*he's leaned against a wall, as per usual, and -- it's his birthday, though he's told nearly no one, and today he's forty-three years old (as much as that even matters anymore, thanks to Raphael) and in a positively foul mood ( Read more... )

What a waste of my valuable time.

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It's scrawled in his messy cursive on a spare piece of paper somewhere, crumpled, unfolded, and crumpled again, then stuffed into the bottom drawer of his desk. It's dated Saturday, April 29.

( Private. That is, you can't read this, and neither can you or you or you or you. )

( Imageheavy meme, huzzah. )

*for one Phlegethon Hades, destroyer of worlds, sanity comes and goes, and he just happens to be having something of a down period ( Read more... )

*...is dead, for the seventh time (and counting!)*

( Cut for gory details. )

*is, did we mention, alive? the typist hastens to blame certain other people cough Maja cough Chewie cough Angie cough for this ( Read more... )

*--oh.

if anyone cares? (which the typist rather doubts, given the reputation he's been managing to create for himself)

dead. dead, dead, dead. shot through the head -- hey, that rhymes!

but, yes. dead. bloodily and rather messily. there is, however, no actual weapon in evidence.*

*guess who's back, back again? Phlegethon's back, tell a friend!*

*oh, and he's pissed -- this makes itself obvious in the steely glint of his eyes, the rigid way with which he holds himself, and the slightly less-than-sane expression on his face*

*nearly snarled* I do not intend to allow myself into a position in which an angel can kill me again ( Read more... )

...

*hello, this is what Phlegethon is currently dressed like*

...Someone will pay for this.