[Officially started NaNoWriMo. Writing this book is like pulling teeth. I hope I'm pulling someone else's teeth.
[Behind schedule so far, but I think I ought to be able to catch up fairly quickly. Anywho, here's more story. Poor Mr. Tombs.]
Tea was pleasant enough, especially since it didn't involve much talking. Talking involved too much remembering of social rules that seemed insignificant, so it was relatively pleasant to work with someone who had no illusions about Marius' personality or nature. They both wore gloves--Marius had insisted that they always wear gloves while working--and used the two cups and one teapot that were almost the sum total of the apartments dishes. They sat in silence, waiting for the tea to cool, then sipped in silence. It was a strange camaraderie, the disturbed collusion of murderers. Mr. Tombs wondered if he would go down in history as that quiet neighbor who was never around much. Small women on evening news programs would talk about how he had been such a nice man and how they never suspected a thing. Of course, being nice was easy. It took very little effort. Most people were so wrapped up in their own lives, it seldom occurred to them that a smile and a pleasant word could signal contempt almost as easily as amiability. Of course, that was assuming his smile was functional, which he was beginning to doubt.
"It's time," he said, looking at his watch, a round, plastic and steel monstrosity designed to take the pressure of a collapsing mountain, or some such absurdity. He moved to the table as Miss Sweeps turned of the light. Marius reached across the wood, parted the curtains and opened the window, looking out onto a cityscape that mixed low rise buildings with a handful of office towers that poked their scattered rectangles of light up into a night sky empty of moon and--in the glare of the city lights--empty of stars except for a few brave hangers-on. So determined, those stars, keeping alight in a world that could hardly see them, if it ever remembered to look up. It seemed apropos to the situation. Or was the word 'germane?' Perhaps both would be correct. He'd have to look them up later.
A slightly cool breeze blew in through the window onto his chest, mostly, though some touched his chin and cheeks pleasantly. Marius stood up, easing the tension in his lower back. That tension hadn't been there thirteen years ago. Age? Inevitable, he supposed. Did that mean retirement was in his future? What would he retire to? Would he possibly live that long? Seemed ridiculous, on consideration. He smiled, loaded his rifle, and clipped it into the mounting on the table. Tonight was not his night to retire.
Miss Sweeps stepped next to him and picked up the spotter's scope. Marius sat down in his chair and leaned forward to the rifle's sight, and they both looked down on the apartment they had so carefully observed for the last week.
"There he is," said Miss Sweeps.
"Yes," breathed out Marius. Watching a game show, just like every other night that Mr. Tombs had checked. He could have done the job the first night, but his employers had insisted. They wanted to be in town for this. Marius had wondered about that at first, but a bit of research had given him a pretty clear idea exactly why they had been so adamant about this. "Why does a god enjoy trivia so much?" he wondered out loud.
"They're not omniscient," said Veronica. "Not like the big 'G' God."
"Of course not," said Mr. Tombs, still puzzled at how such a reasonably intelligent woman could believe in superstition. "Not omniscient. Nor are your employers. Wind speed?"
"Beg pardon?"
"The windsock we placed on the building between the target and us. We've done this before, Miss Sweeps."
"I know about the windsock. What did you mean about my employers?"
"Ah well," said Mr. Tombs. He doubted he'd miss, even without a precise wind reading. Bracing against the rifle, he tapped the trigger twice. With the first shot the thick, bullet-resistant glass of the window shattered, and with the second the god on the couch learned a new bit of trivia: what it felt like to die.
Before the glass had finished falling to the floor Mr. Tombs surged sideways and into Miss Sweeps, crashing his body against hers and bearing her down to the floor. Before the uncoordinated woman could do more than gasp, his knees had pinned her arms to the floor and one hand was over her mouth. She looked at him with eyes that, he supposed, were less frantic than they should reasonably have been, but he didn't read too much into that. She was smart enough, but apparently not smart enough to comprehend what her position exactly was.
"I meant--regarding your employers, Miss Sweeps--that they are not the only individuals capable of research. Reading is a marvelous ability, and thanks to the great Herr Gutenberg, there is an absurd amount of printed material available to the enterprising individual who cares enough to seek it out. I was hired to kill a god, and I, it so happens, am enterprising. Also, it is amazing what rumors you can find on the internet." Marius wondered why he was explaining things to this woman who was not struggling at all. He couldn't blame her. This wasn't his first time in a brawl, and he knew what he was doing. But why the explanation? She was about to die. She didn't need to have anything explained to her. He was almost certain she intended to kill him now that he'd done the job, and that was more than good enough for him to take action. He'd have to be content with the half of the money he'd been paid up front, but that was better than a full payment and death.
Speaking of death, with the hand not busy pinning Miss Sweeps' head, Mr. Tombs reached under the table and pulled out the silenced pistol he'd attached to the underside just the day before. This was going to be less tidy than ideal, but--he shrugged--that was inevitable. And why was his hand feeling numb? Not just his hand. He blinked. His legs were asleep. Also, the floor was tipping up toward him. How curious. The floor was softer than he thought it should be, considering that it was wooden. How very, very curious. The tea, of course. How stupid. It was his ritual, and, in retrospect, his blind spot. So much a part of himself, the tea before a job, that he hadn't even thought that it could be used against him. Smarter than I expected, Miss Sweeps. Definitely smarter.
She was standing over him now. He rolled his eyes up to look at her face as best he could, though it was getting harder to keep them open. Harder, in fact, to think of a reason why he should want to keep them open.
"Very clever, Mr. Tombs. You figured out that we intended to kill you. But your death is important for two reasons. First, you're some variation on psychotic, and, like a rabid dog, you need to be put down. I've spent enough time with you to know that you won't take offense at that comment." Mr. Tombs silently agreed with her. He was certain he was diseased, and he didn't mind being compared to an animal that, while generally bland and uninteresting, became absolutely compelling when its mind was corrupted by the strange disease of rabies. Miss Sweeps went on. "Also, your death, like your final act in life, is serving the greater good."
The greater good? Was she talking about religion? So often people did. Marius had never considered it worth the effort of really understanding religion, but something that before had seemed a scam and impractical at best was suddenly very, very practical indeed.
"The greater good, Mr. Tombs," said Miss Sweeps. "I hope you find some peace in the next life, Marius. With a mind as ill as yours, you certainly could never find it here. Rest well, Marius."
Mr. Tombs blinked one last time.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 01
[It was time to quit dithering and start writing. So I did. I still don't entirely know what I'm doing, but I hope all the effort I've put into the background will be worthwhile.
[Anyhow, here's the first 2,000-or-so words of the new Accidental God.]
Bradley was taller than was strictly healthy for someone of his body weight. It wasn't that he was far above average height--since he wasn't--but more that he was unfortunately below on average weight. It didn't help that he tended to buy his jeans large on the (so far) mistaken assumption that this would be the year that he would finally gain weight, flesh out, fill up the body image he had in his head of someone who wasn't quite so scrawny. He imagined that he had a fat person inside him, screaming to get out. So far, the fat person was still safely hidden.
Bradley was on his way to work, earbuds playing the most recent episode of a podcast that described any number of strange things that a person might find in the world, and Bradley was willing to admit that there were a lot of strange things around. The man holding his elbows close to his side as he walked, as if they were wired there. The woman with an angry face and a nose ring with hair that was carefully and elegantly arranged as, if she were on her way to a swank party and not wearing a leather jacket that came either from Goodwill or a dumpster--or maybe from a fight between the two, the dumpster coming out the winner.
Then there was Bradley's life, but the podcast wasn't describing his life. It was something about the effects of prolonged exposure to microwaves, and how it compared to being roommates with a demon. Bradley was pretty sure that was all bogus, at least the part about the demons. If living with a demon actually caused cancer, people would know about it. No way the government wouldn't be trying to regulate that. They regulate everything else, and the Theological Relations Department would never give up the chance to keep demons on a tight leash. (Bradley snorted as he thought about what people called the TRD. Crude, obvious, and he still found it funny.)
Besides, all the bunk about demons being dangerous was prejudice, plain and simple. Bradley had gone to school with a demon, and she'd looked just like everyone else, though slightly hotter, not that she'd thought of him as anything but a friend. Miranda. Why didn't demons or angels get last names? It's like an entire world made up of rock artists--except that there aren't that many angels and demons around.
The podcast kept going on about the latest studies into demonic radiation, and Bradley tuned it out. The restaurant was ahead--Thai For First--and this was his first night actually talking to customers. Months of wiping tables and washing dishes and figuring out how to cram seventeen plates and nineteen glasses into two oversized beige plastic tubs just so he could haul them back into the kitchen for more washing dishes. Finally, the menu that he'd memorized by the third day out of misplaced ambition and desperate boredom--finally that menu was going to come out of his mouth and lay itself before the waiting ears of the customers as they asked him what HIS favorite dish was, and he'd tell them that it was a burger from Ye Olde Burger Shoppe down the street, extra onions because he wasn't gettin' any anytime soon, and with this fabulous Western US invention called 'fry sauce,' that involved mayonnaise and ketchup, and THAT was his favorite dish.
No, he wasn't going to actually tell them that, but he kept himself amused with those dreams of petty revenge against a manager and owner that he liked okay and a chef that he couldn't bear to be in a room with for more than ten minutes. He'd timed it once, actually, staying and listening to the round man's angry, nasal, white-guy voice--nothing against white people, seeing as how he was one, but Bradley occasionally dreamed of some day having actual SOUL, and he only knew one white guy with SOUL, and it wasn't the chef--that voice poking into corners of the room as the man reached around his stomach to cook curry that came from a country the chef would never see because, among other things, he simply couldn't be bothered to go anywhere that wasn't Northern Lights, Wisconsin. Sure, the chef had been to New York, done the obligatory time there to convince himself that he had some flavor of culinary credential, then moved back to a place where conservatives at least had a fighting chance against the liberals, thank you very much. He'd tell you about his time in 'the Big Apple.' That's what he always called it, too. 'The Big Apple.' And it was a stinkin' heck-hole, if you know what I mean.
Bradley didn't. And he'd lasted ten minutes before he found an excuse to get out of the kitchen. He couldn't remember exactly what it had been--it was all a bit hazy--but he was pretty sure he'd said something about picking his nose. Bradley pushed pause on his iPod, pulled out the earbuds, and nodded to the fit man and woman who were walking by, both in casual clothing, both carrying the kind of metallic suitcases that scream 'photography equipment.' Plus, there was the camera around the man's neck. Expensive looking, too. The lady did look kind of artsy, actually, like she occasionally glanced at paintings and dismissed them as the derivative trash that they clearly were. Bradley smiled at her--nice looking, blue eyes, serious--I could like serious, he thought--but she didn't smile back. Bradley shrugged and walked around back, through the smells of exotic spices become all too familiar, and into the alley that led to the domain of the chef. That unbearable chef. That was the door, just closing as someone went back into that kitchen.
I'm a waiter now, he reminded himself. I hardly have to talk to the man. Drop off orders and pick up food. Occasionally slip through to the staff bathroom. That was it.
Bradley took a deep breath and started the timer on his watch.
Marius Tombs strode out ahead of his assistant. He hardly noticed her anymore, actually. Once it was clear she had no interest romantically, Mr. Tombs had let it go. He was a killer, certainly, but not a jerk, and when a girl said 'no,' to Mr. Tombs that meant 'no.' Women were, in general, a hassle, a pleasant distraction, and background noise, in that order. Miss Sweeps was too professional to qualify as the first, had seemed a possibility for the second, but had quickly faded to the third.
Mr. Tombs dismissed the scrawny boy with the iPod with a flick of his eyes. Twenty-somethings. Useless. They didn't have any purpose. By the time Marius had reached twenty-four, he had already gained a reputation for brutality, gathered in every flavor of barroom, backroom, garage, basement, and warehouse fight he could beat, bet, or bribe his way into. After consideration, he'd decided that the reputation wasn't one he'd appreciated, so he'd changed his name, changed his home, changed his friends (if you could call any of the sickos who followed him 'friends'), and found a man in the Sierra Nevadas who knew how to shoot, among other things. Thirteen years later, and Marius had a new reputation. A quieter one. One he was happy with.
They walked down to the corner, turned, down two buildings, into a tall apartment building--Marius held the door for Miss Sweeps--and up the elevator to the top floor. An older woman shared the ride with them for most of the way. She was hunched, leaning forward precariously with a bag of groceries clutched behind her back, balancing her. Mr. Tombs had smiled at her. She'd glared back. He wasn't sure what to make of that, since he'd been working on his smile in the mirror. He knew he didn't have it quite right yet, but he wasn't sure why. It frustrated him. He liked to be the best at whatever he chose to do, and smiling shouldn't be any different than shooting a gun or crushing a jaw. Correct principles, properly applied, and the job is taken care of. The woman glared and Mr. Tombs looked away, clenching his teeth.
She left at the eighth floor, and Mr. Tombs and Miss Sweeps on the twelfth. Veronica--that was her name, though Mr. Tombs fount it easier to think of her as Miss Sweeps--pulled out the key that opened the door to an apartment rented in the name of Chester Uggles. It was a small joke that Marius did for his own benefit, making up ridiculous names for the fictional people he created. Chester Uggles had actually been a struggling actor, hired over the phone and paid in cash left on his pillow--Mr. Tombs loved the little details--who had rented the apartment from a bored office staffer who had a hard time mustering even a smile for a name as absurd as Chester Uggles. Marius knew because he'd been watching the process, at a distance, two weeks ago. The actor signed the contract, took the keys, put them on his nightstand, and woke up the next morning to find the rest of his payment. Mr. Tombs assumed that the man was suitably terrified and adequately paid to keep him from ever sharing anything about this with his priest, let alone the police. Anyway, Marius had found the man's priest, and so he could take care of that, too, if necessary.
Miss Sweeps unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment, the case she carried banging into the door. That bothered Mr. Tombs. It betrayed a certain carelessness of movement, a lack of awareness of one's own body, that was wasteful. Unskilled. He breathed out quietly, the closest he came to a sigh. He wouldn't be working with her much longer. He could last one hour more.
The door closed behind him and Mr. Tombs set down his case, throwing the deadbolt as Miss Sweeps flicked on the lights and checked the curtains. An unnecessary precaution, but one that Marius appreciated. She might not be as coordinated as was ideal, but she was thorough, and when you're killing a god, thoroughness is important.
"Tonight's the night, Marius," said his assistant. Mr. Tombs pulled out his smile and put it back on his face. Why, oh why, did she insist on the use of first names? Perhaps if they were involved in some sort of physical or romantic relationship, first names might be appropriate, but this was business.
"It is indeed, Miss Sweeps," he replied, picking up his case and moving over to the table that they'd carefully positioned and fixed to the wooden floor with screws and brackets, directly beneath a large window. The window screen lay in the corner, ready to be replaced, alongside a carpet that could easily roll out to cover the holes in the floor. "Tonight is the last night we work together. May I say in advance that I have appreciated the thoroughness with which you do your work."
"Of course, Marius. It's what I'm paid for. My employers wanted you to have the best, and nothing less."
"Regardless, Miss Sweeps, I appreciate it."
"In that case, you're welcome."
They smiled at each other, and apparently Mr. Tombs' smile was more accurate than his previous attempt in the elevator. Miss Sweeps seemed genuinely gratified by his thanks. Marius knew he was a sociopath--that had been clear, in retrospect, from his early experiments with ants and magnifying glasses--but he could still appreciate some social niceties, and gratitude was one he could especially identify with. It was so clean and clear. You do something, and all I have to do to offer you positive reinforcement and trigger a small burst of endorphins in your system is give up two simple words. It was, to borrow a hated business phrase, a 'win-win' situation.
"Shall we get started?"
"Of course."
It wasn't many minutes before the suitcases were opened, the contents removed and assembled, settled into brackets on the table. The rifle, on a gyroscopic stabilizer, bolted to the table, aimed at the window, the bullets in their magazine, ready to be loaded. Miss Sweeps held the spotters scope in her hand, a luxury Mr. Tombs didn't usually have in his line of work. It wasn't a complicated setup--no more complicated than usual--but it was satisfying. Marius realized he was still wearing his camera around his neck and fought back an absurd urge to take a picture to commemorate the occasion. Instead he put it on the table next to his rifle.
"Well then," he said. "Tea?"
"Yes, thank you," said Miss Sweeps.
[Anyhow, here's the first 2,000-or-so words of the new Accidental God.]
Bradley was taller than was strictly healthy for someone of his body weight. It wasn't that he was far above average height--since he wasn't--but more that he was unfortunately below on average weight. It didn't help that he tended to buy his jeans large on the (so far) mistaken assumption that this would be the year that he would finally gain weight, flesh out, fill up the body image he had in his head of someone who wasn't quite so scrawny. He imagined that he had a fat person inside him, screaming to get out. So far, the fat person was still safely hidden.
Bradley was on his way to work, earbuds playing the most recent episode of a podcast that described any number of strange things that a person might find in the world, and Bradley was willing to admit that there were a lot of strange things around. The man holding his elbows close to his side as he walked, as if they were wired there. The woman with an angry face and a nose ring with hair that was carefully and elegantly arranged as, if she were on her way to a swank party and not wearing a leather jacket that came either from Goodwill or a dumpster--or maybe from a fight between the two, the dumpster coming out the winner.
Then there was Bradley's life, but the podcast wasn't describing his life. It was something about the effects of prolonged exposure to microwaves, and how it compared to being roommates with a demon. Bradley was pretty sure that was all bogus, at least the part about the demons. If living with a demon actually caused cancer, people would know about it. No way the government wouldn't be trying to regulate that. They regulate everything else, and the Theological Relations Department would never give up the chance to keep demons on a tight leash. (Bradley snorted as he thought about what people called the TRD. Crude, obvious, and he still found it funny.)
Besides, all the bunk about demons being dangerous was prejudice, plain and simple. Bradley had gone to school with a demon, and she'd looked just like everyone else, though slightly hotter, not that she'd thought of him as anything but a friend. Miranda. Why didn't demons or angels get last names? It's like an entire world made up of rock artists--except that there aren't that many angels and demons around.
The podcast kept going on about the latest studies into demonic radiation, and Bradley tuned it out. The restaurant was ahead--Thai For First--and this was his first night actually talking to customers. Months of wiping tables and washing dishes and figuring out how to cram seventeen plates and nineteen glasses into two oversized beige plastic tubs just so he could haul them back into the kitchen for more washing dishes. Finally, the menu that he'd memorized by the third day out of misplaced ambition and desperate boredom--finally that menu was going to come out of his mouth and lay itself before the waiting ears of the customers as they asked him what HIS favorite dish was, and he'd tell them that it was a burger from Ye Olde Burger Shoppe down the street, extra onions because he wasn't gettin' any anytime soon, and with this fabulous Western US invention called 'fry sauce,' that involved mayonnaise and ketchup, and THAT was his favorite dish.
No, he wasn't going to actually tell them that, but he kept himself amused with those dreams of petty revenge against a manager and owner that he liked okay and a chef that he couldn't bear to be in a room with for more than ten minutes. He'd timed it once, actually, staying and listening to the round man's angry, nasal, white-guy voice--nothing against white people, seeing as how he was one, but Bradley occasionally dreamed of some day having actual SOUL, and he only knew one white guy with SOUL, and it wasn't the chef--that voice poking into corners of the room as the man reached around his stomach to cook curry that came from a country the chef would never see because, among other things, he simply couldn't be bothered to go anywhere that wasn't Northern Lights, Wisconsin. Sure, the chef had been to New York, done the obligatory time there to convince himself that he had some flavor of culinary credential, then moved back to a place where conservatives at least had a fighting chance against the liberals, thank you very much. He'd tell you about his time in 'the Big Apple.' That's what he always called it, too. 'The Big Apple.' And it was a stinkin' heck-hole, if you know what I mean.
Bradley didn't. And he'd lasted ten minutes before he found an excuse to get out of the kitchen. He couldn't remember exactly what it had been--it was all a bit hazy--but he was pretty sure he'd said something about picking his nose. Bradley pushed pause on his iPod, pulled out the earbuds, and nodded to the fit man and woman who were walking by, both in casual clothing, both carrying the kind of metallic suitcases that scream 'photography equipment.' Plus, there was the camera around the man's neck. Expensive looking, too. The lady did look kind of artsy, actually, like she occasionally glanced at paintings and dismissed them as the derivative trash that they clearly were. Bradley smiled at her--nice looking, blue eyes, serious--I could like serious, he thought--but she didn't smile back. Bradley shrugged and walked around back, through the smells of exotic spices become all too familiar, and into the alley that led to the domain of the chef. That unbearable chef. That was the door, just closing as someone went back into that kitchen.
I'm a waiter now, he reminded himself. I hardly have to talk to the man. Drop off orders and pick up food. Occasionally slip through to the staff bathroom. That was it.
Bradley took a deep breath and started the timer on his watch.
Marius Tombs strode out ahead of his assistant. He hardly noticed her anymore, actually. Once it was clear she had no interest romantically, Mr. Tombs had let it go. He was a killer, certainly, but not a jerk, and when a girl said 'no,' to Mr. Tombs that meant 'no.' Women were, in general, a hassle, a pleasant distraction, and background noise, in that order. Miss Sweeps was too professional to qualify as the first, had seemed a possibility for the second, but had quickly faded to the third.
Mr. Tombs dismissed the scrawny boy with the iPod with a flick of his eyes. Twenty-somethings. Useless. They didn't have any purpose. By the time Marius had reached twenty-four, he had already gained a reputation for brutality, gathered in every flavor of barroom, backroom, garage, basement, and warehouse fight he could beat, bet, or bribe his way into. After consideration, he'd decided that the reputation wasn't one he'd appreciated, so he'd changed his name, changed his home, changed his friends (if you could call any of the sickos who followed him 'friends'), and found a man in the Sierra Nevadas who knew how to shoot, among other things. Thirteen years later, and Marius had a new reputation. A quieter one. One he was happy with.
They walked down to the corner, turned, down two buildings, into a tall apartment building--Marius held the door for Miss Sweeps--and up the elevator to the top floor. An older woman shared the ride with them for most of the way. She was hunched, leaning forward precariously with a bag of groceries clutched behind her back, balancing her. Mr. Tombs had smiled at her. She'd glared back. He wasn't sure what to make of that, since he'd been working on his smile in the mirror. He knew he didn't have it quite right yet, but he wasn't sure why. It frustrated him. He liked to be the best at whatever he chose to do, and smiling shouldn't be any different than shooting a gun or crushing a jaw. Correct principles, properly applied, and the job is taken care of. The woman glared and Mr. Tombs looked away, clenching his teeth.
She left at the eighth floor, and Mr. Tombs and Miss Sweeps on the twelfth. Veronica--that was her name, though Mr. Tombs fount it easier to think of her as Miss Sweeps--pulled out the key that opened the door to an apartment rented in the name of Chester Uggles. It was a small joke that Marius did for his own benefit, making up ridiculous names for the fictional people he created. Chester Uggles had actually been a struggling actor, hired over the phone and paid in cash left on his pillow--Mr. Tombs loved the little details--who had rented the apartment from a bored office staffer who had a hard time mustering even a smile for a name as absurd as Chester Uggles. Marius knew because he'd been watching the process, at a distance, two weeks ago. The actor signed the contract, took the keys, put them on his nightstand, and woke up the next morning to find the rest of his payment. Mr. Tombs assumed that the man was suitably terrified and adequately paid to keep him from ever sharing anything about this with his priest, let alone the police. Anyway, Marius had found the man's priest, and so he could take care of that, too, if necessary.
Miss Sweeps unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment, the case she carried banging into the door. That bothered Mr. Tombs. It betrayed a certain carelessness of movement, a lack of awareness of one's own body, that was wasteful. Unskilled. He breathed out quietly, the closest he came to a sigh. He wouldn't be working with her much longer. He could last one hour more.
The door closed behind him and Mr. Tombs set down his case, throwing the deadbolt as Miss Sweeps flicked on the lights and checked the curtains. An unnecessary precaution, but one that Marius appreciated. She might not be as coordinated as was ideal, but she was thorough, and when you're killing a god, thoroughness is important.
"Tonight's the night, Marius," said his assistant. Mr. Tombs pulled out his smile and put it back on his face. Why, oh why, did she insist on the use of first names? Perhaps if they were involved in some sort of physical or romantic relationship, first names might be appropriate, but this was business.
"It is indeed, Miss Sweeps," he replied, picking up his case and moving over to the table that they'd carefully positioned and fixed to the wooden floor with screws and brackets, directly beneath a large window. The window screen lay in the corner, ready to be replaced, alongside a carpet that could easily roll out to cover the holes in the floor. "Tonight is the last night we work together. May I say in advance that I have appreciated the thoroughness with which you do your work."
"Of course, Marius. It's what I'm paid for. My employers wanted you to have the best, and nothing less."
"Regardless, Miss Sweeps, I appreciate it."
"In that case, you're welcome."
They smiled at each other, and apparently Mr. Tombs' smile was more accurate than his previous attempt in the elevator. Miss Sweeps seemed genuinely gratified by his thanks. Marius knew he was a sociopath--that had been clear, in retrospect, from his early experiments with ants and magnifying glasses--but he could still appreciate some social niceties, and gratitude was one he could especially identify with. It was so clean and clear. You do something, and all I have to do to offer you positive reinforcement and trigger a small burst of endorphins in your system is give up two simple words. It was, to borrow a hated business phrase, a 'win-win' situation.
"Shall we get started?"
"Of course."
It wasn't many minutes before the suitcases were opened, the contents removed and assembled, settled into brackets on the table. The rifle, on a gyroscopic stabilizer, bolted to the table, aimed at the window, the bullets in their magazine, ready to be loaded. Miss Sweeps held the spotters scope in her hand, a luxury Mr. Tombs didn't usually have in his line of work. It wasn't a complicated setup--no more complicated than usual--but it was satisfying. Marius realized he was still wearing his camera around his neck and fought back an absurd urge to take a picture to commemorate the occasion. Instead he put it on the table next to his rifle.
"Well then," he said. "Tea?"
"Yes, thank you," said Miss Sweeps.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Accidental God again. And Lord of the Manor.
Yes, it's true, I've discovered a new world for a story or two. Yes, it was loosely inspired by a book on the history of cotton and the science of lightning. Yes, I think it has real potential and that I'm starting out the right way in creating that world and following the story.
But.
I want to finish Accidental God and Lord of the Manor.
So I'm taking what I've been learning from this new world and I'm tackling the hard questions that I've been glossing over in my own mind for these other two books. I'm not far enough along that I feel paralyzed in trying to rework these books (like I do with Fat Tony and Pete and The Dog--the thought of trying to rewrite those substantially is terrifying), and I can go back and create the foundation I need for these two novels without too much difficulty or radical change to the manuscripts.
Okay, there will probably be some radical change. But I'm only thirty-thousand words into each of them, not even quite a third done! That's much better than seventy-thousand words in.
Back to work.
But.
I want to finish Accidental God and Lord of the Manor.
So I'm taking what I've been learning from this new world and I'm tackling the hard questions that I've been glossing over in my own mind for these other two books. I'm not far enough along that I feel paralyzed in trying to rework these books (like I do with Fat Tony and Pete and The Dog--the thought of trying to rewrite those substantially is terrifying), and I can go back and create the foundation I need for these two novels without too much difficulty or radical change to the manuscripts.
Okay, there will probably be some radical change. But I'm only thirty-thousand words into each of them, not even quite a third done! That's much better than seventy-thousand words in.
Back to work.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
It's not working.
I thought Seven Cities was a good idea, but I'm not happy with it.
Trying to place The Accidental God in the Seven Cities is bringing me face-to-face with the flaws of my world building. Using any fantasy world--even (or especially) one based so closely on our own--requires consistency. Without a certain number of consistent rules, I am asking too much of my readers in expecting them to suspend disbelief. As charming as my characters might be, the world should be a support to those characters, and not a distraction.
So trying to force The Accidental God into a bit of a grab-bag, modern fantasy world is, I am becoming convinced, a disservice to the story. We don't need seven different cities to tell this story. We need one. We don't need three different kinds of magic. We need gods, angels, and demons. That's enough. Trying to crowd more in will just dilute the power of a story that can be very interesting.
I feel bad for making my few, faithful readers wait for the end of a story, but there are some things I need to learn as a writer if I want to successfully write the stories I aspire to (with complex plots set in interesting worlds):
I honestly can't tell you what I'm going to be writing next. It's going to take some prayer and some careful thinking and more writing. I am certainly not abandoning The Accidental God, and I'll be coming back to our friends out at the manor as well, but I feel a need to lay a more solid groundwork for both of those. I hate setting aside two projects at the 30,000 word mark, but I'm trying to do the hard thing, the right thing for these stories, and that means learning the skills I need to learn as an author to become better.
I need to imagine more clearly.
Trying to place The Accidental God in the Seven Cities is bringing me face-to-face with the flaws of my world building. Using any fantasy world--even (or especially) one based so closely on our own--requires consistency. Without a certain number of consistent rules, I am asking too much of my readers in expecting them to suspend disbelief. As charming as my characters might be, the world should be a support to those characters, and not a distraction.
So trying to force The Accidental God into a bit of a grab-bag, modern fantasy world is, I am becoming convinced, a disservice to the story. We don't need seven different cities to tell this story. We need one. We don't need three different kinds of magic. We need gods, angels, and demons. That's enough. Trying to crowd more in will just dilute the power of a story that can be very interesting.
I feel bad for making my few, faithful readers wait for the end of a story, but there are some things I need to learn as a writer if I want to successfully write the stories I aspire to (with complex plots set in interesting worlds):
- I need to learn to write and create background: a solid world with consistent rules. Now, I'm not necessarily talking about rules like you might find in a board game (e.g. sacrifice two cupcakes to advance your magic meter three steps toward ignominy). But I am talking about the kind of rules that I've somewhat ignored: Where does magic come from? Does everyone know about it? What are its real strengths and limitations? What kind of magical creatures exist in the world? Are there other worlds? How are we connected to them? And on and on.
- Also, I need to learn to outline. I've made good first steps in this direction, and I'm pleased with them, but I need to keep on with this. A body doesn't write a book like Holes without a good outline, and I would love to write a book like Holes. (Okay, I was wrong. You do write a book like Holes without outlining. See Louis Sachar's comments about writing toward the bottom of the page here.) Even so, I think that I should learn to outline. It would be good for what I want to do.
I honestly can't tell you what I'm going to be writing next. It's going to take some prayer and some careful thinking and more writing. I am certainly not abandoning The Accidental God, and I'll be coming back to our friends out at the manor as well, but I feel a need to lay a more solid groundwork for both of those. I hate setting aside two projects at the 30,000 word mark, but I'm trying to do the hard thing, the right thing for these stories, and that means learning the skills I need to learn as an author to become better.
I need to imagine more clearly.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 12a
[I just had a long conversation with some writer-friends, and I have discovered that I'm absolutely jealous of their rather inspired (and consistent) magic system. Sometimes I worry that Seven Cities is too much of a grab-bag of ideas and mythologies. Fortunately for Tuck and Paul, that didn't stop me from finishing this section. Something to think about more, but later.]
Tuck and Paul put on their sunglasses as they stepped out of the blockish and modern building that housed the medical examiner's office. Tuck timed his movements to be in unison with his partner. He was sure Paul noticed, and was sure Paul didn't exactly like it, but his partner was patient, and it was the little things that kept Tuck going from day to day. He had known from an early age that the world was a frightening and confusing place, and his routines helped Tuck make sense of it all. In other words, it was a good feeling to put sunglasses on in unison. Like synchronized swimming, but without the swimming. Or the smiling.
Except that Paul was smiling. "Dude, that was just like the scene from MEN IN BLACK," he said.
"From what?"
"The movie. You know, MEN IN BLACK? Where the two guys are like the police, but for aliens on Earth? Will Smith? That other guy?"
"I've never seen it," said Tuck.
"You haven't seen the part with the creepy, sexy medical examiner who flirts over dead bodies?"
"I don't watch movies often. You know that."
Paul's eyebrows were well above the tops of his mirrored lenses. "If you never saw MEN IN BLACK, why do you have us dress in the suits and shades? It wasn't inspired by THE MATRIX, was it? Because I don't want to be one of those Agents."
"When did we start talking about mathematics?"
Paul stared at him for a second, two, then turned and walked away.
"But aren't you glad," said Tuck, stepping out to catch up, "that we were polite in there? Imagine the hassle she could have given us, especially considering that the next body in line was in the same room."
"She wouldn't have given us trouble, because I could have done to her what we've been doing to everyone else who gets in our way: politely mesmerize them and move on. Sometimes that kind of politeness is exactly what we need."
"But that would have been rude. Magical manipulation of the human faculty isn't polite. Also, it makes sense for us to conserve our energies. Especially given what we've learned."
"Yes," said Paul, stopping abruptly. "What is up with your reading? The man was killed by three different people? At the same time?"
Tuck shook his head. "Not exactly. At least, I can't say definitively. It's just that the signature following from our John Doe has split into three different places."
"So which do we track down first?"
"The closest one?"
"And these guys didn't seem dead?"
"I don't think so. There's a different feel, and I didn't get any signal on my CPS."
"So how are you following them now?"
"Surfer Dude's High Five Tracker.”
"Am I supposed to know what that is?"
"It's a spell this guy worked out for keeping record of all the people he'd had significant contact with."
"Like a high five?"
"Exactly like a high five."
Paul grimaced. "Don't you just remember people? Wouldn't that work?"
"This is more complete."
"Right. So we're using that to get a bead on the people who killed our Nordic friend?"
"Exactly."
"Fine," said Paul, looking around. "Let’s hop that bus."
Tuck looked down at his smart phone and decided a bus sounded like a good idea. The pair had gone back and forth on the issue off a car. Paul had mixed feelings, since public transportation was always a rich way to meet new people, but hunting down creatures and baddies on the metro wasn't exactly the most dramatic way of doing things. Tuck was conflicted as the battle to preserve the environment and the battle to catch the right bus at the right time weren't always in agreement. In the end, the prevalence of bizarre beings and unexpected manifestations of malevolent magic on the Seven Cities Bus and Metro Lines was the deciding factor: just often enough to make it worthwhile, they could do extra work on their way to work.
They jogged a few steps to catch the driver's attention before he closed the doors, ran their passes through the reader, and stepped toward the back.
"Tuck," said Paul.
"What?"
"Does she look like a demon to you?"
Tuck looked where Paul's chin jerk indicated. Brown hair, plenty thick but not disturbingly so, surrounding a mostly symmetrical face and brown eyes. The blouse and jeans were form fitting enough that it was unlikely she was hiding any physical abnormalities, so she certainly LOOKED normal enough. Also--and this was a matter of professional pride for Tuck--she didn't FEEL unusual. Of course, he wasn't one-hundred percent on this 'feel' thing, but he trusted his subconscious mind to put together the logical pieces in such a way that, whether he consciously noticed clues or not, he could still typically recognize the supernatural in the midst of the mundane.
"No," he said. "She doesn't look like a demon."
"Then you answer this," said Paul, handing a vibrating phone to Tuck. "It's my turn to flirt." He slipped off his sunglasses and slipped into the empty seat next to the girl who was reading a book. Within two seconds, the girl was looking at Paul and smiling, and Tuck was yet again amazed at his partner. It was like watching one of those dancing Santa Claus decorations: you don't know how it works, you're not sure you want to see inside those gyrating red pants, but you can't take your eyes off the entire fascinating process.
The phone buzzed in his hand again, insistently, so Tuck looked at the caller ID, then sharply and somewhat desperately at his partner. Paul knew Tuck didn't like talking to the clients. Why, oh why, had he abandoned their implicit agreement now?
Tuck had no way of knowing how many rings he had before the call went to voicemail, and this was one that he really needed to take.
"This is Tuck," he said.
"Tuck, this is Belly." Surprisingly, the man's name actually WAS Belly. Porter M. Belly, head of the Divine Relations Division of the Fifth Agency. Why he had chosen to go by 'Belly' instead of using his first name was still a puzzle to Tuck, but he had valiantly resisted pointing out any of the possible wordplays. He had, once, nearly asked Mr. Porter Belly what his favorite kind of mushroom was, but he had squashed the impulse, only telling Paul later in their office, where he could laugh and laugh and laugh. Paul rolled his eyes, Alice, their kind secretary, had smiled indulgently, and Tuck had finally wiped his tears and gone back to work.
"Yes, Mr. Belly. What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me you're making progress." The man's voice sounded tired, maybe even a little desperate. "I'm getting serious pressure in here to cut you two loose. Someone wants the entire Agency to go agnostic about this god problem."
Tuck's eyebrows drew down. "They want things left in doubt?"
"At the very least, they don't want you two working on this. 'We should handle this internally,' they tell me. That, however, is the LAST thing I want. You know my concerns. It's why I hired you in the first place."
Tuck did know Belly's concerns. The Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women were on the move, and the head of Divine Relations was concerned that they'd infiltrated the Fifth Agency, and deeply. When you're dealing with power along the magnitude of Forgotten Zed, you don't want to take risks it will fall into the wrong hands.
So Belly had hired Tuck and Paul. It was understandable. Tuck wasn't sure he'd trust anyone else with the problem, either.
"Progress," said Tuck. "We've made some. I'm afraid things have become more complicated than we expected, though."
He could almost imagine Belly smacking his own thigh with a bunched fist, a nervous gesture he'd had for years. "Not the words I was hoping for, Tuck. Explain?"
"It seems that there's more than one killer involved." He counted quickly in his head. "Six, to be exact."
"Six? Six people killed the god at the SAME TIME?"
"No. Only one killed Zed. Then a woman killed him, and a man killed her, and, as best we can tell, three people were involved in that last man's death. A poisoning."
"You're not ginger, Tuck."
"Pardon?"
"The things you're telling me aren't calming my stomach."
"Does ginger do that?"
"Yes."
"I never knew."
"Now you do."
"Thank you."
"Tuck!"
"Yes?"
"Where are the three men?"
"We're following the first one now." He checked his phone. "Two more stops and we ought to be there." The bus rumbled to a stop, spitting out some passengers only to inhale a few more.
"You're on the bus?"
"Yes."
Thump, thump, thump went the fist on the thigh, Tuck was sure. "Give me some good news," said Belly, his voice strained.
Tuck thought hard. "The odds that someone could have followed the same track that we've followed are extremely small. The combination of skills and preparation that Paul and I bring to this sort of thing is, as far as I know, completely unique, and I doubt anyone could have tracked these patterns the way we have--at least not without leaving some signs that they'd been there. They may be behind us, but I can't imagine they're ahead."
Belly sighed. "That is something. They couldn't just track the divine energy, could they?" Tuck didn't bother to saying anything and Belly answered his own question. "No, of course not. Tracking magical energies in this city? It'd be like trying to pick out a tree in the forest when you don't know what tree you're supposed to be looking for. Good. We have a head start then. Keep me notified?"
"Of course."
"And ONLY me. In an emergency, you can call Janine--no, she's on vacation, starting today. I don't trust Brock's secretary. Lionel is a possibility...." There was silence for a moment. "In an emergency, call Ms. Nishimura."
"The security head?"
"She's on forced leave at the moment, but she's our best bet. Call me paranoid, but I don't know who else we can count on. You have her number?"
"I do," said Tuck. "Why is she on leave?"
"She's too much like you two," said Belly. "Works outside of the system when she has to. Makes her great to work with, but a nightmare on record keeping."
"We keep excellent records," said Tuck. "All encrypted, of course."
"Of course. Call me with news, and please MAKE it good."
"Absolutely."
They said goodbye and hung up. Tuck glanced at the little sign at the front of the bus, names and times chasing their way across, then looked back at Paul. The woman had entirely forgotten her book--it was closed, not even with a bookmark--and they were laughing.
"Paul," said Tuck, walking up next to them. His partner glanced up, a smile fighting with annoyance. "This is our stop."
"Got to go," said Paul, standing up. "I'll call you. Really, I'd love to see your work."
"It's a date, then," said the woman. "Come by the studio any time."
"Absolutely." Paul took her hand briefly, pressing her fingers, then they slid their way through the standing passengers to the door as the bus lurched to a stop.
"Did you know that we both end conversations the same way?" asked Tuck.
"Tell me that's not true." They stepped down onto the pavement and Tuck looked around.
"I think it is true. I said goodbye to Belly almost exactly how you said goodbye to that woman."
"You were talking to Belly?"
"I think you're missing the point. Also, you knew it was Belly, which is why you handed me the phone. Don't try to act innocent."
"Fine. I knew it was Belly. I hate talking to him when he's stressed. It's like he wants me to be just as concerned and sincere about everything as he is, and I can't live that way. What did mister painfully concerned want?"
"Good news."
"Did you give him any?"
Tuck held his hands up. "I told him what point we're at."
"So...no."
"I tried to put a positive spin on it. I've learned that from you."
"I don't 'spin' stuff."
"But you do talk about things with a positive perspective. That's what I meant."
"Sure, but don't call it spin. Call it optimism. Aren't we close to that restaurant you had us try last week? The Thai place?"
Tuck nodded, looking down at his phone. "It's just up ahead."
"Cool. So where are we going now?"
"Just up ahead."
"The Thai place?"
"Seems like it."
That's when they heard the roar and the crash. In his hand, the screen of his phone pulsed, flashed, hiccupped, and gave an error. Paul leaned in and looked.
"What does that error number mean?"
"The system wasn't designed to track multiple layers of contact."
"How do you mean?"
"It only keeps a record of the people that YOU high five, not any additional high fives from those high fivers."
"Confusing, but I think I get it."
"It was clearer in my head."
"So why 'Error 01221?' Why not just 'Error Two?'"
"It follows a standard error classification system."
Tuck and Paul were walking very quickly as they talked. Paul's hand was in his jacket, reaching for wherever he kept his large arsenal of offensive and very offensive weaponry. Tuck put away his phone and pulled out his toolkit. He flipped it open and pulled out three credit cards that he'd taken out in false names and under false pretenses, and slipped his case closed, hoping he wouldn't need anything more extreme. There was another crash and screams as customers and a handful of wait staff poured out the front door of the THAI FOR FIRST restaurant.
"I think," said Paul, as they broke into a run, "that someone gave our friend one heck of a high five."
Tuck and Paul put on their sunglasses as they stepped out of the blockish and modern building that housed the medical examiner's office. Tuck timed his movements to be in unison with his partner. He was sure Paul noticed, and was sure Paul didn't exactly like it, but his partner was patient, and it was the little things that kept Tuck going from day to day. He had known from an early age that the world was a frightening and confusing place, and his routines helped Tuck make sense of it all. In other words, it was a good feeling to put sunglasses on in unison. Like synchronized swimming, but without the swimming. Or the smiling.
Except that Paul was smiling. "Dude, that was just like the scene from MEN IN BLACK," he said.
"From what?"
"The movie. You know, MEN IN BLACK? Where the two guys are like the police, but for aliens on Earth? Will Smith? That other guy?"
"I've never seen it," said Tuck.
"You haven't seen the part with the creepy, sexy medical examiner who flirts over dead bodies?"
"I don't watch movies often. You know that."
Paul's eyebrows were well above the tops of his mirrored lenses. "If you never saw MEN IN BLACK, why do you have us dress in the suits and shades? It wasn't inspired by THE MATRIX, was it? Because I don't want to be one of those Agents."
"When did we start talking about mathematics?"
Paul stared at him for a second, two, then turned and walked away.
"But aren't you glad," said Tuck, stepping out to catch up, "that we were polite in there? Imagine the hassle she could have given us, especially considering that the next body in line was in the same room."
"She wouldn't have given us trouble, because I could have done to her what we've been doing to everyone else who gets in our way: politely mesmerize them and move on. Sometimes that kind of politeness is exactly what we need."
"But that would have been rude. Magical manipulation of the human faculty isn't polite. Also, it makes sense for us to conserve our energies. Especially given what we've learned."
"Yes," said Paul, stopping abruptly. "What is up with your reading? The man was killed by three different people? At the same time?"
Tuck shook his head. "Not exactly. At least, I can't say definitively. It's just that the signature following from our John Doe has split into three different places."
"So which do we track down first?"
"The closest one?"
"And these guys didn't seem dead?"
"I don't think so. There's a different feel, and I didn't get any signal on my CPS."
"So how are you following them now?"
"Surfer Dude's High Five Tracker.”
"Am I supposed to know what that is?"
"It's a spell this guy worked out for keeping record of all the people he'd had significant contact with."
"Like a high five?"
"Exactly like a high five."
Paul grimaced. "Don't you just remember people? Wouldn't that work?"
"This is more complete."
"Right. So we're using that to get a bead on the people who killed our Nordic friend?"
"Exactly."
"Fine," said Paul, looking around. "Let’s hop that bus."
Tuck looked down at his smart phone and decided a bus sounded like a good idea. The pair had gone back and forth on the issue off a car. Paul had mixed feelings, since public transportation was always a rich way to meet new people, but hunting down creatures and baddies on the metro wasn't exactly the most dramatic way of doing things. Tuck was conflicted as the battle to preserve the environment and the battle to catch the right bus at the right time weren't always in agreement. In the end, the prevalence of bizarre beings and unexpected manifestations of malevolent magic on the Seven Cities Bus and Metro Lines was the deciding factor: just often enough to make it worthwhile, they could do extra work on their way to work.
They jogged a few steps to catch the driver's attention before he closed the doors, ran their passes through the reader, and stepped toward the back.
"Tuck," said Paul.
"What?"
"Does she look like a demon to you?"
Tuck looked where Paul's chin jerk indicated. Brown hair, plenty thick but not disturbingly so, surrounding a mostly symmetrical face and brown eyes. The blouse and jeans were form fitting enough that it was unlikely she was hiding any physical abnormalities, so she certainly LOOKED normal enough. Also--and this was a matter of professional pride for Tuck--she didn't FEEL unusual. Of course, he wasn't one-hundred percent on this 'feel' thing, but he trusted his subconscious mind to put together the logical pieces in such a way that, whether he consciously noticed clues or not, he could still typically recognize the supernatural in the midst of the mundane.
"No," he said. "She doesn't look like a demon."
"Then you answer this," said Paul, handing a vibrating phone to Tuck. "It's my turn to flirt." He slipped off his sunglasses and slipped into the empty seat next to the girl who was reading a book. Within two seconds, the girl was looking at Paul and smiling, and Tuck was yet again amazed at his partner. It was like watching one of those dancing Santa Claus decorations: you don't know how it works, you're not sure you want to see inside those gyrating red pants, but you can't take your eyes off the entire fascinating process.
The phone buzzed in his hand again, insistently, so Tuck looked at the caller ID, then sharply and somewhat desperately at his partner. Paul knew Tuck didn't like talking to the clients. Why, oh why, had he abandoned their implicit agreement now?
Tuck had no way of knowing how many rings he had before the call went to voicemail, and this was one that he really needed to take.
"This is Tuck," he said.
"Tuck, this is Belly." Surprisingly, the man's name actually WAS Belly. Porter M. Belly, head of the Divine Relations Division of the Fifth Agency. Why he had chosen to go by 'Belly' instead of using his first name was still a puzzle to Tuck, but he had valiantly resisted pointing out any of the possible wordplays. He had, once, nearly asked Mr. Porter Belly what his favorite kind of mushroom was, but he had squashed the impulse, only telling Paul later in their office, where he could laugh and laugh and laugh. Paul rolled his eyes, Alice, their kind secretary, had smiled indulgently, and Tuck had finally wiped his tears and gone back to work.
"Yes, Mr. Belly. What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me you're making progress." The man's voice sounded tired, maybe even a little desperate. "I'm getting serious pressure in here to cut you two loose. Someone wants the entire Agency to go agnostic about this god problem."
Tuck's eyebrows drew down. "They want things left in doubt?"
"At the very least, they don't want you two working on this. 'We should handle this internally,' they tell me. That, however, is the LAST thing I want. You know my concerns. It's why I hired you in the first place."
Tuck did know Belly's concerns. The Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women were on the move, and the head of Divine Relations was concerned that they'd infiltrated the Fifth Agency, and deeply. When you're dealing with power along the magnitude of Forgotten Zed, you don't want to take risks it will fall into the wrong hands.
So Belly had hired Tuck and Paul. It was understandable. Tuck wasn't sure he'd trust anyone else with the problem, either.
"Progress," said Tuck. "We've made some. I'm afraid things have become more complicated than we expected, though."
He could almost imagine Belly smacking his own thigh with a bunched fist, a nervous gesture he'd had for years. "Not the words I was hoping for, Tuck. Explain?"
"It seems that there's more than one killer involved." He counted quickly in his head. "Six, to be exact."
"Six? Six people killed the god at the SAME TIME?"
"No. Only one killed Zed. Then a woman killed him, and a man killed her, and, as best we can tell, three people were involved in that last man's death. A poisoning."
"You're not ginger, Tuck."
"Pardon?"
"The things you're telling me aren't calming my stomach."
"Does ginger do that?"
"Yes."
"I never knew."
"Now you do."
"Thank you."
"Tuck!"
"Yes?"
"Where are the three men?"
"We're following the first one now." He checked his phone. "Two more stops and we ought to be there." The bus rumbled to a stop, spitting out some passengers only to inhale a few more.
"You're on the bus?"
"Yes."
Thump, thump, thump went the fist on the thigh, Tuck was sure. "Give me some good news," said Belly, his voice strained.
Tuck thought hard. "The odds that someone could have followed the same track that we've followed are extremely small. The combination of skills and preparation that Paul and I bring to this sort of thing is, as far as I know, completely unique, and I doubt anyone could have tracked these patterns the way we have--at least not without leaving some signs that they'd been there. They may be behind us, but I can't imagine they're ahead."
Belly sighed. "That is something. They couldn't just track the divine energy, could they?" Tuck didn't bother to saying anything and Belly answered his own question. "No, of course not. Tracking magical energies in this city? It'd be like trying to pick out a tree in the forest when you don't know what tree you're supposed to be looking for. Good. We have a head start then. Keep me notified?"
"Of course."
"And ONLY me. In an emergency, you can call Janine--no, she's on vacation, starting today. I don't trust Brock's secretary. Lionel is a possibility...." There was silence for a moment. "In an emergency, call Ms. Nishimura."
"The security head?"
"She's on forced leave at the moment, but she's our best bet. Call me paranoid, but I don't know who else we can count on. You have her number?"
"I do," said Tuck. "Why is she on leave?"
"She's too much like you two," said Belly. "Works outside of the system when she has to. Makes her great to work with, but a nightmare on record keeping."
"We keep excellent records," said Tuck. "All encrypted, of course."
"Of course. Call me with news, and please MAKE it good."
"Absolutely."
They said goodbye and hung up. Tuck glanced at the little sign at the front of the bus, names and times chasing their way across, then looked back at Paul. The woman had entirely forgotten her book--it was closed, not even with a bookmark--and they were laughing.
"Paul," said Tuck, walking up next to them. His partner glanced up, a smile fighting with annoyance. "This is our stop."
"Got to go," said Paul, standing up. "I'll call you. Really, I'd love to see your work."
"It's a date, then," said the woman. "Come by the studio any time."
"Absolutely." Paul took her hand briefly, pressing her fingers, then they slid their way through the standing passengers to the door as the bus lurched to a stop.
"Did you know that we both end conversations the same way?" asked Tuck.
"Tell me that's not true." They stepped down onto the pavement and Tuck looked around.
"I think it is true. I said goodbye to Belly almost exactly how you said goodbye to that woman."
"You were talking to Belly?"
"I think you're missing the point. Also, you knew it was Belly, which is why you handed me the phone. Don't try to act innocent."
"Fine. I knew it was Belly. I hate talking to him when he's stressed. It's like he wants me to be just as concerned and sincere about everything as he is, and I can't live that way. What did mister painfully concerned want?"
"Good news."
"Did you give him any?"
Tuck held his hands up. "I told him what point we're at."
"So...no."
"I tried to put a positive spin on it. I've learned that from you."
"I don't 'spin' stuff."
"But you do talk about things with a positive perspective. That's what I meant."
"Sure, but don't call it spin. Call it optimism. Aren't we close to that restaurant you had us try last week? The Thai place?"
Tuck nodded, looking down at his phone. "It's just up ahead."
"Cool. So where are we going now?"
"Just up ahead."
"The Thai place?"
"Seems like it."
That's when they heard the roar and the crash. In his hand, the screen of his phone pulsed, flashed, hiccupped, and gave an error. Paul leaned in and looked.
"What does that error number mean?"
"The system wasn't designed to track multiple layers of contact."
"How do you mean?"
"It only keeps a record of the people that YOU high five, not any additional high fives from those high fivers."
"Confusing, but I think I get it."
"It was clearer in my head."
"So why 'Error 01221?' Why not just 'Error Two?'"
"It follows a standard error classification system."
Tuck and Paul were walking very quickly as they talked. Paul's hand was in his jacket, reaching for wherever he kept his large arsenal of offensive and very offensive weaponry. Tuck put away his phone and pulled out his toolkit. He flipped it open and pulled out three credit cards that he'd taken out in false names and under false pretenses, and slipped his case closed, hoping he wouldn't need anything more extreme. There was another crash and screams as customers and a handful of wait staff poured out the front door of the THAI FOR FIRST restaurant.
"I think," said Paul, as they broke into a run, "that someone gave our friend one heck of a high five."
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 11b
[Long weekend, long week, long delay. Here's hoping I get back on track. Also, you're going to have to read the end of the last section to remember what Olivia is answering. Or rather, not answering.]
“I have no answer for that,” said Olivia. “Whatever I say, you’ll just smile and say something else ridiculous.”
“Chuck does that,” said Atty, walking in with a tray that supported mostly full glasses and a bowl of ice. With tongs. Who actually serves ice with tongs? “Mango nectar?” asked Atty, the angel who served ice with tongs.
“Wow,” said Olivia, smiling. “Gods actually drink nectar.”
“I do,” said Chuck. “Standing Appointment lives off Coffee and Red Bull, not usually at the same time, but often enough. The Twins are on this thing about drinking milk to lose weight, and while Mr. O sells muffins, no one has ever actually seen him eat or drink anything.”
“Ever had ambrosia?” asked Bradley.
Chuck took his glass and added three cubes. “I don’t actually know what that is. Sometimes I think the Greeks made it up.”
“I’ve heard it’s real,” said the angel.
“What’s it made of?”
“It’s kind of like Nutella with biscotti.”
“You’re not serious.”
“It’s what I heard. Can’t blame me for rumors.”
“Actually,” said Chuck, looking thoughtful, “I often can.”
“I’m hurt, offended, and going to get doughnuts from your pantry.” And Atty was gone again.
"Bradley," said Divine Chuck.
"Yes, sir?"
"I gather from your comments that you've had a run-in with some unusual creatures."
Bradley found himself laughing a breathy laugh that was almost more cough than laugh. He reached out and snagged a glass from where the tray had settled onto the counter. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"I did say that."
"That's what...it was a metaphor."
"A figure of speech," corrected Olivia.
Chuck winked at Bradley and smiled, the way only old men who are astonishingly comfortable with themselves can wink. And gods, apparently. "I was messing with you. But back on track: seeing things now? Don't look at her, Bradley. Look at me. She thinks I'm crazy and you're on your way there, and nothing you're going to do now is going to change that."
Olivia pulled back. "I don't think you're crazy."
"Delusional, then."
"A very benign delusion, then," she said, shifting in her chair.
"She doesn't want to say it outright, but she thinks I'm crazy, and that's why she's here. You see," Chuck pulled his hat off and went on in a stage whisper, his ball cap blocking Olivia from view, "she doesn't believe in gods. Do you believe in gods?"
"I don't know," Bradley admitted.
"Excellent," said Chuck, putting his hat back on and sitting back. Somehow a glass had made its way into his hand, though Bradley couldn't remember the man reaching for one. "That's a great start. Ignorance is the start of all knowledge, right?"
"Knowledge leads to more knowledge," said Olivia. "Ignorance is never something to be proud of."
"I never said I was proud of it," said Bradley.
"Oh, but sometimes it is," went on the god, unperturbed. "Olivia, you have glasses on--metaphorical glasses, and I believe I'm using the term correctly--we all have these glasses on. They color how we see the world. They're the framework of belief that we all use to make sense of the rest of existence."
"You're preaching to the choir," muttered Olivia over her glass as she took a drink.
"I understand that, Miss Sociology Graduate Student, but this is important for Bradley to recognize, because while I have no illusions about ever converting you, I have no need to convert Bradley. He has Seen." The god said the last word with an arched eyebrow and a capital letter. It made Bradley want to squirm, but he didn't dare. The glass was just a little too full and the couch just a little too nice. No squirming until he got the mango nectar levels within safety parameters.
"Always so dramatic," said Atty, walking back in with another tray, this one covered in doughnuts. The doughnuts ended up on the table and Atty fell gracefully into the other end of the couch shared by his boss.
"Say what?" protested Chuck.
"You're dramatic."
"You are."
"No, you are."
"No, YOU are."
"Here's a pillow."
"Why do I need a pillow?"
"For crying on, since you’re so dramatic."
"Those jeans make you look fat."
"Your FACE is fat."
Bradley watched, somewhere between amusement and shock. Olivia drank her nectar and took notes. What could she possibly be writing down about this? Apparently, gods are something like teenagers: they think they are immortal and use really stupid insults.
"Anyway," said Chuck, laughing. "I got off track again. Glasses."
"Glasses?" asked Bradley.
"The ones you see the world through."
"Right. My world view."
"Yes."
"What about it?"
"You've lost your glasses."
"Oh." It made sense. He could see what Divine Chuck was getting at. When he'd gone to bed last night, the world was put together one way, with its usual complement of plants, animals, and laws of physics. When he'd woken up, he'd been without a stuffy nose, headache, or a really definite picture of how the world worked. Bagels were made with sunshine, his gut drove him around town, and gray scaly creatures tried to eat him. Apparently it wasn't the world that had changed; he'd simply lost his glasses.
Bradley realized he'd been staring at a doughnut and looked up and around. Atty was making solid headway on a chocolate with chocolate and chocolate sprinkles, Chuck was yawning, and Olivia was watching him expectantly.
"What's up?" he asked.
"That's it?" she said.
"I think so."
"This guy you've never met before tells you that the world is completely changed, and you just say 'oh?'"
"Was I supposed to say something else? And, um, that's not what he said."
"He's right," interjected Chuck. "That's not what I said. Besides, like I told you before, I don't have to convert Bradley. Want a doughnut?"
"Yeah. Maple?"
"I think there's one buried," said Atty through a mouthful, managing to make talking with a chocolate doughnut in your cheeks look suave. Bradley sighed and went digging.
Olivia took notes and shook her head. "I don't get you people. You seem so absolutely convinced, but no one will show me a single bit of evidence that you're actually gods or that these worlds you talk about truly exist."
Chuck jerked his head at Olivia, smiling at Bradley. "See?" he said. "She's still wearing glasses."
Olivia rolled her eyes. "Yes, I get it. Your metaphor is not lost on me."
The god leaned forward, looked at the doughnuts meditatively, then pushed the tray away slightly and sat back. "So how did you lose your glasses?"
Bradley chewed on his doughnut and shrugged. Why had he picked maple? He didn't like maple, not in comparison to that chocolate with chocolate and chocolate sprinkles, but he didn't feel he'd come off well in any comparison in Atty, so he chewed and swallowed. "I have no idea. I woke up, and they weren't there. Things were...different."
"Any unusual events? Resurgent childhood trauma? Visit from a maiden aunt who the family has always worried about? You inherited a ring from your short yet exceptionally long-lived uncle who shares your birthday?"
"I don't have an uncle."
Chuck waggled his moustache dismissively. "No maiden aunts, either?"
"All five are married."
"Trauma?"
"Not really. I lost my job. Almost killed a guy."
"On purpose?"
"No. Allergic reaction. It was my first night as a waiter. And my last."
"But the guy didn't die?"
"I don't think so. You know those old jokes where someone yells, 'Is there a doctor in the house?'"
"Yeah."
"There was a nurse. I think he was okay."
"Hmm. Nothing else?"
"Not that I can think of. I mean, there was this thing with my niece, but that was after, as far as I can tell."
"That wasn't traumatic?"
"No. She just had a cold or something." Bradley stopped talking. He was willing to say a lot of stuff, but he wasn't sure yet that he wanted to come out and tell Olivia that he might have healed a baby. First off, she'd probably think he was nuts--not just pathetic--and second, it might come off like he was trying too hard. YEAH, THAT GUY MAY BE AN ANGEL, BUT I HEAL BABIES. AND RESCUE WOUNDED, DWARF PANDAS FROM ANGRY POACHERS. ALSO, THE PANDAS ARE DIABETIC. He kept his mouth shut.
"I'm stumped," said Chuck.
"Me, too," said Atty. "Good doughnuts. Where'd you get them?"
"A place Mr. O recommended."
"Seriously? What did you have to pay for that recommendation?"
"He doesn't do that to other gods, Atty. Just to mortals."
"What did you pay?"
"You don't believe me?"
"I don't believe you."
"Fine. I gave him my third favorite hat."
"Forever?!"
"Just a loaner, but still. That's a good hat."
"No kidding, that's a good hat." Atty looked impressed. "I have to say, though, these doughnuts are worth it. At least the chocolate are." The angel reached for another, and Bradley silently regretted his maple bar yet again.
"Let this be a lesson to you, Bradley," said Chuck. "Gods trade hats for doughnuts. Yes, this world you're seeing for the first time--it's not much different from the world you've known, not in the ways that really matter. You know all the stories about how crazy and stupid and generous and HUMAN all the Greek gods were?"
Bradley nodded. "Some of those stories are nuts."
"Yeah," agreed the god. "Humans ARE nuts. We're all kinds of crazy, humans and gods and fairies, and demons, and all the creatures from all seven of the cities that crowd together and meet." He held out his arms. "Right here in Seven Cities, Wisconsin."
Suddenly it seemed to Bradley as if the walls of the apartment were blown away by a wind, and his eyes were an onion, and the layers were peeled away one at a time, and he could SEE. The world was laid out before him--well, a small part of the world--and he could see the pit of fire that was just next to the library on Third, the mushroom ring in Mrs. Parkington's garden, the slow procession of hungry catipillars weaving a silken trail behind them that stretched between worlds, the unremembered dreams that called out, pulling a small boy back into the city he'd visited before and that he would visit again but that wasn't THIS city--it was another city, in the exact same place, and it was too much to take in, too much detail, and--
Then it was gone. The walls were back, and Bradley was finally sitting all the way back on the couch, breathing heavily.
"We're all a bit crazy," said Divine Chuck, "but we're all a bit good, too. It makes it fun to stick around." The god looked down at his empty wrist. "Look at the time. I need to go. Atty, you'll take care of my guests? Stick around with Bradley a bit, until he's really stablized. Keep the beasties off him until his energies even out, okay?"
"No problem," said the angel.
"Mind if I come along?" asked Olivia. "I haven't had a chance to interview many angels. They always say they're busy."
"We usually are." Atty smiled. Olivia smiled back. Bradley tried to recover. Chuck stood up and walked over, until he was standing over the couch.
"I think you've got some surprises in store, Practicality Bradley Shupak." The god smiled, and Bradley found he could breathe deeply. It was a good feeling, but he didn't feel relieved. He felt intimidated. There was something in Divine Chuck's eyes that spoke of weight and care to come. "Don't stress, Bradley. From what I've seen of you, things are going to get better. You'll pull through. Also, you don't have to finish the maple bar. I don't especially like them either. See? We're all kinds of human, we gods."
Then he was down the hallway and calling goodbye. The door opened, closed, and Divine Chuck was gone.
“I have no answer for that,” said Olivia. “Whatever I say, you’ll just smile and say something else ridiculous.”
“Chuck does that,” said Atty, walking in with a tray that supported mostly full glasses and a bowl of ice. With tongs. Who actually serves ice with tongs? “Mango nectar?” asked Atty, the angel who served ice with tongs.
“Wow,” said Olivia, smiling. “Gods actually drink nectar.”
“I do,” said Chuck. “Standing Appointment lives off Coffee and Red Bull, not usually at the same time, but often enough. The Twins are on this thing about drinking milk to lose weight, and while Mr. O sells muffins, no one has ever actually seen him eat or drink anything.”
“Ever had ambrosia?” asked Bradley.
Chuck took his glass and added three cubes. “I don’t actually know what that is. Sometimes I think the Greeks made it up.”
“I’ve heard it’s real,” said the angel.
“What’s it made of?”
“It’s kind of like Nutella with biscotti.”
“You’re not serious.”
“It’s what I heard. Can’t blame me for rumors.”
“Actually,” said Chuck, looking thoughtful, “I often can.”
“I’m hurt, offended, and going to get doughnuts from your pantry.” And Atty was gone again.
"Bradley," said Divine Chuck.
"Yes, sir?"
"I gather from your comments that you've had a run-in with some unusual creatures."
Bradley found himself laughing a breathy laugh that was almost more cough than laugh. He reached out and snagged a glass from where the tray had settled onto the counter. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"I did say that."
"That's what...it was a metaphor."
"A figure of speech," corrected Olivia.
Chuck winked at Bradley and smiled, the way only old men who are astonishingly comfortable with themselves can wink. And gods, apparently. "I was messing with you. But back on track: seeing things now? Don't look at her, Bradley. Look at me. She thinks I'm crazy and you're on your way there, and nothing you're going to do now is going to change that."
Olivia pulled back. "I don't think you're crazy."
"Delusional, then."
"A very benign delusion, then," she said, shifting in her chair.
"She doesn't want to say it outright, but she thinks I'm crazy, and that's why she's here. You see," Chuck pulled his hat off and went on in a stage whisper, his ball cap blocking Olivia from view, "she doesn't believe in gods. Do you believe in gods?"
"I don't know," Bradley admitted.
"Excellent," said Chuck, putting his hat back on and sitting back. Somehow a glass had made its way into his hand, though Bradley couldn't remember the man reaching for one. "That's a great start. Ignorance is the start of all knowledge, right?"
"Knowledge leads to more knowledge," said Olivia. "Ignorance is never something to be proud of."
"I never said I was proud of it," said Bradley.
"Oh, but sometimes it is," went on the god, unperturbed. "Olivia, you have glasses on--metaphorical glasses, and I believe I'm using the term correctly--we all have these glasses on. They color how we see the world. They're the framework of belief that we all use to make sense of the rest of existence."
"You're preaching to the choir," muttered Olivia over her glass as she took a drink.
"I understand that, Miss Sociology Graduate Student, but this is important for Bradley to recognize, because while I have no illusions about ever converting you, I have no need to convert Bradley. He has Seen." The god said the last word with an arched eyebrow and a capital letter. It made Bradley want to squirm, but he didn't dare. The glass was just a little too full and the couch just a little too nice. No squirming until he got the mango nectar levels within safety parameters.
"Always so dramatic," said Atty, walking back in with another tray, this one covered in doughnuts. The doughnuts ended up on the table and Atty fell gracefully into the other end of the couch shared by his boss.
"Say what?" protested Chuck.
"You're dramatic."
"You are."
"No, you are."
"No, YOU are."
"Here's a pillow."
"Why do I need a pillow?"
"For crying on, since you’re so dramatic."
"Those jeans make you look fat."
"Your FACE is fat."
Bradley watched, somewhere between amusement and shock. Olivia drank her nectar and took notes. What could she possibly be writing down about this? Apparently, gods are something like teenagers: they think they are immortal and use really stupid insults.
"Anyway," said Chuck, laughing. "I got off track again. Glasses."
"Glasses?" asked Bradley.
"The ones you see the world through."
"Right. My world view."
"Yes."
"What about it?"
"You've lost your glasses."
"Oh." It made sense. He could see what Divine Chuck was getting at. When he'd gone to bed last night, the world was put together one way, with its usual complement of plants, animals, and laws of physics. When he'd woken up, he'd been without a stuffy nose, headache, or a really definite picture of how the world worked. Bagels were made with sunshine, his gut drove him around town, and gray scaly creatures tried to eat him. Apparently it wasn't the world that had changed; he'd simply lost his glasses.
Bradley realized he'd been staring at a doughnut and looked up and around. Atty was making solid headway on a chocolate with chocolate and chocolate sprinkles, Chuck was yawning, and Olivia was watching him expectantly.
"What's up?" he asked.
"That's it?" she said.
"I think so."
"This guy you've never met before tells you that the world is completely changed, and you just say 'oh?'"
"Was I supposed to say something else? And, um, that's not what he said."
"He's right," interjected Chuck. "That's not what I said. Besides, like I told you before, I don't have to convert Bradley. Want a doughnut?"
"Yeah. Maple?"
"I think there's one buried," said Atty through a mouthful, managing to make talking with a chocolate doughnut in your cheeks look suave. Bradley sighed and went digging.
Olivia took notes and shook her head. "I don't get you people. You seem so absolutely convinced, but no one will show me a single bit of evidence that you're actually gods or that these worlds you talk about truly exist."
Chuck jerked his head at Olivia, smiling at Bradley. "See?" he said. "She's still wearing glasses."
Olivia rolled her eyes. "Yes, I get it. Your metaphor is not lost on me."
The god leaned forward, looked at the doughnuts meditatively, then pushed the tray away slightly and sat back. "So how did you lose your glasses?"
Bradley chewed on his doughnut and shrugged. Why had he picked maple? He didn't like maple, not in comparison to that chocolate with chocolate and chocolate sprinkles, but he didn't feel he'd come off well in any comparison in Atty, so he chewed and swallowed. "I have no idea. I woke up, and they weren't there. Things were...different."
"Any unusual events? Resurgent childhood trauma? Visit from a maiden aunt who the family has always worried about? You inherited a ring from your short yet exceptionally long-lived uncle who shares your birthday?"
"I don't have an uncle."
Chuck waggled his moustache dismissively. "No maiden aunts, either?"
"All five are married."
"Trauma?"
"Not really. I lost my job. Almost killed a guy."
"On purpose?"
"No. Allergic reaction. It was my first night as a waiter. And my last."
"But the guy didn't die?"
"I don't think so. You know those old jokes where someone yells, 'Is there a doctor in the house?'"
"Yeah."
"There was a nurse. I think he was okay."
"Hmm. Nothing else?"
"Not that I can think of. I mean, there was this thing with my niece, but that was after, as far as I can tell."
"That wasn't traumatic?"
"No. She just had a cold or something." Bradley stopped talking. He was willing to say a lot of stuff, but he wasn't sure yet that he wanted to come out and tell Olivia that he might have healed a baby. First off, she'd probably think he was nuts--not just pathetic--and second, it might come off like he was trying too hard. YEAH, THAT GUY MAY BE AN ANGEL, BUT I HEAL BABIES. AND RESCUE WOUNDED, DWARF PANDAS FROM ANGRY POACHERS. ALSO, THE PANDAS ARE DIABETIC. He kept his mouth shut.
"I'm stumped," said Chuck.
"Me, too," said Atty. "Good doughnuts. Where'd you get them?"
"A place Mr. O recommended."
"Seriously? What did you have to pay for that recommendation?"
"He doesn't do that to other gods, Atty. Just to mortals."
"What did you pay?"
"You don't believe me?"
"I don't believe you."
"Fine. I gave him my third favorite hat."
"Forever?!"
"Just a loaner, but still. That's a good hat."
"No kidding, that's a good hat." Atty looked impressed. "I have to say, though, these doughnuts are worth it. At least the chocolate are." The angel reached for another, and Bradley silently regretted his maple bar yet again.
"Let this be a lesson to you, Bradley," said Chuck. "Gods trade hats for doughnuts. Yes, this world you're seeing for the first time--it's not much different from the world you've known, not in the ways that really matter. You know all the stories about how crazy and stupid and generous and HUMAN all the Greek gods were?"
Bradley nodded. "Some of those stories are nuts."
"Yeah," agreed the god. "Humans ARE nuts. We're all kinds of crazy, humans and gods and fairies, and demons, and all the creatures from all seven of the cities that crowd together and meet." He held out his arms. "Right here in Seven Cities, Wisconsin."
Suddenly it seemed to Bradley as if the walls of the apartment were blown away by a wind, and his eyes were an onion, and the layers were peeled away one at a time, and he could SEE. The world was laid out before him--well, a small part of the world--and he could see the pit of fire that was just next to the library on Third, the mushroom ring in Mrs. Parkington's garden, the slow procession of hungry catipillars weaving a silken trail behind them that stretched between worlds, the unremembered dreams that called out, pulling a small boy back into the city he'd visited before and that he would visit again but that wasn't THIS city--it was another city, in the exact same place, and it was too much to take in, too much detail, and--
Then it was gone. The walls were back, and Bradley was finally sitting all the way back on the couch, breathing heavily.
"We're all a bit crazy," said Divine Chuck, "but we're all a bit good, too. It makes it fun to stick around." The god looked down at his empty wrist. "Look at the time. I need to go. Atty, you'll take care of my guests? Stick around with Bradley a bit, until he's really stablized. Keep the beasties off him until his energies even out, okay?"
"No problem," said the angel.
"Mind if I come along?" asked Olivia. "I haven't had a chance to interview many angels. They always say they're busy."
"We usually are." Atty smiled. Olivia smiled back. Bradley tried to recover. Chuck stood up and walked over, until he was standing over the couch.
"I think you've got some surprises in store, Practicality Bradley Shupak." The god smiled, and Bradley found he could breathe deeply. It was a good feeling, but he didn't feel relieved. He felt intimidated. There was something in Divine Chuck's eyes that spoke of weight and care to come. "Don't stress, Bradley. From what I've seen of you, things are going to get better. You'll pull through. Also, you don't have to finish the maple bar. I don't especially like them either. See? We're all kinds of human, we gods."
Then he was down the hallway and calling goodbye. The door opened, closed, and Divine Chuck was gone.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 11a
[A bit of an abrupt end, but there's more to this section than will happen in just a few words, so I'll use tomorrow and get it posted by the evening. Outlining makes for longer sections, it seems.]
It wasn't much more than a ten minute walk from the subway station to Divine Chuck's apartment building. Atty spent the trip chattering about what kind of crazy things people do in subway stations--like the lady who came through dressed as a muffler, and the guy who came back every week to count the tiles, making sure the station hadn't shrunk any--so Bradley didn't have to say much. He mostly nodded, laughed, and acted like it was perfectly normal to be walking through the streets of Seven Cities, Wisconsin, with an angel. Everybody does it at least ONCE in his life, right? And he certainly wasn't going crazy. Crazy would be hanging out with a vampire, or something like that. And there was no way vampires were real. No way at all. Bradley leaned back slightly and looked at Atty's back again. Nothing. Just a rattling guitar case.
He tuned back in to what the angel was saying. "So Chuck told him that no, he didn't need life insurance, and he sent the guy out of the station so fast, the air popped behind him. Which kind of proved the guy wrong."
"I'm sorry," said Bradley. "Proved him wrong how?"
"Didn't you hear the first part?"
Bradley shook his head. "I got distracted."
"That ruins the whole joke."
"Sorry."
"No problem," said the angel. "The first part of the story was this insurance guy claiming he could sell life insurance to God."
Bradley blinked. "Oh, right. And Chuck is God."
"No-no-no." Atty shook his head vigorously. "Not THE God. Just A god. Big difference. You really have been distracted, haven't you?"
"Just slightly. It's not ever day that you meet a guy with wings."
"Probably happens more often than you think," said the angel. "We don't usually wear our wings on the outside, though. Calls too much attention to ourselves. We try to keep a low profile. Fewer questions that way. Less government regulation."
Bradley smiled. "What would you call THAT department? The Angel Licensing Bureau?"
"Divine Association Management and Metaphysical Interface Team. Which shows that someone in Washington has a sense of humor."
"I don't get it."
"The first letters of the words are D, A, M, M, I--"
"I get it now. This is a real thing?"
"Went defunct a few decades ago. Most magical and inter-dimensional relations are managed by secret organizations and agencies. It's a weird system, but works better than trying to use a bunch of red tape to tie up a dragon."
"Many dragons around?"
"Real or metaphorical?"
"Either. No, wait. Real."
"Not very many real dragons around, no."
"That's good to hear," said Bradley. He followed Atty as the angel turned and walked through the door and into the lobby of an apartment building. "Is this where Chuck lives?"
"Right at the top," said Atty. "Sixth floor, great view of the lake between buildings."
Bradley looked around the lobby. It was small. One wall was the elevators (two) and mailboxes (twenty, maybe?), while the other wall was a message board and the door of the supervisor's apartment.
"This isn't very fancy."
"Divine Chuck isn't a very fancy god. Never went in for the flashy stuff."
"But he IS a god, right?"
Atty grinned. "You don't seem very convinced. I just sprouted wings, called up a sword of flame, and turned two creatures to ash, creatures you'd never seen before in your life. What do I have to do to convince you that my boss is a God?"
Bradley rubbed his hands over his face. "Maybe he could turn water into wine."
"Why?" asked Atty. "You drink?"
"No, actually."
"Neither does Chuck, so what's the point?" He punched the up button with a stiff finger and leaned against the wall between the elevators. "Trust me, Bradley. Chuck's a god, and I'm one of his angels. The world is an amazing place."
"Yes, it is," Bradley agreed.
The doors opened, they climbed in, and Bradley sat with his back against a fake-wood panel. In an elevator with an angel. Sounded like that should be the title of a song, and it probably was. A country song. The doors opened again, and he followed Atty down the hall toward the front of the building. The angel knocked on the door to an apartment and pushed it open.
"Chuck? You in?"
"Living room!" yelled a voice from somewhere inside.
"Come on," said Atty, smiling back at Bradley. "Nothing to worry about. Bradley's nice."
"Sure," said Bradley, and he stepped into the home of a god. It looked surprisingly like a normal apartment. "He likes hats."
"Yes, he does."
"That's a big hat rack."
"There's a lot more in the bedroom," said Atty. "Also, he loans them out obsessively, so I think he has a couple dozen more on heads around the city."
"Does that have anything to do with being a god?"
"Nope. That has everything to do with liking hats. Come on in. You should meet him."
Bradley followed down a short hallway and into a room big enough for a pair of couches, big TV, easy chair, and a table settled in one corner. The table was covered with a jigsaw puzzle, mostly finished, that looked like lots and lots of bubbles. The wall away from the windows was covered in art that looked original and like landscapes. One couch was covered by Olivia, Bradley's downstairs neighbor. She was holding a notebook and pen. Also, she was looking at him.
"Bradley?"
"Olivia?"
"Chuck?" said Atty, faking surprise.
"Atty?" said the man on the other couch, appearing equally unshocked and equally amused. He was wearing a baseball cap with the word 'FLEX' across the front. He looked somewhere in his thirties, an average kind of fit, and a bristly moustache like he never made it out of the 1980's. "Are we all done saying names now? I'd like to meet the guy that my angel's brought around. You mind, Olivia?"
"No, that's fine" said Bradley's neighbor, looking unattainably good and curvy in jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of a cat looking slightly insane. Bradley found that slightly disappointing. Cute girls weren't supposed to wear cat t-shirts. He didn't like cats.
"Hey, nice shirt," said Atty, looking at Olivia. "I love cats."
'Thanks," said Olivia, smiling a little more brightly than was necessary, Bradley thought. He looked back at Atty. Ugh. The man really was good looking, and the guitar case over the shoulder was appealing in an urban-renegade sort of way.
"Hi," said Chuck. He'd stood up and walked over to Bradley and was holding out his hand. "I'm Chuck."
Bradley shook. "I'm Bradley Shupak. Nice to meet you."
"My pleasure," said the god. "So why did Atty bring you over? Something to do with the disturbance in my temple?"
"How did you know about that?"
Chuck let go of the handshake and looked back at Olivia, grinning. "Do I say it, Olivia, or do I let you?"
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you go ahead, Chuck. Your kind enjoys saying it so much."
"That's fine with me." He turned back to Bradley. "It's because I'm a god."
Bradley glanced at Olivia. She looked skeptical, but amused, and Chuck just looked happy. Atty didn’t look like anything. He’d wandered off down the hall somewhere, and Bradley heard the mixed sound of machinery and crackling ice that is the universal sign of an automatic ice machine.
“I think I’m lost,” said Bradley.
“Come sit down, and we’ll try to get you un-lost.” Chuck waved Bradley over to the easy chair and dropped himself back onto his couch, adjusting his ball cap with both hands. Bradley sat down on the edge of the overstuffed chair. It looked comfortable—it felt comfortable—but he didn’t want to slouch back into it. He was afraid he might look ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous to worry about looking ridiculous, but he had to choose one or the other, so he stayed on the edge of the chair.
“So, Bradley, what brings you here? Besides Atty, that is.”
Bradley rubbed his hands together between his knees. “I don’t know, really. This morning I woke up and my nose wasn’t stuffy—I mean, that’s not—this isn’t—what does a god DO exactly?”
Chuck smiled and Olivia laughed. “Yes, ‘Divine’ Chuck,” she said. “What IS it that you gods do, exactly? I’m not sure I’ve seen a single one of you do an honest day’s work.”
“That’s not fair,” said the god. “What about Standing Appointment?”
“Fine,” she said, spinning her pen on her notebook. “So ONE of you has an honest job, if you can call selling hot dogs ‘work.’”
Chuck leaned over to Bradley conspiratorially. “Clearly, our grad student here has never had to stand on her feet for ten hours. She should give Stan a little more credit.”
“So why don’t you tell us what YOU’VE done today, all-powerful god,” said Olivia.
“Not all-powerful. Only somewhat powerful. Powerful within my means, you might say. Speaking of which, Atty!”
“What’s up?” called the angel from the kitchen.
“How were the offerings from the faithful today?”
“I left the case on the floor in there. Didn’t you see it?”
Chuck peeked back over the couch. “Good take?” he called.
“Decent.”
“It looked like plenty of money to me,” said Bradley.
“It’s not about the money,” said Chuck, facing back front. “It’s about faith.”
“They have to believe in you?”
“No, not in me, specifically. In doing good. And they have to act on it, of course. It’s not enough just to think that good is good and bad is bad. You have to do something about it. That is faith. They give it to me, and I am faithful in return.” He turned to Olivia. “What did I do today? I cured two incipient colds—that’s a good word, ‘incipient’—prevented seven robberies, nudged a budding romance along, and gave my angel the power to destroy an emissary of evil. At least I hope it was an emissary of evil. That’s always impressive. Atty! Did we destroy an emissary of evil this morning?”
“Not so much,” called the angel. “More an elemental force than actual evil. Definitely a threat, though. Think of it as pest control.”
“Pest control,” muttered Chuck. “Necessary, I guess, but not especially glamorous.”
“I don’t know,” said Olivia. “I admire a man who can kill a cockroach.” She was looking toward the kitchen when she said it.
“You do, do you,” said Chuck, looking thoughtful. “At least tell me they were big cockroaches, Bradley.”
Bradley thought of the smell, the weight of the Ipthakorian pressing down on him and the cold tile against the back of his head. “Yeah. Big ones.”
“Hmm.” Chuck met Bradley’s eyes and seemed to understand. “I’ll take it. So now that you know a little more what a god does, do you have any other questions, Brad? Can I call you Brad?”
“Actually, I’ve always preferred Bradley.”
“Really? That doesn’t seem to fit you. I don’t see you as a ‘Bradley.’ Am I losing my touch?”
Bradley thought about letting it go—no need for Olivia to know his real name—but something in his heart wouldn’t let him stay silent. It was wrong not to give that respect to a god in his home.
“That’s my middle name. My first name is something else.”
“Aha! Tell me. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“Practicality. My name is Practicality.”
Olivia laughed, the short ring of a bell.
“You find that funny?” asked Chuck.
She shrugged. “It’s just that Bradley never struck me as the practical sort. More the kind to follow his instincts on some kind of wild goose chase.”
“Is there anything more practical than that?” asked Chuck, smiling.
It wasn't much more than a ten minute walk from the subway station to Divine Chuck's apartment building. Atty spent the trip chattering about what kind of crazy things people do in subway stations--like the lady who came through dressed as a muffler, and the guy who came back every week to count the tiles, making sure the station hadn't shrunk any--so Bradley didn't have to say much. He mostly nodded, laughed, and acted like it was perfectly normal to be walking through the streets of Seven Cities, Wisconsin, with an angel. Everybody does it at least ONCE in his life, right? And he certainly wasn't going crazy. Crazy would be hanging out with a vampire, or something like that. And there was no way vampires were real. No way at all. Bradley leaned back slightly and looked at Atty's back again. Nothing. Just a rattling guitar case.
He tuned back in to what the angel was saying. "So Chuck told him that no, he didn't need life insurance, and he sent the guy out of the station so fast, the air popped behind him. Which kind of proved the guy wrong."
"I'm sorry," said Bradley. "Proved him wrong how?"
"Didn't you hear the first part?"
Bradley shook his head. "I got distracted."
"That ruins the whole joke."
"Sorry."
"No problem," said the angel. "The first part of the story was this insurance guy claiming he could sell life insurance to God."
Bradley blinked. "Oh, right. And Chuck is God."
"No-no-no." Atty shook his head vigorously. "Not THE God. Just A god. Big difference. You really have been distracted, haven't you?"
"Just slightly. It's not ever day that you meet a guy with wings."
"Probably happens more often than you think," said the angel. "We don't usually wear our wings on the outside, though. Calls too much attention to ourselves. We try to keep a low profile. Fewer questions that way. Less government regulation."
Bradley smiled. "What would you call THAT department? The Angel Licensing Bureau?"
"Divine Association Management and Metaphysical Interface Team. Which shows that someone in Washington has a sense of humor."
"I don't get it."
"The first letters of the words are D, A, M, M, I--"
"I get it now. This is a real thing?"
"Went defunct a few decades ago. Most magical and inter-dimensional relations are managed by secret organizations and agencies. It's a weird system, but works better than trying to use a bunch of red tape to tie up a dragon."
"Many dragons around?"
"Real or metaphorical?"
"Either. No, wait. Real."
"Not very many real dragons around, no."
"That's good to hear," said Bradley. He followed Atty as the angel turned and walked through the door and into the lobby of an apartment building. "Is this where Chuck lives?"
"Right at the top," said Atty. "Sixth floor, great view of the lake between buildings."
Bradley looked around the lobby. It was small. One wall was the elevators (two) and mailboxes (twenty, maybe?), while the other wall was a message board and the door of the supervisor's apartment.
"This isn't very fancy."
"Divine Chuck isn't a very fancy god. Never went in for the flashy stuff."
"But he IS a god, right?"
Atty grinned. "You don't seem very convinced. I just sprouted wings, called up a sword of flame, and turned two creatures to ash, creatures you'd never seen before in your life. What do I have to do to convince you that my boss is a God?"
Bradley rubbed his hands over his face. "Maybe he could turn water into wine."
"Why?" asked Atty. "You drink?"
"No, actually."
"Neither does Chuck, so what's the point?" He punched the up button with a stiff finger and leaned against the wall between the elevators. "Trust me, Bradley. Chuck's a god, and I'm one of his angels. The world is an amazing place."
"Yes, it is," Bradley agreed.
The doors opened, they climbed in, and Bradley sat with his back against a fake-wood panel. In an elevator with an angel. Sounded like that should be the title of a song, and it probably was. A country song. The doors opened again, and he followed Atty down the hall toward the front of the building. The angel knocked on the door to an apartment and pushed it open.
"Chuck? You in?"
"Living room!" yelled a voice from somewhere inside.
"Come on," said Atty, smiling back at Bradley. "Nothing to worry about. Bradley's nice."
"Sure," said Bradley, and he stepped into the home of a god. It looked surprisingly like a normal apartment. "He likes hats."
"Yes, he does."
"That's a big hat rack."
"There's a lot more in the bedroom," said Atty. "Also, he loans them out obsessively, so I think he has a couple dozen more on heads around the city."
"Does that have anything to do with being a god?"
"Nope. That has everything to do with liking hats. Come on in. You should meet him."
Bradley followed down a short hallway and into a room big enough for a pair of couches, big TV, easy chair, and a table settled in one corner. The table was covered with a jigsaw puzzle, mostly finished, that looked like lots and lots of bubbles. The wall away from the windows was covered in art that looked original and like landscapes. One couch was covered by Olivia, Bradley's downstairs neighbor. She was holding a notebook and pen. Also, she was looking at him.
"Bradley?"
"Olivia?"
"Chuck?" said Atty, faking surprise.
"Atty?" said the man on the other couch, appearing equally unshocked and equally amused. He was wearing a baseball cap with the word 'FLEX' across the front. He looked somewhere in his thirties, an average kind of fit, and a bristly moustache like he never made it out of the 1980's. "Are we all done saying names now? I'd like to meet the guy that my angel's brought around. You mind, Olivia?"
"No, that's fine" said Bradley's neighbor, looking unattainably good and curvy in jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of a cat looking slightly insane. Bradley found that slightly disappointing. Cute girls weren't supposed to wear cat t-shirts. He didn't like cats.
"Hey, nice shirt," said Atty, looking at Olivia. "I love cats."
'Thanks," said Olivia, smiling a little more brightly than was necessary, Bradley thought. He looked back at Atty. Ugh. The man really was good looking, and the guitar case over the shoulder was appealing in an urban-renegade sort of way.
"Hi," said Chuck. He'd stood up and walked over to Bradley and was holding out his hand. "I'm Chuck."
Bradley shook. "I'm Bradley Shupak. Nice to meet you."
"My pleasure," said the god. "So why did Atty bring you over? Something to do with the disturbance in my temple?"
"How did you know about that?"
Chuck let go of the handshake and looked back at Olivia, grinning. "Do I say it, Olivia, or do I let you?"
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you go ahead, Chuck. Your kind enjoys saying it so much."
"That's fine with me." He turned back to Bradley. "It's because I'm a god."
Bradley glanced at Olivia. She looked skeptical, but amused, and Chuck just looked happy. Atty didn’t look like anything. He’d wandered off down the hall somewhere, and Bradley heard the mixed sound of machinery and crackling ice that is the universal sign of an automatic ice machine.
“I think I’m lost,” said Bradley.
“Come sit down, and we’ll try to get you un-lost.” Chuck waved Bradley over to the easy chair and dropped himself back onto his couch, adjusting his ball cap with both hands. Bradley sat down on the edge of the overstuffed chair. It looked comfortable—it felt comfortable—but he didn’t want to slouch back into it. He was afraid he might look ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous to worry about looking ridiculous, but he had to choose one or the other, so he stayed on the edge of the chair.
“So, Bradley, what brings you here? Besides Atty, that is.”
Bradley rubbed his hands together between his knees. “I don’t know, really. This morning I woke up and my nose wasn’t stuffy—I mean, that’s not—this isn’t—what does a god DO exactly?”
Chuck smiled and Olivia laughed. “Yes, ‘Divine’ Chuck,” she said. “What IS it that you gods do, exactly? I’m not sure I’ve seen a single one of you do an honest day’s work.”
“That’s not fair,” said the god. “What about Standing Appointment?”
“Fine,” she said, spinning her pen on her notebook. “So ONE of you has an honest job, if you can call selling hot dogs ‘work.’”
Chuck leaned over to Bradley conspiratorially. “Clearly, our grad student here has never had to stand on her feet for ten hours. She should give Stan a little more credit.”
“So why don’t you tell us what YOU’VE done today, all-powerful god,” said Olivia.
“Not all-powerful. Only somewhat powerful. Powerful within my means, you might say. Speaking of which, Atty!”
“What’s up?” called the angel from the kitchen.
“How were the offerings from the faithful today?”
“I left the case on the floor in there. Didn’t you see it?”
Chuck peeked back over the couch. “Good take?” he called.
“Decent.”
“It looked like plenty of money to me,” said Bradley.
“It’s not about the money,” said Chuck, facing back front. “It’s about faith.”
“They have to believe in you?”
“No, not in me, specifically. In doing good. And they have to act on it, of course. It’s not enough just to think that good is good and bad is bad. You have to do something about it. That is faith. They give it to me, and I am faithful in return.” He turned to Olivia. “What did I do today? I cured two incipient colds—that’s a good word, ‘incipient’—prevented seven robberies, nudged a budding romance along, and gave my angel the power to destroy an emissary of evil. At least I hope it was an emissary of evil. That’s always impressive. Atty! Did we destroy an emissary of evil this morning?”
“Not so much,” called the angel. “More an elemental force than actual evil. Definitely a threat, though. Think of it as pest control.”
“Pest control,” muttered Chuck. “Necessary, I guess, but not especially glamorous.”
“I don’t know,” said Olivia. “I admire a man who can kill a cockroach.” She was looking toward the kitchen when she said it.
“You do, do you,” said Chuck, looking thoughtful. “At least tell me they were big cockroaches, Bradley.”
Bradley thought of the smell, the weight of the Ipthakorian pressing down on him and the cold tile against the back of his head. “Yeah. Big ones.”
“Hmm.” Chuck met Bradley’s eyes and seemed to understand. “I’ll take it. So now that you know a little more what a god does, do you have any other questions, Brad? Can I call you Brad?”
“Actually, I’ve always preferred Bradley.”
“Really? That doesn’t seem to fit you. I don’t see you as a ‘Bradley.’ Am I losing my touch?”
Bradley thought about letting it go—no need for Olivia to know his real name—but something in his heart wouldn’t let him stay silent. It was wrong not to give that respect to a god in his home.
“That’s my middle name. My first name is something else.”
“Aha! Tell me. If you don’t mind, that is.”
“Practicality. My name is Practicality.”
Olivia laughed, the short ring of a bell.
“You find that funny?” asked Chuck.
She shrugged. “It’s just that Bradley never struck me as the practical sort. More the kind to follow his instincts on some kind of wild goose chase.”
“Is there anything more practical than that?” asked Chuck, smiling.
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