On the Subject of living (or unliving...)
"Doctor, I don't know what to do."
"Luce, since when did that ever concern you at all?" Frank looked up from his newpaper at Lucifer, Morningstar, one-most-unclean, or whatever the fuck the kids were calling him these days.
"I am just really rethinking this 'questioning God's authority' thing."
"Doncha think it's a little late for that?"
"I know, I know. But I have been having this reaccuring dream lately."
"Oh god, here we go again," Frank thought to himself, which was retarded, considering Lucifer would hear it anyways.
"I am eating at Wendy's with God, and she turns to me and offers me her fries..."
"Lucifer -"
"No, let me finish!" Lucifer scorched the chair, flaming with anger.
"Hey! That's italian leather!"
"Anyways - I refuse the fries and want her pickles instead. And we all know how God loves the pickles. So she banished me to Taco Bell and I was force-fed chimigungas."
"You finished?" Frank grew impatient.
"Yes."
"This whole guilt thing has gone way too far. You're dwelling in the past way too much. So, you got a little pissed and God fired you off her board of directors. But look at how far you have come? You created your own plane of existance, cast fear into catholics everywhere, and not to mention that Michael Jackson creature. Nicely done, i might add."
"I guess you are right. But what about the Jews?"
"What about them?"
"They don't believe in Hell! I am a failure!"
"Tell that to Freud down the hall... Listen, keep taking your klonopin twice a day and try not to start the apocolypse, eh? We don't need another one of those again."
"Thanks Frank. Next Tuesday, right?"
"Yes, same time, as always," Frank forced a smile.
---
Frank kept to himself in the back of Satan's Silhouette, where he had secretly built an employee lounge without the others knowing. It just goes to show them lazy-asses what a little hard work can accomplish. With a double shot of vodka on the rocks in one hand, and Lucifer's casefile in the other, he slowly reread his notes.
"Frank! Frank, where the heck are you!?" Maize shouted from behind the bookcase.
Frank sighed, taking a look at the notes again. "Luci, Luci, Luci... You bipolar son of a - "
-is vodka slowly gave away to the crimson color of blood. "Bitch."
He dumped the glass quickly, shuffled to the bookshelf and pulled on the copy of Lolita. It shifted open enough for him to squeeze through, and no one ever saw a thing.
"What is it now, Maize!?"
"Elise is beating the crap out of Hawthorne, again."
"So?"
"She is using the cash register."
"Shit."
it's kinda nice to just write without worrying about it sounding pretty...