Post by chuck on Jul 24, 2011 14:36:52 GMT -5
ALL YOUR COMPLIMENTS AND CUTTING REMARKS
EVERYDAY I WRITE THE BOOK
ARE CAPTURED HERE IN MY QUOTATION MARKS
In retrospect, Chuck should have known better than to suggest to an archangel that there was something incriminating on his computer. They were the hammers of God, after all. You don’t get to be a God’s hammer by collecting bottle caps and drawing ponies in your poetry chapbooks. You get it by hurting a lot of things that God doesn’t like. (And apparently giving visions to prophets, but that was beside the point.)[/center][/blockquote]
So of course, it was only natural for Gabriel, instead of doing something calm and okay like “accidentally” pulling the plug again, to obey His Holy Instincts and just punch the entire screen into oblivion. Chuck ,though? Chuck was also acting on his instincts. He let out a loud yelp and jumped out of his seat—again—out of shock.
“What – what are you doing?! That’s – I have to – my computer!” he said, voice getting higher as he got more agitated. He looked wildly at the two of them, somewhere between angry and pants-wettingly terrified. “Loki! Yin! Come on! I – I know you guys don’t like it, but it-it’s not like I have a choice in what I write, it’s God who made me like this! I just… I can’t…”
His tone trailed off. He could tell that he wasn’t getting anywhere with this. An outburst from a five-foot-five mortal didn’t seem to count much in the presence of an Archangel and his demonic lover, did it? In fact, they even gave him the dirty looks as they left. Him. Like he had done anything that was his own, premeditated fault…
And that was his day. Two beings of inhuman power had come for an uninvited visit, got pissed at him for doing his job, broke his computer, and then left – with the kind of glares directed at him that suggested they wanted to pull off his legs for his grievous offenses.
Chuck slumped back in his chair and morosely looked into his mug, all the energy drained out of him. As they left, he didn’t really say anything, or give them goodbyes. What was the point? People came by him when they needed something, got mad at him for what he did, and then left with some kind of threat. That’s how it always was, being a prophet.
He stared at the spiderweb pattern of his beyond-repair computer monitor. A bit of angel blood was still on it where fist had met glass. He had to call his editor, tell her he was having “technical problems” (like he hadn’t used that excuse a thousand times?), and she’d ream him out like always, tell him he was unprofessional, but he’d just beg for a while and she’d eventually give him a week to get where he was. That meant he had to re-write a month’s work in seven days.
Because the angel and the demon he was writing about had too much damn sexual frustration to deal with each other.
“This sucks.”tagging nobody
words 474
lyrics everyday i write the book by ELVIS COSTELLO
notes that's all, folks
credits this was made by PARTY POISON
