’re not going to say another word until after you have crossed it and are out of my sight. Is that perfectly clear?”
The man nodded so quickly that his hair bobbed and he ran to the Door, not looking back once as he slammed it shut behind him.
Ah. Freedom. He let the decadent feeling tickle at the worn, jaded fibers of his being, yearning to be released and spring free, a refreshing balm washing away weeks of irritation in one swoop.
“Did you have to do that?” Muffin or whatever asked, arms crossed in disapproval.
“Yes, I did. come on, it was fun. He had it coming.”
Muffin rolled his eyes. Why did he always have to roll his eyes? He was no fun.
“Whatever. I don’t feel like arguing with you.”
“Good. I’ve had more than enough arguing for one day. Hell, I’ve had more than enough for one existence. I’m taking a vacation. I don’t care what the Big Guy says. If he wants to drag me away from the beach, he’s going to have to do it himself.”
“You can’t do that. You have to—“
“I will and I am. I’m tired of this nonsense. You can take over for a couple of months. You know where everything goes.”
“A couple of months?! Lucan, get back here.”
“Bye, bye.”
The angel Lucan was having a bad day. Not that this was anything noteworthy, since the day before had also been a bad day. As well as the day before. And the day before that. In fact, every single day in his recent recollection had been bad, down to the very first one when he’d begun his new job here at the Purgatory Department, Greeting Division. It sounds cheery, doesn’t it? Greeting Division. Where all the newly deceased who are too good for Hell and yet just not good enough for Heaven arrive and mill around in a gigantic queue (boredom kindly relieved by his saintly assistants wandering about offering soothing reassurance and celestial images, “So you can relax in His Glory while you wait”) in the newly refurbished Antechamber of the Recently Dead, new name pending because certain parties down at the PR Department thought it was too depressing / considered it a tad too shocking for the fragile minds of those who were in fact, recently dead, so why would you call it otherwise. It’s what it is, isn’t it? stupid, coddling seraphims, always treading on eggshells as if the souls would suffer a nervous breakdown if you dared to remind them of their very real present status. These were the same nitwits who pushed through the Council of Eternal Life that inane policy of Harmony, through which all Angels were required to emphasize with their charges, i. e. the humans who had infested populated the Lord’s creation, for the better treatment and comprehension between their peoples so the humans would be at ease and not frightened by the radical change in their circumstances. For failing to uphold this policy and in fact flying right smack in the opposite direction, they’d given him forty citations already. Forty! For what? Being honest? Not holding the souls’ hands? Forgetting to smile as if he had a plastic surgeon nail his mouth in a permanent upwards curve? Why should be make death any easier for the souls when they appeared determined to drill into his head and yank and destroy every calm and happy thought by the root before he had a chance to experience it?
To Hell with that. If he was miserable, everyone was miserable.
“Next! Come on! Move it!” Lucan shouted at the mess of souls shuffling forwards in an awed panic, looking everywhere at once like skittish mice (and so they are, thought Lucan), at the formless ooze of white surrounding them on all sides, rising up and up like one of their beloved Gothic arches, except without the tantalizing decoration, just blandness heaped upon more blandness, formless, odorless, and in every way probably the most boring landscape anyone would ever see. It revealed nothing of the delightfully keen horrors awaiting them beyond the great door behind Lucan, also white for maximum frustration. If one stood a foot away from the edges, a narrow fissure could be seen, barely wider than the width of a fingernail. Souls might wander around for hours looking for it if the saints weren’t around to help. This was The Door. The Door all men dread to cross, quivering in fear at the mere thought of its divine wrath from the instant their mothers hold them to their bosom to that final gasping breath in their deathbeds, if they are lucky enough to have a bed to drop dead in a bed at all. It was the Door of—
“Maybe?” frowned the elderly man in front of Lucan. “It’s named the Door of Maybe? Are you sure?”
The file in Lucan’s hands whimpered as he clutched it in ever tightening hands. Was he sure? Was Lucan the Master of the Great Door, he who actually worked here and had spent half his endless existence in this horrible hole of an occupation if he was sure of the Door’s name? Stupid, insignificant twat. Could humans truly be so idiotic that they couldn’t figure out the really rather obvious fact that yes! Lucan did know the Door’s name and no, he was not lying, so please, please stop asking every single time if he was joking, because clearly in the peanuts that passed for their minds, he must be messing with their heads because it was so much fun. Such an important door could not possibly posses such a vague and confusing name as the Door of Maybe. The Lord in all His wisdom would have never allowed an impropriety of that magnitude. Of course not.
“Yes,” Lucan said, trying very, very hard not to grit his teeth. He failed “It’s the Door of Maybe. The Lord named it Himself because maybe you’ll get into Heaven, maybe you won’t. Get it? Now if we could please get on with your file—“
“Wait a moment. Maybe I’ll get into Heaven? But surely I’ve already been selected by God for salvation.”
Lucan dropped the file with a heavy breath. What was it about this species that made them so fond of using the word “surely” when they had no possible comprehension about what they were saying?
“No one is selected beforehand. You have go through the process. Now here it says t—“
“But God always chooses which of his creations is to be saved eons before our birth. Does this mean I’m damned? But I couldn’t have been meant to hear the great teachings if I were one of the damned. I can’t be!”
“You are not damned. Would you calm down? No one is damned beforehand.”
Bizarre confusion suffused the man’s face.
“But why not?”
“What do you mean why not? Why would anyone be?”
“Because it’s just.”
“Just? What could be just about being judged before your birth, before you’ve had the chance to do anything? Where did you get such a preposterous idea?”
“The great John Calvin, who’s unearthed the truth of His Word from the machinations of those papist devils.”
“Who?”
Through what should have been an impossible feat of willpower given that the man had no veins left, a furious red rose on his face.
“Why, John Calvin. The greatest preacher we’ve had this age.”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned his greatness already. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell you that this Calvin, whoever he is, has no idea what he’s talking about.”
“But,” the man stuttered. “But surely—“
“Would you please stop using the word “surely”? There’s no “surely” about Calvin’s preachings. There’s no “surely” about my being wrong about the name of the Door. There’s no surely about a single thing that is coming out of your mouth.”
“But Calvin—“
“Don’t!” Lucan stood up so quickly that the man jumped back, fear finally sharpening in his eyes. “Don’t say his name again. Do not or you will wish your soul had been pulverized before you came across me. You understand those words, don’t you?”
The man nodded frantically. At some point, Lucan’s wings had expanded behind his back, rising in menacing arches as he loomed over the desk, growing in the man’s sight while the man himself shrank, limbs quivering as he gaped at Lucan like a terrified, little child and Lucan barely restrained himself from cackling aloud with a glorious “Bwahahahahahaha.”
“Good. Now, you are going to go through that door and you are going to stay in Purgatory for 50 years until we’ve determined your spiritual worth, though I’m sure it’s a lost cause because clearly a shilling would be too much to throw at it. Then and only then will you know if you’ve been saved or not. Now move!”
The man ran to the door as if a dozen hellhounds were after him and Lucan sank down in his chair, yearning so much for a drink of that delightfully refreshing liquid Gabriel had brought from Hell that one time (strictly hush hush, of course). Why had he been doomed with this tedious task? He had been a general of his Lordships’ Celestial Army! A general! Or at least he had been until he committed The Mistake. It hadn’t been that big of a mistake. Not in the grand scheme of things, really. Just one tiny miscalculation, that’s all. What’s two miles, really, when you take into account the immensity of the ever expanding universe? Like a grain of sand to a human. Smaller, even. Surely no one who make such a huge deal over missing a distance as tiny as that. Okay, so technically, that really small distance mix-up might have led to him pulverizing the wrong city, but it was an honest mistake. It could happen to anyone.
One year. He’d accept one year as punishment. That seemed reasonable. Maybe two. He’d certainly learned his lesson by year two, would never do it again, cross his heart and hope to, well not die, since angels can’t die, but something less dire like miss the card game or forget to take a nap. But 2,000?! Two thousand years of agony and pain and sanity breaking madness was too much! It hadn’t even been a big city, just a couple of thousand people. The one the Lord sent him to destroy was at least twice as big and it was just a couple of people he was pissed at, so Lucan really didn’t see what was the big deal if the Lord was that fickle anyway, but noooo. So you will learn humility, the Lord said (And directions, a seraphim squeaked and flew away before Lucan could get his hands around his throat), You will care for the newly dead until I see fit to relieve you. Translation: I don’t like you, so you will rot in reception hell forever while I laugh my ass off. Ha. Ha. Ha.
He would, too.
“Next!”
Next turned out to be a slip of a shivering girl wearing garments so muddy that no matter how many times you dumped them in the wash, they would never get clean, as if she’d tried to bring the Earth along with her in a fit of desperation. She looked about everywhere with wide eyes the size of Florins, clutching her arms close around her as if they might fall off otherwise. In his extreme boredom, Lucan considered letting her stew in ever rising panic for another minute to see if she attacked the saint who led her up to the dais in a preemptive attack, but life here was never that interesting, so he took pity on her.
“Sara Parker?” Lucan said, in a tone so flat that it could have solidified into lead.
“Y-yes?” the girl squeaked. “Excuse me, but... Where am I?”
“Purgatory. It exists. Get over it. Now, you’ve been sentenced for five years—“
“Purgatory? There really is a Purgatory? Truly?”
“Honestly, are all of you so feeble that you can’t hear? You don’t even have physical ears anymore. Yes, Purgatory. Now, if we can please get on with bu—“
But of course, they could not, for the woman exclaimed “Yes!” with such a triumphant yell that Lucan jumped back in his chair in shock, though he’d never admit it was shock if you called him on it. he’d merely been momentarily startled.
“I knew it!” the girl cried, bouncing up and down with keen satisfaction on her face, all traces of the timid waif gone. “I knew there was a purgatory. Take that, Lord Rochford, you heretical scum! He is in Hell, right?”
“Um... Huh?”
“Oh, please tell me he is. He has to be. No man like that, if you can even call him a man, could ever deserve the mercy of purgatory. It’s straight to the flames for him. You must know, surely, if he is in hell. He got his head chopped clean off two months past. Too good for the likes of him, if you ask me. The King should have kept the original sentence of drawing and quartering, guts yanked out while he screamed and was cut into pieces. Oh, please tell me he is burning in Hell, getting his skin peeled off over and over and his tongue ripped out only for it to grow and get ripped out again.”
For what amounted to a full earthly minute, Lucan gaped in total and complete horror. These were the people that Lucan was supposed to get be “in harmony” with? These people? These deranged beasts who preyed on their fellow beings with cackling glee, tearing to bits for the sick fun of it? True, Lucan’s last profession had been to destroy cities full of humans, but it had been a quick death. One big boom, that’s all. He hadn’t tied each one up and torn out their fingernails one by one for the fun of it. Firmly keeping his eyes on the girl, he made a note in her file, increasing the stipulated penance time from 5 years to 50. No way would this woman be fit to enter Heaven in only five years of Sara’s cleansing sessions. She’d start a riot and start burning people at the stake for not buttoning their shirts properly.
“Um... Yes,” he said, gesturing to one of his assistants to take her to the Door, now. “He’s in Hell. Nice and toasty. If you’ll please follow him? Thank you.”
Go away. please. Go away.
St. (Mungus? Fungus? Whatever. He never paid attention half the time) led her away as she whooped in victory. Lucan shuddered, really wishing he could get drunk right this second.
“Next,” he called, more warily than before.
This time a young man in his late twenties swaggered up to his desk, left hand propped on his hip just above his sword, which really shouldn’t be there. Souls normally manifested only with the clothes they happened to be wearing at the time of death, the bare essentials. Weapons usually were not part of that category. But not only did this man still posses his sword, his jewels remained as well, fat rubies and sapphires adorning his sumptuously woven clothes and fingers, making him look like a walking Christmas decoration. The imperious glimmer in his eyes, icy with arrogant superiority, completed the tableau. Lucan sighed heavily, almost banging his head on the desk.
“Right then,” he said as if he was the one being dragged to his doom. “You’re in Purgatory. Please don’t comment on that. You’ve been sentenced to 30 years for not doing good works. If you’ll please—“
“Purgatory?” the man so rudely interrupted him, glaring down his nose at Lucan as if he were one of his lowly servants. “Do you mean to tell me that there is such a place?”
Not again, Lucan despaired.
“Yes. There is.”
The man scoffed. Scoffed! As if Lucan were a lying bug.
“Preposterous. There is no such place. That’s a wicked papist invention to feed their profane idolatries.”
“And yet, you’re standing right in it.”
“That’s impossible. Purgatory doesn’t exist. Every good Christian knows that.”
“No, they don’t. Look, Purgatory is real. It’s right there behind that door and you’re going in it. So if you would please g--“
“The scriptures say nothing of it. It’s all lies spread by the Devil to ensnare good Christians like me, but I will not be fooled. No, I will not. You’re not one of those papist wretches, are you?”
What?
“I’m an angel,” Lucan said, flapping his wings in consternation.
“An angel? You’re not going to tell me you’re a guardian angel, are you? Another papist fabrication to keep us blind to the true faith.”
“No, I’m not, but there are guardian angels—“
“Bullshit.”
Lucan’s temper flared up faster than a wildfire in dry season. That’s it. he’d enough ignorant insolence for one day.
“Are you calling me a liar, you stupid buffoon?”
The buffoon’s face twisted in fury, his right hand tightening on his sword hilt.
“What did you call me, you pansy?”
“An idiot and a buffoon and an impudent bastard.”
“You take those words back right now or I will cut you down this instant.”
“I will not. I outrank you, you stupid human.”
“I’m the 5th Duke of Northumberland,” the man thundered, drawing himself to his true height as if that made him any more important than a dung beetle. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m an angel! Do you not see the wings? Are you blind?”
“A real angel would never say that there’s a Purgatory.”
“What the fuck? Are you completely stupid? This is Purgatory. Who cares if it isn’t in the Bible? The Lord isn’t obligated to inform you of every single decision He makes. It was probably mentioned in one of those dozen gospels your moron ancestors decided to feed their fires with because they didn’t fit within their asinine view of dogma. You think I give a shit about your dogma, you pathetic waste of breath? I’m sick and fucking tired of telling all you dumbfucks that Purgatory is real. I don’t care what Luther or Calvin or any of those other ponces said. This is the Truth of God. But if you’d rather not go through Purgatory since it’s such an overblown waste of time according to you, I can send you straight to Hell right now. You want that? Do you, you stupid swine?”
In the last 200 years, Lucan had never cursed as much as he had in these two minutes. At some point during his diatribe, he’d risen up in the air, wings stretched out in full battle array, their crystalline white darkening to an ominous black of death as he loomed over the human insect, his own sword materializing in his left hand, a four foot long broadsword designed to chop off demon heads, always there waiting to be called, always ready. He just needed a reason. Some fool to come along and get riled up enough to throw out all his hammered in angel discipline and let it all out, all the frustration, the annoyance, the anger, the homicidal urge to grab someone by the neck and beat him to ash.
Or so he let the human think, his best Psycho from Hell expression gleaming on his face until Lucan had him quivering in a heap of spiritual jelly, pure terror wracking every limb, arrogance extinguished into a “please don’t kill me” face made more hilarious by the fact that the man was already dead, so Lucan really had nothing to threaten him with. He almost burst out laughing, the situation way too hilarious, but he swallowed it in, opting for malicious glee instead.
“Good,” Lucan grinned in delicious satisfaction. “Now. You are going to go through that door and you’re not going to say another word until after you have crossed it and are out of my sight. Is that perfectly clear?”
The man nodded so quickly that his hair bobbed and he ran to the Door, not looking back once as he slammed it shut behind him.
Ah. Freedom. He let the decadent feeling tickle at the worn, jaded fibers of his being, yearning to be released and spring free, a refreshing balm washing away weeks of irritation in one swoop.
“Did you have to do that?” Muffin or whatever asked, arms crossed in disapproval.
“Yes, I did. come on, it was fun. He had it coming.”
Muffin rolled his eyes. Why did he always have to roll his eyes? He was no fun.
“Whatever. I don’t feel like arguing with you.”
“Good. I’ve had more than enough arguing for one day. Hell, I’ve had more than enough for one existence. I’m taking a vacation. I don’t care what the Big Guy says. If he wants to drag me away from the beach, he’s going to have to do it himself.”
“You can’t do that. You have to—“
“I will and I am. I’m tired of this nonsense. You can take over for a couple of months. You know where everything goes.”
“A couple of months?! Lucan, get back here.”
“Bye, bye.”