Coffee and Brimstone

This morning I woke up feeling really unholy. That isn't particularly new for me, being who I am. Who am I, you ask? I've got a great deal of names. Morning Star, Destroyer, Rebel, Lucifer. Yup, I'm the Devil. And for the record, I'm not too fond of fire and brimstone. I mean, it's nice and all, but sometimes I need a change. Not my fault that every time I go on vacation some catastrophic event happens. Well, it probably is, but I never intend to cause trouble up there. I mean, I go on vacation to relax and get AWAY from the office.

I got up out of bed, pulled on my suit (Armani), straightened my tie (silk), and decided that today was a good day to do something besides work. So I went to the phone and made a call.

"Hey, Gabe, you busy today?"

"Is that you, Luc? No, I'm not busy today," replied Gabriel. Yes, you heard me right. I was calling the Archangel Gabriel on the phone. We had a little arrangement. We still get to hang out like the good ol' boys we are at heart, so long as we leave business at the office. Decent arrangement, really.

I grinned. "Cool. You wanna grab some lattes? It's been a while since we hung out."

"Sure, man. The usual place?"

"Yeah, Gabe. The usual place." We good-byed each other and I hung up.

Two minutes later I was out of Hell and in the long-term lot of the parking garage where I kept my car. I checked my appearance in the mirror of a sedan nearby, slicked back my hair into a decent facsimile of a part, and walked over to my vintage, fire-engine red, 1939 Ford Convertible Coupe. I climbed in, turned the key, and listened to her big flathead V8 rumble to life. I pulled out of the garage, and drove to our meeting place.

I pulled into the lot of Cafe Mojoe and parked my Ford. I could easily see Gabe's ride, a snow-white '69 Charger, sitting two spaces down from me. I walked in and saw him sitting by the fireplace, discussing blues trumpet with a striking brunette. She excused herself and I sat down across the table from him. "Hey, Gabriel, what's up?"

He smirked and said, "You know, Matchstick, Every time I see you it's like you get uglier and uglier." He broke out laughing and I pouted.

"Well, you aren't gonna win any beauty contests yourself, Halo."

We both laughed at that one. Everybody knew that Gabriel's two obsessions were his trumpet playing and his X-Box. The angel was absolutely obsessed with HALO. While he chuckled, I looked him over. He was wearing a Rebecca St.-James tee, jeans with the knees ripped out, beat-up Ariat roping boots, and a five-o'clock shadow. When he quit laughing, he smiled. "How 'bout those Braves, eh? They oughta fire their starting pitcher."

"True. Boy can't throw to save his life. I mean, he couldn't hit the broadside of a bull with a barn. Now, the Mets, they've got a shot at the Pennant."

Gabe grimaced and proceeded to explain for the millionth time that the Yankees would come out on top come October. He was a die-hard Yankees fan, had been since the glory days of the Babe and Murderers' Row.

I rolled my eyes theatrically. "With our luck, the Giants'll win the Series. Bonds is on fire this year."

Gabriel frowned. "I know. He's really swingin'." He looked thoughtful for a second, and then grinned. "I bet my car's better'n yours." With that he sparked the age-old debate between us, of who's car was better.

I sucked in a big breath of air and began to expound the virtues of the flathead V8 engine, Holley four-barrel carbs, the '39 Ford Coupe as a model, and Ford cars in general. They were powerful, they could run all day, they looked good, and were infinitely more durable than a prissy Dodge. I summed up my explanation/rant with a harumph and a "So there."

Gabriel worked his jaw back and forth to unhinge it in preparation, and began, at speed, to tell me just where I was wrong about Fords, which in his opinion was everywhere. He extolled the pros of the Dodge, the cons of the Ford, and the right supremacy of the Charger.

We were interrupted in our debate by the waitress bringing our coffees. I took a sip of my latte, looked at Gabe, and stated flatly, "You know, I almost miss being up there."

"You do? Whatever happened to 'Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven'?" Gabe looked confused.

I looked him in the eye. "I still believe that, but let's just say several millenia of fire and brimstone, and being stuck downstairs with the creme of the evil has affected my outlook. I don't quite see the bright side of my situation anymore. I think I'm, pardon the pun, burning out. I need a vacation." Yeah, I know. What happened to not talking shop? I wasn't talking shop. I hadn't mentioned torture, demons, or anything about work. I simply told my friend that I was having second thoughts about my choice of vocation.

Gabe looked at me with an appraising eye. "Then take one, but please, Matchstick, take it somewhere unpopulated. Your vacations aren't really good for mankind. In fact, bad fortune follows you like a puppy dog."

I faked outrage. "What do you mean, not good for mankind? What do you mean bad luck follows me?"

Gabriel faked a scowl. "You remember that nice little tropical getaway you took a while back? I do. You invited me to the island with you, to sit on the beach and sip drinks while we worked on our tans. What was the name of that island again?"

At that moment three men burst into the shop, shouted for us to get down and for the cashier to empty the till, and fired a shotgun into the ceiling.

Gabriel and I knelt under the tables, most undignified, and I looked at him. "Krakatoa."