From: <email@example.com> Newsgroups: talk.bizarre Subject: Touched by a Dark Angel (Repost) Date: Wed, 1 Dec 1999 20:07:16 -0600 Lines: 125 X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 4.72.3110.1 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V4.72.3110.3 Message-ID: <firstname.lastname@example.org> X-Trace: 2 Dec 1999 02:03:48 GMT, 126.96.36.199 Organization: Global Network Services - Remote Access Mail & News Services X-Complaints-To: email@example.com Arguing amiably, Saul Lenin and David Stalin strolled towards Communism, the Red section of Heaven. At the last minute they had to dodge a cluster of Tarquat fedayin who were battering at the electrified gates, using a few of their own with particularily hard heads. "Who let them out of Paradise this time?" Saul asked, raising his voice to be heard over the screams of the faithful: "Jihad, Jihad! Allah Akbar! Ferengi suck!" "How would I know?" David replied, smiling angelically, unable to do it any other way, of course. They slipped through the razorwire- and brokenglass-topped wall at the postern gate, illuminated by a seven watt bulb and marked "Party Members Only". They both breathed a little easier when they found themselves back in the gloomy corridors of the Socialist Workers Paradise. The looming cheesy concrete walls soared up to the Eternally overcast sky, kept that way by an enormous parabolic reflector that diverted the Divine Radiance from Throne Sector down onto the statue of the Patriarch Tikhon (it's Heaven, after all), tastefully done in classic gigantic Soviet Heroesque. The wall newspapers proclaimed an abundance of black bread, potatoes, and cabbage for all, as they always did. Saul and David ignored them, as they always did, since they'd invented those sort of lies (which were perversely true here) during their last assignment on Mundis Fundis. They made their way through the hordes of grimly smiling, ideologically trustworthy shoppers looking for a bargain in workboots and sugar-beet vodka to their favorite hangout, Smokin Sam's Samovar Komitet, just across the street from Cafe Saigon. Andropov greeted them both with a smile and obseqiously ushered them over to their favorite table in the corner. Instantly glasses of hot tea appeared, so strong and sweet in the Russian fashion spoons had to shoved in. Saul and David relaxed and began rolling spliffs of mahorka rabbit tobacco, remininscing and swapping lies about the glory days of Red Terror they'd instituted, in tag team fashion, on their last job. Between assignments, a chance to relax for two ace agents of the Mysterious Stranger Bureau ("God conceals His Mysteries for the Kings to reveal"), the exoteric label and cover organization for Heaven's Own Surete ("We put the HOS in HOSannah"). Wreathed in tobacco smoke, their competitive juices jolted by the caffeine and sugar goop, they took up their friendly sparring from earlier... "I'm always doing the groundwork," Lenin complained; "Just once I'd like to see you do the really dirty stuff." "Saul has slain his thousands, David his tens of thousands," Stalin sang out in that clear, mesmerizing baritone he'd borrowed from the Seraphim Supply & Support (and neglected to return, no hand receipt heh heh) for the Sweet Singer of Israel gig. "That's exactly what I mean," Saul grumbled; "I'm always having to set them up so you can knock them down..." "Oh, Lenin has killed his millions, Stalin his tens of millions," David sang on, teasing, watching Saul's face flush with that ancient spear-hurling rage. "That's not in the Book, dammit, and you know it!" Saul interjected, choleric and bunching his fists as he leaned forward. David laughed and eased back, pitching his voice higher into a saccharine soprano; "...I write the Psalms, I write the Psalms..." Saul swung and David ducked; just at that moment, fortunately, the centerpiece arrangement of holly and lilies of the field burst into incandesence. "Saul, David." the Voice intoned from the flaming flora; "Attention to Orders! Report to the A.o.D. for your new assignment immediately." Saul blanched and looked at David, who was poking at the uncharred, unmarred grouping of shrubs and flowers. "Nice trick, that..." "Nevermind, we're back on the clock," Saul hissed; "I thought the Angel of Death was off on special assignment somewhere..." "No, that was over even before mine was," David replied absentmindedly as they got up to depart: "He was a nasty sort, a chicken farmer named Gimmler or something like that, did some tailored wetwork in Poland..." "Must be something top-drawer going on," Lenin speculated as he ditched his greatcoat and spread his wings. Stalin imitated him and as they leaped into the aether together shouted; "You don't think it's the Big One, do you?" "No, can't be," Saul asserted; "The Peacock Angel is a personal friend of mine and he's still working the black gang detail..." They swooped and beat their way towards the single scarlet spire of the Mortality Directorate; "And he's already got standing orders cut for a thousand year stint down there before the Eschateon." "Do they know that?" David asked, making the thumbs down gesture, the universal shorthand for all Matters Mundane. "If they can read they do," was Saul's answer; "But what are the odds? They can't even count, most of them..." In perfect unison they began to sing; "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer." "Shouldn't that be a hundred?" Laughing uncontrollably they fell out of the sky onto the Mortality Directorate LZ. Regards, Steve Hopefully this time it's readable. Please advise if not.