Then I felt like writing, so I wrote a thing, and I think I like it, btu I dont have any idea what to do with it or where to go with it or... well anything else.
So I thought I'd share it with you lovely people (and the rest of you), so here it is. I'm not sure what it's called, currently it's just 'A thing I did'.
Contrary to popular belief it wasn't demons or the devil who ended the world. It wasn't even Angels or God who kicked off the big one. It was man. A man. More specifically Gene Madison of Wisconsin. In his defence, he didn't know he was going to do it, nor did he have any idea after it happened. He was not made aware of his mistake at any point up until about an hour after he died at the ripe old age of eighty-two, during a passing conversation with an angel named Atanta and a reaper named Madison - who found it extremely interesting if unimportant that they shared a name, as it had never happened to her before. Nor was anyone else for that matter, as his error was only the initiation of events, the full consequences would not be reached for a great many millions of years.
It is, of course, difficult to imagine a man ending the world and not having any knowledge of his actions. One would expect big flashing lights, or the heavenly trumpets, at least a funny feeling, but Mister Madison had none of that. He didn’t open a secret crypt or perform a ritual, or even make a pact with a celestial being. No, all mister Madison did was say one word, an ancient word in ancient Angelic - the language used by both Angels and Demons before the greatest of great rebellions. The word that was chosen to signal the beginning of the end.
To be fair to Mister Madison, he didn’t even really say it. He sneezed it. The word isn’t something that particularly lends itself to the category of ‘things a human can say’, at least not ‘things a human can say, intentionally’. It was simple happenstance that the noise Mister Madison made when he sneezed sounded identical to the signal.
It’s also worth noting that this was widely regarded, by the celestial and metaphysical communities to be most unfair.
But this isn’t a story about Gene Madison, for his role played out long ago. It isn't about the Angels or the demons who would fight for supremacy. It's not about God or Lucifer because, let's face it, those two drama queens get enough attention as it is. It's not even about humans and humanity.
No, this is a story about death. Not the abstract concept but the person, or people to be accurate. Death incorporated.
This is a story about the end of days and the work of a few members of a much larger whole.
“I don’t see why we have to be involved.” Said Kingsley, sitting on the third bench from the park York Bridge entrance to Regent’s Park, one of the ones in front of the duck pond that didn’t have ducks in it. “I mean, We’re not even management, why should we get involved?”
Fitch, Kingsley’s counterpart on the bench, the one throwing bits of bread out for the lack of ducks, shrugged and looked over at him. “It’s because we know how to do it. We’ve been doing it for the longest, except for the boys over in the middle east of course, but they’re overworked as it is.”
“But I like what I do. I don’t want to have to stop doing it to teach a new generation, do I?” Kingsley argued, sitting forward as a business man in his early forties started down the path towards them. Kingsley checked his watch quickly. “I think this is your boy.” He said.
“Hm?” Fitch responded, looking up from the ducklessness to the business man. “Oh, thank you. I’ll be right back.”
The business man walked up the path towards them and Fitch stood up. He walked forwards, as if getting closer to the pond and brushed past the man. The business man felt a momentary chill, then for a second he forgot precisely what he was doing. He paused and looked around as he tried to figure it out, but a moment later it all returned to him. He shook his head and continued on his way while Fitch returned to his seat.
“You get it?” Kingsley asked.
Fitch looked over at his friend and raised an eyebrow, holding up a small golden bottle containing the day’s soul collection. “I got it.”
At that point in the day - eight-thirty in the morning - he had collected a total of six souls from people who wouldn’t survive the night.
Kingsley nodded. “How do you think he’ll buy it?” he asked.
“I don’t like to speculate.” Fitch responded, secretly deciding that the man would walk into traffic while being self obsessed.
“Yes you do.” Kingsley responded, rolling his eyes. “I reckon he’ll get stabbed for his phone or something. Wealthy guy like that walking through a park like this one?”
In point of fact neither Kingsley nor Fitch were right. The business man, one Michael Marionette would later return to the park to feed the ducks, but finding that there were none he would lean over the pond to see what exactly Fitch was feeding only to fall in and discover that it was both deeper than it looked and easy to sink to the bottom.
“What were we talking about?” Fitch asked, picking up the bread crumbs again.
“Why we have to return to headquarters to train the new recruits.” Kingsley supplied. “Why do we even have new recruits?”
“You know why.” Fitch responded, ripping open the paper bag and throwing the rest of his bread crumbs onto the floor at his feet. “It’s kicked off, hasn’t it?”
“I thought we all agreed that it was just a sneeze and that wasn’t fair.” Kingsley responded.
“We did. So did the demi gods, the celestials and the Managing directors, but the Angels and the Demons are still counting it and we’re going to need more bodies to collect the souls when it all gets going.”
“And when will it all be kicking off?” Kingsley asked.
“It already has kicked off. When Gene Madison said-”
“You know what i mean. When will it all be kicking off properly, when will we be needed?” Kingsley interrupted.
“Who knows? Certainly not me. I’d guess not for a while, though.” Fitch responded.
“So I ask again, why do we have to go back? If it’s not for a while, surely they can find someone else to do it closer to the time.” Kingsley grumbled.
“I said ‘I’d guess not for a while’.” Fitch shot back. “Could be any time. So we need to head back to the Head office after lunch.”
“If it could be ‘any time’ we might already be too late anyway.” Kingsley argued. “Might aswell stay here and leave it.”
Fitch rolled his eyes. “If you want to be the one to explain it to the boss, be my guest.” Fitch offered. Kingsley paled a little, which brought a smile to Fitch’s lips. “I can see it now.” He continued, leaning back and stretching out. “‘Death, Sir, I refuse to return to HQ, I appreciate the promotion offer, but i enjoy my work too much.’ To which death will of course reply, ‘THAT ISN’T UP TO YOU, KINGSLEY.’ You know, in that way he does that sounds like the fist of eternity knocking on the end of your existence. Of course you’ll reply by politely and dramatically evacuating your bowels and doing as he says, but it’ll be a good effort none-the-less.”
Kingsley sighed his defeat and nodded, sinking back into the chair. “Yeah… you win.” He admitted.
“Shall we get going? I have a few more locations to reap before our one-o'clock appointment.”
“I still have one more here.” Kingsley responded.
Fitch nodded, getting up. “Yup, she’s over there, yelling at that gang of youths.”
Kingsley looked up and spotted her surrounded by a group of particularly unsavoury looking teens. “Stabbed do you reckon?” He asked.
“I don’t like to speculate.” Fitch responded, secretly guessing that she’d get shot by the gang.
In point of fact, both were wrong. While the little gang would try to kill her with both a knife and a gun she was a world class mixed martial artist and managed to beat all of them up. She would later choke on a piece of ice at a nightclub. People thought it was a strange dance but didn’t want to interrupt. A few even joined in.
Right up until she stopped moving.So there's that.
Tubage
- James
