Angels.
Or rather someone's idealized idea of angels.
Someone who reads a lot of Jack Chick tracks.
And takes them seriously.
Buff, chiseled features, long robes, halos, big flaming swords and very, very,
Caucasian.
Now, there are two distinct possibilities here.
Possibility one. These are angels, servitors of the god of the desert, who
smote Sodom and Gomorrah, and killed the firstborn sons of Egypt.
Let me be the first to say, I have my doubts.
Second possibility. These are projections based
on someone playing a City of Villains Mastermind concept character who has gone so fruit loopy that Toucan Sam himself would slip into a diabetic coma and join
the dead parrot in a state of un-voomed-ness.
I don't like that explanation either; but the evidence of my own situation points to
option number two being much more likely.
On the plus side, I don't have to be worried about being the worst dressed superhuman
in the room.
Not that I am going to spend a lot of time worrying about that. Time to get stuck in.
I pick a choke point and settle myself into it.
JC and the Sunshine Band are going to have to get through me to continue their pursuit of the patrons. There are other
ways around. Time to focus them in. I normally don't like to talk in a
fight. Silence is scarier. Much, much, scarier; but I need them focused on me
and only me.
"So quick question. When you were slaying
the first born of Egypt. Did you get wood?" Me and Jack Crow, the very
souls of discretion and polite discourse. "I bet it was Gopher wood. How
many cubits of trouser ark did you build?"
You would think celestial beings would be more serene.
Well you would if you haven't actually read the Old Testament; or much of the New Testament for that matter.
Not serene. Not serene at all.
"What?" Instant manifest
rage. Flames leaping bright blue from their swords. Faces creased with
emotion.
"It wasn't Gopher Wood? Perhaps it was
Shittum wood. From The acacia tree. Perfect for the Arc of the Covenant, and
proof positive that the boss-man likes it up the shittum; despite what Leviticus has to say on the matter."
Seconds are valuable. Every single one of them is
a few feet of travel for the people trying to get away. Every second reduces the chances of someone becoming an
innocent bystander hurt or killed. I just gained another ten.
"Blasphemy!" Okay. Very angry. The power of the voice sending my pony tail flapping. Obviously from the 'if you can't be clever, be loud' school.
"Hey. You're right. Sorry. I shall be as contrite as... you know who."
I raise my arms in cruciform fashion. "You guys do the M-C-A part of it.
You can get yourself clean, have a nice meal…"
The angel's sword rose, gripped in both hands, the flaming edge ready to split me
from crown to taint.
Or rather someone's idealized idea of angels.
Someone who reads a lot of Jack Chick tracks.
And takes them seriously.
Buff, chiseled features, long robes, halos, big flaming swords and very, very,
Caucasian.
Now, there are two distinct possibilities here.
Possibility one. These are angels, servitors of the god of the desert, who
smote Sodom and Gomorrah, and killed the firstborn sons of Egypt.
Let me be the first to say, I have my doubts.
Second possibility. These are projections based
on someone playing a City of Villains Mastermind concept character who has gone so fruit loopy that Toucan Sam himself would slip into a diabetic coma and join
the dead parrot in a state of un-voomed-ness.
I don't like that explanation either; but the evidence of my own situation points to
option number two being much more likely.
On the plus side, I don't have to be worried about being the worst dressed superhuman
in the room.
Not that I am going to spend a lot of time worrying about that. Time to get stuck in.
I pick a choke point and settle myself into it.
JC and the Sunshine Band are going to have to get through me to continue their pursuit of the patrons. There are other
ways around. Time to focus them in. I normally don't like to talk in a
fight. Silence is scarier. Much, much, scarier; but I need them focused on me
and only me.
"So quick question. When you were slaying
the first born of Egypt. Did you get wood?" Me and Jack Crow, the very
souls of discretion and polite discourse. "I bet it was Gopher wood. How
many cubits of trouser ark did you build?"
You would think celestial beings would be more serene.
Well you would if you haven't actually read the Old Testament; or much of the New Testament for that matter.
Not serene. Not serene at all.
"What?" Instant manifest
rage. Flames leaping bright blue from their swords. Faces creased with
emotion.
"It wasn't Gopher Wood? Perhaps it was
Shittum wood. From The acacia tree. Perfect for the Arc of the Covenant, and
proof positive that the boss-man likes it up the shittum; despite what Leviticus has to say on the matter."
Seconds are valuable. Every single one of them is
a few feet of travel for the people trying to get away. Every second reduces the chances of someone becoming an
innocent bystander hurt or killed. I just gained another ten.
"Blasphemy!" Okay. Very angry. The power of the voice sending my pony tail flapping. Obviously from the 'if you can't be clever, be loud' school.
"Hey. You're right. Sorry. I shall be as contrite as... you know who."
I raise my arms in cruciform fashion. "You guys do the M-C-A part of it.
You can get yourself clean, have a nice meal…"
The angel's sword rose, gripped in both hands, the flaming edge ready to split me
from crown to taint.