Owl Slap Some Sense into You...

Jack Hardcourt, record owner extraordinaire, can count the number of sane women he's dated on one hand; even if he lost a finger or two, he could still do it. Perhaps that penchant for crazy is what keeps him from throwing Claire Rogers out of his office.

Or...it could be the smooth legs, round hips, and devilish way the sundress she's wearing clings in all the right places. He is, after all, a dude.

"Run that by me again," he says.

"Rigged election. Devil may win. Apocalypse coming. Need your help."

He nods. "Right, that's what I thought you said." He takes her hand, places it against his forehead. "Am I feverish?" he asks.

She frowns at him - that librarian frown she uses when he's being particularly dense and her patience is wearing thin - but she doesn't move her hand. "In this one instance, Jack, God isn't a hallucination." She slides her hand down the side of his face, rests it against his cheek and runs her thumb along the ridge just below his eye. He feels like he's maybe - just maybe - hit the lottery. "Sorry," she says.

"For what?" he asks, bordering on happy for the first time in at least ten years.

She slaps him. Full on slaps him, hard enough his fillings rattle, and he nearly falls over from shock. When he looks at her, he sees colors and wonders if she knocked something lose in his already pretty frazzled brain; all around her, the air shimmers with colors.

"What the fuck..."

She smiles. "Do you see the colors?" she asks and he nods, transfixed. "Good. That means it worked!"

This focuses him. "What worked?" He moves his jaw, massages the spot where she hit him. It tingles, like pins and needles. "What did you hit me with?"

She shows him her hand; wrapped around her middle finger is a large, silver and dark wood ring he's never seen before. Carved into the dark wood is an owl; it raises an eyebrow as he stares at it and he leans back, immediately freaked.

She grins. "I literally just slapped some sense into you." She looks down at the owl, which has gone back to being still. "Artemis gave it to me for occasions just like this."

He's saved from comment as the bay doors blow open behind them and Claire's Uncle Mike arrives...wearing white linen pants, a white linen tunic, and huge fucking wings. Jack falls over the edge of the desk.

"Jesus Christ, what's with the wings!?"

Michael chuckles, shakes his head. "Don't let the sandals fool you, Jack," he says. "JC isn't nearly this white - or good looking."

Jack's poor mortal brain gives up on him; he passes out, his head hitting the concrete with a thud. Mike grins at Claire, who's glaring at the archangel.

"That sounded hollow to me," he says, laughing.

Claire slaps his wings. "Shut up, buzzard, and help me get him to the couch."

Mimosas, Library Books, and the Realization that God Listens...ALL THE TIME

Claire Rogers loves brunch. She loves being presented with a menu that allows her to order scrambled eggs and hash browns with her cheeseburger and mimosa. God loves brunch, too, but only because of the bottomless mimosas. She rarely drinks anymore, so when the opportunity arises to share a pitcher of champagne and orange juice, She jumps at it. (1)

"I think Lucy's up to something," She says from behind oversized sunglasses. Claire can't tell what She's looking at, but she's pretty sure it isn't her.

"I'm not sure that's an unreasonable suspicion," Claire says. "He is the Devil, after all..."

God frowns...and car alarms go off all across town. "Perhaps I should have clarified - something more devious than his usual bit of mischief."

"Like what?"

She shrugs. A gaggle of college boys pass their table at the sidewalk cafe and three of them stumble over each other as they ogle God's ample bosom, beautifully on display in Her gold and ivory sundress. God lowers Her sunglasses and glares at them with an expression meant to literally put the fear of Her into them.

Claire watches the familiar display with bored eyes, glances down at her own ample bosom on beautiful display. She's more than used to being ignored while in God's company; if anything, she's come to find the invisibility comforting.

"What's Lucy done this time?" she asks, sipping her coffee.

"He borrowed a library book with that temporary card you gave him," She says, replacing Her sunglasses.

Claire eyes her Holy Boss. "Well, then, we should string him up by his horns. How dare he borrow a book...from a library...that he belongs to..."

God once again lowers the sunglasses, appraises Her favorite prophet with cool green and humorless eyes. "Are you quite finished?" She asks.

"Just one more."

"If you must."

"Did he forget to return said book, the rule-breaking, magenta-colored fancy boy that he is?"

That gets God to smile. "I'm being ridiculous," She says with a laugh.

Claire grins, shakes her head. "You're being cautious; there's a difference."

"Maybe he was just looking for something new to read..."

Claire snorts. "Hell no," she says. "The sonovabitch is definitely up to something."

God's expression shows open surprise. "But you just said..."

"I know what I just said. Since when do You listen to a damn thing I say?"

God smiles warmly and the Indian summer sunshine brightens. "I always listen to you, Claire. Even when you think I'm not listening, I still hear you."

Claire looks at Her, catching the subtext and not feeling very comfortable with it. "Does that include..." (2)

"Mm-hmm," She says, taking a long sip of Her mimosa.

"So I probably shouldn't..."

"Best not. Best to keep My name out of it whenever possible." She winks with overdramatic flair, for salacious emphasis. "He seemed like a nice fellow, though, so you're certainly welcome for it."

Claire's cheeks flush red with embarrassment. "Oh sweet Jesus..." she mutters.

"Now, My brother, he's quite oblivious, so feel free to use his name whenever it suits you." God picks up the now-empty pitcher and waves it at the waiter. She turns a vibrant and mischievous smile on Claire. "More mimosas!"

-------------------------
(1) Well, at least She doesn't drink as much anymore. Not since that time...with the mead...and the Devil...She doesn't like to talk about it, though. Poor decisions will get You a lifetime of hangovers and the Earth.

(2) Of course it does. She's everywhere most of the time, which means She hears Her name when you use it. No matter WHERE you use it. Consider that the next time you start yelling Her name at the top of your lungs... 

The Introduction of Hope to the Devil, Lucifer

It's half past six in the evening when a thumping sound on her front porch brings Claire outside and face to face with a large creature. She stares at it, unsure of how to proceed. Sleek black fur, bright blue eyes, and a wagging tail - the source of the thumping sound; the dog is absolutely beautiful, no doubt about it, but Claire's not sure what it's doing on her porch right now. She looks at it and it looks back with those very clever blue eyes, sitting patiently while Claire assess the situation.

A lifetime of oddness makes Claire instantly suspicious.

"And to whom do you belong?" she asks, crouching down to see if the dog has a collar. It doesn't appear to. When she looks it in the eye, its tail wags harder, a rhythmic swish and thump against the old wood of the porch floor. "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?" she asks it.

The dog leans forward and noses her hand, flips it over so her palm faces up. The dog kisses it and the tails swishes and thumps even harder. Claire's clinical, rational, suspicious - highly suspicious - brain melts; she scratches its ears.

"She suits you," a familiar voice says from the yard and Claire stands, startled. The dog turns to look at the intruder and a slight mohawk of fur rises on its - correction, on her back.

"A gift from you, I presume?" Claire asks the Devil. A low growl starts in the dog's chest. Claire looks down at her, surprised. She settles her hand on the black head beside her. "Not at all from you."

Lucifer shakes his head. "Not, indeed. I'd wager a guess she's another one of Michael's housewarming gifts."

He steps forward, cautiously, and the dog's growl intensifies. Claire feels like she's vibrating from the sound of it. Lucifer smiles. "A blessed well AND a guard dog. He must truly care about you, Claire."

She eyes him, unafraid but uneasy. "Okay, Lucy - how about you stop acting like a Bond villain and either tell me what you need or get the Hell out of here."

He frowns at her, taken aback. "Are you always so damn difficult?"

"With you, yes."

"Why is that?"

"Because you're Satan and I don't really like you all that much." She smiles sweetly at him.

His frown deepens. "Well that's not terribly nice." He takes another step towards the porch, forgetting momentarily about the guard dog. Her growl echoes around them and he freezes. "It would appear she doesn't like me all that much, either."

Claire smiles down at the dog, who looks up at her with adoration and wags her tail. "She really does suit me, then, doesn't she?" She looks at the Devil. "You were going away, I believe."

He sighs, pulls a red library card - the one she'd given him as a temporary replacement for his own lost card a few months earlier - from his coat pocket and sets it on the bottom step, visibly flinching when the dog lowers her head to glare at him while he moves. Claire bites down a laugh - the Antichrist, reduced to a flinching mess before a black lab.

"I'm just returning that, as promised."

Claire nods. "How very responsible of you."

They watch as the card evaporates in a puff of grey smoke. The dog eyes it herself, curious, her head cocked to the side as she watches the smoke shift and rise.

"Give Hades my regards, please," Claire says.

"Of course," Lucifer responds, all business and professional. "And please tell Michael I said hello the next time you see him. Pass along my compliments on his choice of protection." He stares at the dog, who stares back with those crystal blue eyes. "Have you thought of a name?"

"What scares you the most, Lucy?" she asks.

He pauses to think about it. Eventually, he gives her an answer: "Hope...and small children."*

Claire grins, looks down at the dog. She wags her tail happily. "Well then, Hope it is."

*It's always wise to be scared of small children...even if you're the Devil.

So THAT'S where the Kraken came from...

God's had a bad day when:

1. She screws with the Baptist office managers by telling them Christmas will be celebrated in July from this point forward.


2. Not even a bear hug from Artemis cheers Her up.


3. She makes an office-wide decree that only She's allowed to wear gold on Tuesdays, which means the Romans have to rethink their entire wardrobes.


4. She directs all the new hires to St. Nikolaus, telling them he's actually God.


5. She throws a temper tantrum when She runs out of wine and Jesus refuses to help out.

"Seems a little like overkill to me..."

"No one asked your opinion, Mike."

"Just sayin', Ellie...the kraken's a bit much for this modern day crowd."

The Original Dragonslayer

Once upon a time, in a little village named Antioch, Margaret was born to a pagan priest who thought the Christians were crazy.(1)

Feeling rebellious upon her thirteenth birthday, Margaret renounced her father's pagan beliefs and told anyone who would listen that she planned to get on the Christianity bandwagon and ride it to the promised land. He banned her to the countryside, where she tended to sheep and did well to stay out of trouble.

Unfortunately, while walking through fields of gold, her ginger hair caught the eye of a local governor who proposed marriage to her.(2) He said he'd protect her and her sheep and all she had to do was give up her Christian beliefs. Margaret, having decided that this particular member of the male species was just this side of evil, decided to keep her faith and turned him down. The good governor was infuriated with Margaret and so subjected her to a series of cruel tortures.

The worst of these was the arrival of the Devil, disguised as a dragon, who, having missed lunch earlier in the day, gobbled Margaret up whole.

At which point, God rained down miracles upon Her most favorite of Antioch virgins - best of which was the sword Margaret found in the dragon's stomach. She rationalized, while she stared at the sword in the dragon's belly, that swinging a sword could be no more difficult than swinging an ax and so she hefted the broadsword and cut her way out.

This display of ingenuity did not, however, save Margaret from an unpleasant beheading at the hands of her scorned governor. She's quoted as saying on the morning of her imminent demise, "I should have just stayed in the damned dragon. At least I would have kept my head."

***

"So he ate you whole?" Claire asks.

"Yup. Swallowed me like a jagged little pill."

"And you found a sword in his belly?"

St. Margaret nods. "Nice and tidy, sitting there waiting for me. I always wondered if God knew what was in store and made sure he ate that swordsman earlier in the day."

"And then you cut your way out of him?"

She uses her butter knife to demonstrate. "Slit a nice big hole in him and strutted out like Kate Moss taking the runway."

"What did he do?"

"Pulled himself together and ambled off to eat someone else. I kept the sword."

"What did the governor do?"

"Had me beheaded, the prick." She takes a sip of tea, nods her approval.

"Seems a little extreme, even for a governor."

"Well, he always was a tad over dramatic, much like the Devil."

"And what about the Devil?"

"What about him?"

"Do you ever sit down and have coffee with him? Cup of tea?"

Margaret shakes her head. "I avoid him like the plague he is." She takes a cookie from the plate between them, uses it to point at Claire. "And I'm not terribly impressed by reptiles, either."

---

(1) Margaret now admits that her Father may have had a point...
(2) Actually, he called her Ginger Witch...and then proposed marriage to her as an apology when she knocked him off his horse with her shepherd's staff.

Welcome Home, Claire

I'd thought that WordPress would be a pretty good change of pace for Claire...and then life got chaotic and it turned out I left Claire and her friends there to rust.

When God started to complain about being put in a corner, I couldn't take it anymore and, well, here we are. Back where we started. It honestly feels like reuniting with a lost loved one, an estranged best friend, or maybe the tiny version of me I keep forgetting about.

Whatever it may feel like to you, dear reader, I can promise that we're all here to stay. Welcome back to the Pearly Gates.

Oh, and welcome home, Claire. It's so good to see you again.

-Meg

Remember that Time the Demons Went on Strike?

If it hadn't been for inflation, the Devil could have bribed them.

“The little buggers know too much,” Lucifer says as he slides into the chair next to Hades at the bar. Hooves, the only establishment open during the day in the Lower Levels, is nearly empty. Not surprising, considering it’s Halloween on Earth.

“Of course they do – that’s one of the reasons you pay them so poorly,” Hades says, ordering a whiskey sour for the Devil. The zombie behind the bar, a pleasant fellow named Greg, nods slowly and shuffles over to the line of liquor bottles along the back of the bar.

“I don’t pay them to blackmail me, Hades.”

Hades chuckles under his breath, shakes his head. “Perhaps if you paid them a real wage, instead of a handful of souls every few weeks, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

“Greg, focus!” The zombie looks up from the arm he’s just ripped off a paying customer, his rotting teeth halfway to the flesh of its forearm. He nods, sets the arm down on the bar, and sets about pouring Lucifer’s drink.

“They couldn’t have picked a worse time,” Lucifer says. “It’s Halloween – I need them downstairs, wreaking havoc and scaring small children all over the globe.” He feels a tapping on the back of his hand, looks down to see the recently detached arm calling for his attention. He turns to the woman who lost it a few moments ago. “Madame, if you’d be so kind…” She retrieves it, settles it back into her shoulder socket, and goes back to her conversation.

Greg drops the whiskey sour in front of him and frowns, mumbles something unintelligible, then shuffles away.

“What do the boys want?” Hades asks.

Lucifer pulls a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket, slides it over to his business partner. “It’s a list of their demands,” he says at Hades’ questioning look. “Make sure you take a look at the signature on the bottom.”

Hades opens the sheet, reads it over. His head pops up when he’s finished, his eyes wide. “She didn’t.”

“She did.”

“Wow…”

“Two thousand years running and those jerks have been perfectly happy getting souls every week. Never asked for another thing. Now I get a list of demands and a strike notice within twenty-four hours of their first HR meeting with Hers truly.” He slings the whiskey sour back in one gulp, throws the glass at Greg, who catches it simply by turning to the side and allowing it to land in his hollowed out rib cage.

“You’ve always said the two of you can’t get along…”

“She stole my demons on Halloween, Hades. This requires retribution.”

Hades sighs, rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “I’m going to regret asking you this, but what kind of retribution were you thinking?”

Lucifer turns a terrifying, toothy grin on his business partner. His irises have gone a violent shade of magenta and there’s smoke rising from his pointy ears. “Vengeful retribution.”

“That’s mildly redundant…” Hades starts, but he’s unable to finish.

Lucifer jumps up from his chair and throws his arms up in the air, startling Greg in the process. The zombie topples to the floor as Lucifer’s body swells to a size twice as large and far more purple than before.

“Vengeance will be mine!”

He sprints off, away from the bar, and Hades shakes his head as he watches him disappear through the door. He leans over the bar to check on Greg.

“You okay, buddy?” he asks.

“Urghdmanadamam,” Greg mutters and Hades nods.

“Ridiculous, I know.” He sit down, finishes his sea breeze. “Two thousand years of being the Goddamn Devil and he’s still just as big a drama queen as he was the day I met him.”