One Hundred Days of Blogging – Day Twelve

Today’s the first time in a long time I’ve slept in on my day off. I mean actually, properly slept in. Woke up at 10a.m. and everything. As it turns out, my body no longer likes sleeping in, so it was less of a pleasant series of stretches as I woke from my peaceful slumber, and more like me slowly dragging my ass out of bed when I realized I’d definitely slept far too late for my own good.

I miss the days of staying up until 5a.m. for any number of reasons, followed by sleeping until noon. Except not really. I’m full of self-contradicting shit today because it’s almost 1p.m. and I chose writing and breakfast over showering, so I’m probably the most disgusting person alive right now.

As promised, I’m going to write at least twenty short stories for this blogging misadventure I’ve embarked on, and I’d hate to make myself a liar. Before I get too caught up in how happy I am with this story, overall, despite the high chances it still has a couple typos, I need to point out two things.

Thing One – The stories I’m posting here are, in all probability, first drafts with only some polishing from my editing efforts. I miss a lot of my own screw-ups, but this feels like my best option given the time restraints I have imposed upon myself.

Thing Two – In the event I miss a Day of Blogging, I will rest the counter back to Day One, and then sob uncontrollably for at least an hour for being such a complete and utter failure. And because starting over and doing anything for one hundred days sounds like a special kind of Sisyphusian Hell.

Speaking of Hell, here’s today’s post/story. Enjoy, and I apologize for my slightly-more-vulgar-than-usual language (only to my relatives who may be unaware I use such foul words).

Day Twelve (Nearly Mislabeled Day Eleven) – “A Divine Dramedy”

Something was wrong. It was a subtle something, and it must have sneaked in some time in the early hours of the morning, but Metatron knew something was wrong. The Archangel paced, eyes turned downward, hoping for some sign of what was askew.

There was definitely evil afoot, Metatron had decided. Things were far too quiet in the mortal world.

Metatron suppressed a sigh. “I see you’re still sneaking up on your brethren, Michael,” Metatron said, not shifting focus. Michael chuckled, leaning down to Metatron’s eye-level.

“Have you just discovered your toes?” Michael said. “They’ve been there for eons, you know. Perhaps if you’d stop coddling daddy’s favorite pets all the time, you’d have noticed them sooner.” The words ‘petulant child’ rolled around on Metatron’s tongue for a moment, fighting very hard to escape into the air, but they were ultimately fought back.

“Michael, my dear child,” Metatron said, using the most Condescending Voice of God possible, “there is something very wrong. I can’t place my finger on it exactly.”

Michael wrinkled his nose, looking quite disgusted. “Maybe Lucy is up to some infernal fuckery most foul,” Michael said, scowling. “Have you tried calling him to see if he knows what’s going on?” Metatron shook its head, radiant light flashing about the Heavens with each move.

“Last time we accused Lucifer of misconduct, as you recall,” Metatron said, “it was based on lies from our side of the Celestial Spheres, and he wasn’t too happy about it.”

“I mean, we were kind of gunning to have him executed,” Michael said. “Guy’s a dick, but that’s a little harsh based on a couple rumors.

Metatron clicked its tongue, thinking. “Weren’t you the one who suggested we pass judgment on the Fallen Morningstar as a first solution to those rumors?” Metatron said.

Michael gritted his teeth. He’d grabbed for his sword, a blade of holy fire, only to discover it had disappeared.

“Mind your manners,” Metatron said, holding the sword lazily by its side, the flames licking at clouds beneath The Voice of God’s feet. “I suppose contacting Lucifer couldn’t make things too much worse.” There was definitely something wrong, and Metatron needed to know what that something was so it could be righted with Holy, Righteous Fury as soon as angelically possible. Metatron reached out with its mind, and somewhere, far away, a tinny ringtone version of “Bohemian Rhapsody” started playing.

“Lucy’s not a big morning person, by the way,” Michael said, smirking. “Guess I should’ve said something sooner, but we can call it even for you swiping my demon-stabber.”

Metatron opened its mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a very loud, angry-looking fiery eruption amidst the serene plainness of the Heavens.

“It’s eight in the blessed morning,” Lucifer said, scowling. He hadn’t changed out of his robe, which would’ve looked stately and proper if it weren’t for the tiny ducklings embroidered around the garment’s edges.

“Yes,” Metatron said. “And yet it is very quiet in the mortal world.”

Lucifer sighed. “Eight o’clock in the morning Celestial Time,” Lucifer said. “That means it’s, what, morning in America? There’s your problem. Most of your loudest, proudest children are still just waking up.”

“Old Snatch has a point,” Michael said, chuckling at his own joke.

Lucifer rolled his eyes with tremendous exaggeration. “Yes, thank you, Lamb of Odd,” Lucifer said. He glanced at his Rolex, which appeared to be writhing in agony, and sighed. “I’ve got a meeting with Jormungandr in about an hour. Big, scaly bastard thinks he’s got dibs on the Apocalypse biz. Can you fucking believe it?”

“Is that sort of language really necessary?” Metatron said, everything about it disapproving.

Lucifer shrugged. “Probably not, but you offered me a chance to curse in Heaven,” Lucifer said. “You really think I’m going to pass that up?” There was a brief pause in conversation. Lucifer blinked a few times, suddenly aware of the deafening quiet.

“So that’s not you, then?” Metatron said, gesturing to nothing in particular. “What is different about today that we’re not noticing?”

“Pittsburgh Pirates just won the World Series yesterday,” Lucifer said, digging deep. “Without my help, by the way. I can’t even think about baseball without nearly breaking into song these days.” The three stood in silence for some time, Lucifer occasionally checking his watch and scowling.

“Oh, Lord,” Metatron said, at last, a look of shock on the angel’s face. “I forgot to switch the politicians back on after last night’s round of maintenance. That’s why it’s so quiet.”

“Certainly explains a lot,” Lucifer said. Michael and Metatron both looked at him, clearly curious.

“I didn’t get my daily hundred or so odd e-mails,” Lucifer said with an impish grin, “begging to trade souls in exchange for votes, favors, and pay-raises.”

“You’re the fucking worst,” Michael said.

“Evidently, not always,” Metatron said. The three looked down on creation, wondering how long they could keep things a little quieter than usual before the big fellow upstairs pulled them aside for a rather stern talking-to about not screwing with the natural order of things.

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