Lokasenna
01-07-2013, 04:44 PM
Hello everyone! I've once again tried my hand at this short story business - whereas my last one was a Borges-fueled fragment of mystery, this is me attempting something dry and comical. As always, constructive criticism would be very welcome.
The Archangel
The world dissolves, the colours whirl, and memory fades. Or rather, it fades as new memory overwhelms it, blending with it, coruscations of the self bleeding from, through and around the spaces of abstraction. The soul, ancient and new-minted, with wonder and terror, accepts in an instant all the levels of the self, the vast and insurmountable remembering of the human idea. With a tentative, living effort, it steps over the boundary, stepping from abstraction to almost-reality.
Almost-reality, it would seem, having been decorated by the 1950s. Whatever the soul had expected in its short half-existence, it hadn't been the small, slovenly office it now found itself in. The wallpaper was that particular hideous shade of yellow that the designer thought would suggest power, authority and style, but which to anyone else suggested some sort of bodily malfunction. There were no windows, all the light coming from a couple of strips of halogen lighting, the kind with that peculiar throbbing quality designed to reduce the strongest intellect to mush in a matter of minutes. The walls were choked with the detritus of the office space (the soul couldn't decide whether this was the result of personal disorganisation, or a conscious effort to hide the wallpaper): ancient calendars, pin-boards, coat-racks, a singing bass, and a bizarrely large number of what appeared to be pictures of fishing trips, though the figure in them always seemed to be out of focus. The floor space against the walls was similarly cluttered, mostly with filing cabinets, though the coffee machine and mini-fridge stood out as rather out of place. Finally, the soul noted, as if planning a means of escape, there was a wooden door.
"Well? Have you finished staring?"
The soul had been avoiding looking at the middle of the room. Somehow it seemed like a bad idea. But as the voice had an edge of annoyance to it that suggested it could make the immediate future decidedly irritating, the soul turned to it.
The centre of the room was dominated by a large, imposing desk that was, if such a thing were possible, even more untidy than the room it occupied. Newton's cradles, massage balls, stress relievers - every kind of executive toy imaginable was spread liberally across the desk. A tray marked 'IN' was piled high with yellowing paper, some of which had spilt out and lay apparently unregarded on the floor; the tray marked 'OUT' was, by contrast, utterly empty, and thus succeeded in being the cleanest and least cluttered space on the desk. Finally, there was an elderly model of computer, that still bore the original dust protectors all over it.
The figure behind the desk was an angel. Or at least, that was what the soul was forced to presume, though it certainly wasn't the kind of figure you would want to hang on a Christmas tree, unless you wanted to frighten the relatives into not visiting next year. The angel was female (probably), in human terms she would have been somewhere in her late 60s. The flesh about her face sagged alarmingly, and the boil on her chin seemed to be waging a vicious war of dominance against her nose for control of her face. A slender halo lazily orbited above a chaotic mass of frizzy red curls: the soul couldn't decide whether it was reminded more of Ronald McDonald, or possibly a rhododendron bush. The angel's robes were white, but it wasn't the dazzling white that you see only in Christmas cards and soap powder adverts: it was the kind of white that's been washed too many times. The grime of ages had entirely soaked into it, giving birth to an eternal and shiny grubbiness. Attached pertly above the angel's left bosom (and that was something the soul really did not want to think about) was a small badge that said:
HELLO, MY NAME IS:
MURIEL (ARCHANGEL)
REINCARNATION DIVISION
The angel took a long swig of something brown and sticky from a mug whose pattern had been obliterated by millennia of tannin stains, and then spoke:
"Come on, come on, I haven't got all day," she snapped, all evidence to the contrary.
"Er... Muriel? The Archangel Muriel?" asked the soul cautiously. The concept of existence was becoming less appealing by the second.
"What's wrong with Muriel? A perfectly good name, Muriel," she grumbled. "At least I have a name, unlike you lot. Now, what do you want to be?"
"I'm sorry?" said the soul, perplexed.
"What do you want to be?" Muriel repeated slowly and deliberately, as one might address a dim child, or as an Englishman might address a foreigner. "That's what we're here for. You get to be reincarnated into the human world, and here you can spend your accumulated karma to tailor the life you are going to lead. Either that, or we sit here forever enjoying each other's company."
"Karma? But you're... you know... an angel?" said the soul, then hedged its bet, "or at least, you have the usual number of arms. I though karma was a Hindu thing?" In fact, the soul could vaguely remember having been Hindu in one of its lives: yes, a young Gujarati girl, a servant, who had died in childbirth in her nineteenth year. So many lives, so many lives.
"Yes, I'm angel. Flutter, flutter, alle-bloody-luia. And yes, karma is indeed a 'Hindu thing', as you so delicately put it." She sniffed discontentedly. "So's reincarnation, which you'd know if you were half as clever as you think you are."
"Then why..?" asked the soul. It dimly recalled being a theologian, or possibly a priest, in a previous life, and that echo of a former self was getting quite panicky in a corner of the soul's un-being.
"It's Himself, you see - He goes about in the world, and keeps getting clever ideas. For ages and ages people are born, they die, and they get stuffed in some corner of Heaven where I don't have to worry about them for the rest of eternity. But then, suddenly He hears about this thing called reincarnation that some clever buggers have thought up, and suddenly it's all He can talk about - no more do we use a soul once, then stick it in paradise. No, now we've got to recycle every bloody one of you, as part of the divine green policy."
"So, He's quite... suggestable then?" asked the soul, trying to summon the enthusiasm to be kindly. Muriel seemed to want to rant, and though the soul didn't particularly want to listen it thought she might let it go sooner if it patiently endured it.
"Oh yes! You see all this," she said, waving her hands around the drab office, "when it all began I was sat on my cloud, in the sunshine, enjoying the view. Then He visits New York, and all of sudden clouds are out-of-fashion - I've got to be an executive angel, in an office! With toys, and coffee, and a computer."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"I've even got to take fishing trips! Fishing trips! And I hate bloody fish! Did you know that there is actually nothing less interesting in the whole human world than a turbot?"
"There, there," said the soul soothingly. It wondered whether to give Muriel a comforting pat on the shoulder, but decided against it: if there was anything in the multiverse that could harm an immortal soul, it was probably physical contact with that robe.
"And salmon!" she wailed. "I bet you didn't know that the salmon is the most evil creature in the world! The snake was a last minute idea - we were going to have a salmon in Eden, but we couldn't work out how to get it to stay in the sodding tree. And because I'm an angel, I'm not even allowed to kill the buggers I pull out of the water - no, I've got to spend my holidays wet and smelling of fish, and be happy with it!"
The soul gestured at some of the executive stress-relievers. "Perhaps one of these would be helpful?"
"Oh, f**k off, dearie," she said, not unkindly. Muriel sniffed, and rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her robe. "So," she repeated, "what do you want to be?"
The soul considered its position for a moment. Clearly, it was in the presence of an angel whose emotions were about as stable as an IKEA wardrobe. On the other hand, the prospect of spending eternity in Muriel's office was bone-chilling (not that the soul had bones in any real sense, but you understand the predicament). Given that the soul could remember previous lives (so many lives, so many), it must have been through this process before.
"Okay," it said finally, "what options are there?"
"Well, your basic choice is male or female. Or you can go for somewhere in between, if you're feeling adventurous."
"What was I the last time?"
"Let me see," she said, and tapped randomly on the computer keyboard. The soul noticed that she didn't even glance at the screen; in fact, the soul wondered whether the device was even turned on. "You were female on the last go around."
"Well, then I'll go for male - a change is as good as a rest, as they say. Do you actually need the computer?"
"No, dearie, it's just part of the uniform. Every time someone in an office answers a question, they've first got to 'look it up' on their computer - according to Him, it's how the world works." Saying that, she tapped at the keys distractedly for a few seconds. "Well, look at that: this is your three-hundredth reincarnation. Congratulations, well done you, mazel tov etcetera. In view of your loyalty as a much valued customer we can provide a selection of exclusive special offers for your next life, including... you know what, I can't be buggered."
"Well, what are they?" asked the soul after a few awkward seconds of silence.
"No point in listing them - everyone always goes for the '10inch+ Penis Package'. Sod the happy life, meaningful existence and devoted family packages they always say: I want to be so well hung I get backache in my groin. Shall I put you down for that?"
"Um, yes," said the soul, who would have been blushing if it had cheeks. "Just out of interest, what's the female equivalent of that offer?"
"Association with a very gullible and charitable credit card company."
"Oh yes, that makes sense," said the soul.
"Now, where would you like to be born? We have a special offer on Mongolians this week."
"Belgium," said the soul.
"Belgium?" asked Muriel incredulously. "But nobody likes Belgium! What about Sweden?"
"Belgium," said the soul, firmly.
"In the name of all that is holy - and I mean that quite literally - why?" Muriel asked.
"I've never been to Belgium," said the soul. "I think one of my previous lives wanted to invade it, but never got around to it. I think Belgium looks nice."
"Fine, fine, whatever - it's your life. If you want to doom yourself to a life of chips, bureaucracy and weak beer, that's your funeral."
The soul was about to make an answer when the door opened, and a figure strode in. The soul recoiled in awe before the dreadful glory of the angel that appeared, beautiful and terrible as a thousand stars. A blinding light shone from her raven hair, and from her face of unutterable imperious beauty. Behind her came the impression of a thousand wings, alive with wondrous colour and radiance, transcending all the substance of creation. Existence itself trembled at her coming, the matter of unreality unable to contain the wonder of her being, her grace and fearful majesty manifesting like a blazing beacon. She opened her mouth, and in a voice as resonant, mighty and encompassing as a universal ocean, said:
"Mornin' Muriel."
"Mornin' Lucy," replied the drab angel.
The soul, its mere being almost effaced by the power and the ferocity and the joy of the wonder before it like a twig in a hurricane, glanced with eyes unworthy (if, of course, it had had eyes) upon the celestial being. Upon the whitely shining pearlescent robes, like a tiny moon trying to eclipse a supernova, was a small badge:
HELLO, MY NAME IS:
LUCIFER (THE ADVERSARY)
TEMPTATION & DAMNATION
"Can I borrow some milk, Muriel? Xaphan's used the last of it up, and the bastard never buys more. I'm screamin' for a cuppa."
"Sure Lucy. Help yourself."
The soul screamed silently in horror and wonder, desperately trying to hold the strands of its consciousness together in the face of the dazzling storm before it. The Father of Lies and Author of All Sin ambled over to the mini-fridge and extracted a bottle of milk.
"Cheerio!" she said, her voice saturated in eternal glory and glamour, and then she was gone and the office was returned to as close to normality as it could ever manage. The soul lay on the floor, panting and heaving. If it had had a stomach and bladder, and right now it was supremely thankful that it did not, it would have emptied them.
"You alright, dearie?" asked Muriel, though not enthusiastically.
"That... that was..."
"Lucifer. Lucy. Nice girl when you get to know her. We carpool."
"But isn't he... she... supposed to be in Hell?"
"Oh no, she's down the corridor. She used to be in Hell, but a few million years ago He moved her whole operation back up here. It makes inter-office communication that much more efficient. Instead of having to harrow Hell, we just give the office the odd spring clean."
"He moved her up here?" asked the soul incredulously. "What about the fall? Isn't she the enemy? What about the war in Heaven?"
"Oh goodness, no. It's amazing how much you humans can over-dramatise everything. It wasn't so much a war as a scuffle," said the angel. It was clear she preferred to gossip instead of work.
"What happened?"
"Well, a few billion years ago He decides to throw an office party - the usual thing: drink, canapés, and bottled up frustration. And before you get clever and point out there were no such thing as office parties back then, just remember that He moves in mysterious ways. Or at the very least He does a passable Macarena. Anyway, the Archangel Michael, always bit too uptight if you ask me - not that anyone ever does - had had more than few drinks and was becoming a bit emotional. As you probably noticed, Lucy's a bit of corker, and Michael had a torch for her back then. Anyway, he starts coming on a bit strong, so she kicks him in the nadgers."
"The... nadgers?"
"The nadgers," she repeated. "He had it coming, if you ask me - stuck up old sod. But then Himself had to get involved of course - you see, it was technically the first conflict in Heaven."
"So Lucifer got flung into the pit for kneeing the Archangel Michael?" asked the soul.
"Not flung, no. I wouldn't use the word 'flung' - He decided that she should go on a probationary period, so for a while He moved the whole T'n'D Department to the Foul Pit, but to be honest it was a token gesture. Eventually He moved them back up here. Something to do with the inflation of property prices in underworld, He said."
"That's it? The war in Heaven was the result of an office grope? And we've formed a whole theological system on that basis?"
"Well, it was quite a powerful kick to the nadgers," Muriel said reflectively, "but like I said, she's nice girl."
"She's terrifying beyond all compare," said the soul with a shudder, "I'll never look at another woman in the same way again."
"Ah, well that answers my next question," said Muriel, tapping away at the keys, "I'll put you down as 'gay' - then you'll never have to worry about women like her. Not that I expect there are many women like her in Belgium."
"I never said I didn't find her beautiful."
"Oh. Well, can I put you down as 'bisexual' then? Only I've got a quota that needs filling..." she said.
"Sure," said the soul with a shrug. It was amazing how dispassionate you could be about sex when you hadn't got any organs.
"Okay, next question: job?"
"Wait, don't I get to decide on my physical appearance?" interrupted the soul.
"Sorry dearie, but no. That's down to genetics," the angel replied. "We used to hand craft everyone of you, and bloody ages it took too, but then He hears about this thing called 'evolution' that you lot have come up with, and suddenly that's all the rage - why create each one, He says, when they can just produce themselves? So you get a few options, like the enormous todger you've so thoughtfully opted for, but that's it. Job?"
"Billionaire?"
"Sorry dearie, but your karma ain't that good."
"Movie star? Astronaut?"
"Well, let me put it this way: how about a traffic warden? I could even stretch to a call-centre operative, if you like?"
"So I definitely can't be an astronaut?" the soul whined.
"I don't think Belgium has a space programme, Or many billionaires for that matter. And as for your other choice, being Jean-Claude van Damme is no walk in the park, let me tell you."
"So I can't do the job I want to do?" said the soul, feeling slightly despondent.
"That's the way of the world, dearie. Take me, for example: I didn't always work in reincarnation - the Archangel Muriel used to be a big shout in the early days of Heaven. Did you know that it was originally going to be me who visited the Virgin Mary? Then that bugger Gabriel did a bit of prize boot-licking and got the job instead."
The soul shuddered at the thought of how different human history would have been if Muriel had visited the Virgin: if the latter had survived the ordeal, she probably wouldn't have been overjoyed about her son getting involved in it all.
"Anyway," continued the angel, "I'm glad I didn't get it in the end. Nowadays, Gabriel has to spend all his time sitting on His left hand, which I think sounds uncomfortable, not to mention unhygienic. But anyway, you can still find satisfaction in the job you're given."
"Like you?"
"Yes. Like me," she said through gritted teeth. "But imagine all the fun you'll have as a well-hung bisexual Belgian traffic warden. It'll be laugh-a-minute, I promise you."
"I'm not sure I like where this is going. Can we start over?"
"No refunds!" Muriel barked. She thrashed violently at the keys.
"Fine," replied the soul. "Anything else you need?"
"Well, I suppose we could spend the next four hundred or so hours going over the details of your destiny... or I could just hit the random button, and save us both the embuggerance?"
The soul, thrilled at the prospect of escape, immediately acquiesced.
"Funny," said Muriel, "no one ever chooses to go over the details." With a final clatter of keys, she gave the 'Enter' button a final, resounding smack with her fist.
The soul felt its being begin to unravel, the threads that made up the tapestry of the memory of all its lives slowly rewinding themselves. Its last conscious thought, before it entered its mother's womb and memory faded entirely, was of a voice that said: "Don't forget to send me a postcard! ...not that any of you buggers ever do."
Muriel was left alone in the office. She took a swig from her filthy mug, and once again wiped her nose on the sleeve of her robe. A new soul winked into existence in the exact same place as the last one, and began to look at the walls. Muriel sighed.
"Well?" she said. "Have you finished staring?"
The Archangel
The world dissolves, the colours whirl, and memory fades. Or rather, it fades as new memory overwhelms it, blending with it, coruscations of the self bleeding from, through and around the spaces of abstraction. The soul, ancient and new-minted, with wonder and terror, accepts in an instant all the levels of the self, the vast and insurmountable remembering of the human idea. With a tentative, living effort, it steps over the boundary, stepping from abstraction to almost-reality.
Almost-reality, it would seem, having been decorated by the 1950s. Whatever the soul had expected in its short half-existence, it hadn't been the small, slovenly office it now found itself in. The wallpaper was that particular hideous shade of yellow that the designer thought would suggest power, authority and style, but which to anyone else suggested some sort of bodily malfunction. There were no windows, all the light coming from a couple of strips of halogen lighting, the kind with that peculiar throbbing quality designed to reduce the strongest intellect to mush in a matter of minutes. The walls were choked with the detritus of the office space (the soul couldn't decide whether this was the result of personal disorganisation, or a conscious effort to hide the wallpaper): ancient calendars, pin-boards, coat-racks, a singing bass, and a bizarrely large number of what appeared to be pictures of fishing trips, though the figure in them always seemed to be out of focus. The floor space against the walls was similarly cluttered, mostly with filing cabinets, though the coffee machine and mini-fridge stood out as rather out of place. Finally, the soul noted, as if planning a means of escape, there was a wooden door.
"Well? Have you finished staring?"
The soul had been avoiding looking at the middle of the room. Somehow it seemed like a bad idea. But as the voice had an edge of annoyance to it that suggested it could make the immediate future decidedly irritating, the soul turned to it.
The centre of the room was dominated by a large, imposing desk that was, if such a thing were possible, even more untidy than the room it occupied. Newton's cradles, massage balls, stress relievers - every kind of executive toy imaginable was spread liberally across the desk. A tray marked 'IN' was piled high with yellowing paper, some of which had spilt out and lay apparently unregarded on the floor; the tray marked 'OUT' was, by contrast, utterly empty, and thus succeeded in being the cleanest and least cluttered space on the desk. Finally, there was an elderly model of computer, that still bore the original dust protectors all over it.
The figure behind the desk was an angel. Or at least, that was what the soul was forced to presume, though it certainly wasn't the kind of figure you would want to hang on a Christmas tree, unless you wanted to frighten the relatives into not visiting next year. The angel was female (probably), in human terms she would have been somewhere in her late 60s. The flesh about her face sagged alarmingly, and the boil on her chin seemed to be waging a vicious war of dominance against her nose for control of her face. A slender halo lazily orbited above a chaotic mass of frizzy red curls: the soul couldn't decide whether it was reminded more of Ronald McDonald, or possibly a rhododendron bush. The angel's robes were white, but it wasn't the dazzling white that you see only in Christmas cards and soap powder adverts: it was the kind of white that's been washed too many times. The grime of ages had entirely soaked into it, giving birth to an eternal and shiny grubbiness. Attached pertly above the angel's left bosom (and that was something the soul really did not want to think about) was a small badge that said:
HELLO, MY NAME IS:
MURIEL (ARCHANGEL)
REINCARNATION DIVISION
The angel took a long swig of something brown and sticky from a mug whose pattern had been obliterated by millennia of tannin stains, and then spoke:
"Come on, come on, I haven't got all day," she snapped, all evidence to the contrary.
"Er... Muriel? The Archangel Muriel?" asked the soul cautiously. The concept of existence was becoming less appealing by the second.
"What's wrong with Muriel? A perfectly good name, Muriel," she grumbled. "At least I have a name, unlike you lot. Now, what do you want to be?"
"I'm sorry?" said the soul, perplexed.
"What do you want to be?" Muriel repeated slowly and deliberately, as one might address a dim child, or as an Englishman might address a foreigner. "That's what we're here for. You get to be reincarnated into the human world, and here you can spend your accumulated karma to tailor the life you are going to lead. Either that, or we sit here forever enjoying each other's company."
"Karma? But you're... you know... an angel?" said the soul, then hedged its bet, "or at least, you have the usual number of arms. I though karma was a Hindu thing?" In fact, the soul could vaguely remember having been Hindu in one of its lives: yes, a young Gujarati girl, a servant, who had died in childbirth in her nineteenth year. So many lives, so many lives.
"Yes, I'm angel. Flutter, flutter, alle-bloody-luia. And yes, karma is indeed a 'Hindu thing', as you so delicately put it." She sniffed discontentedly. "So's reincarnation, which you'd know if you were half as clever as you think you are."
"Then why..?" asked the soul. It dimly recalled being a theologian, or possibly a priest, in a previous life, and that echo of a former self was getting quite panicky in a corner of the soul's un-being.
"It's Himself, you see - He goes about in the world, and keeps getting clever ideas. For ages and ages people are born, they die, and they get stuffed in some corner of Heaven where I don't have to worry about them for the rest of eternity. But then, suddenly He hears about this thing called reincarnation that some clever buggers have thought up, and suddenly it's all He can talk about - no more do we use a soul once, then stick it in paradise. No, now we've got to recycle every bloody one of you, as part of the divine green policy."
"So, He's quite... suggestable then?" asked the soul, trying to summon the enthusiasm to be kindly. Muriel seemed to want to rant, and though the soul didn't particularly want to listen it thought she might let it go sooner if it patiently endured it.
"Oh yes! You see all this," she said, waving her hands around the drab office, "when it all began I was sat on my cloud, in the sunshine, enjoying the view. Then He visits New York, and all of sudden clouds are out-of-fashion - I've got to be an executive angel, in an office! With toys, and coffee, and a computer."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"I've even got to take fishing trips! Fishing trips! And I hate bloody fish! Did you know that there is actually nothing less interesting in the whole human world than a turbot?"
"There, there," said the soul soothingly. It wondered whether to give Muriel a comforting pat on the shoulder, but decided against it: if there was anything in the multiverse that could harm an immortal soul, it was probably physical contact with that robe.
"And salmon!" she wailed. "I bet you didn't know that the salmon is the most evil creature in the world! The snake was a last minute idea - we were going to have a salmon in Eden, but we couldn't work out how to get it to stay in the sodding tree. And because I'm an angel, I'm not even allowed to kill the buggers I pull out of the water - no, I've got to spend my holidays wet and smelling of fish, and be happy with it!"
The soul gestured at some of the executive stress-relievers. "Perhaps one of these would be helpful?"
"Oh, f**k off, dearie," she said, not unkindly. Muriel sniffed, and rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her robe. "So," she repeated, "what do you want to be?"
The soul considered its position for a moment. Clearly, it was in the presence of an angel whose emotions were about as stable as an IKEA wardrobe. On the other hand, the prospect of spending eternity in Muriel's office was bone-chilling (not that the soul had bones in any real sense, but you understand the predicament). Given that the soul could remember previous lives (so many lives, so many), it must have been through this process before.
"Okay," it said finally, "what options are there?"
"Well, your basic choice is male or female. Or you can go for somewhere in between, if you're feeling adventurous."
"What was I the last time?"
"Let me see," she said, and tapped randomly on the computer keyboard. The soul noticed that she didn't even glance at the screen; in fact, the soul wondered whether the device was even turned on. "You were female on the last go around."
"Well, then I'll go for male - a change is as good as a rest, as they say. Do you actually need the computer?"
"No, dearie, it's just part of the uniform. Every time someone in an office answers a question, they've first got to 'look it up' on their computer - according to Him, it's how the world works." Saying that, she tapped at the keys distractedly for a few seconds. "Well, look at that: this is your three-hundredth reincarnation. Congratulations, well done you, mazel tov etcetera. In view of your loyalty as a much valued customer we can provide a selection of exclusive special offers for your next life, including... you know what, I can't be buggered."
"Well, what are they?" asked the soul after a few awkward seconds of silence.
"No point in listing them - everyone always goes for the '10inch+ Penis Package'. Sod the happy life, meaningful existence and devoted family packages they always say: I want to be so well hung I get backache in my groin. Shall I put you down for that?"
"Um, yes," said the soul, who would have been blushing if it had cheeks. "Just out of interest, what's the female equivalent of that offer?"
"Association with a very gullible and charitable credit card company."
"Oh yes, that makes sense," said the soul.
"Now, where would you like to be born? We have a special offer on Mongolians this week."
"Belgium," said the soul.
"Belgium?" asked Muriel incredulously. "But nobody likes Belgium! What about Sweden?"
"Belgium," said the soul, firmly.
"In the name of all that is holy - and I mean that quite literally - why?" Muriel asked.
"I've never been to Belgium," said the soul. "I think one of my previous lives wanted to invade it, but never got around to it. I think Belgium looks nice."
"Fine, fine, whatever - it's your life. If you want to doom yourself to a life of chips, bureaucracy and weak beer, that's your funeral."
The soul was about to make an answer when the door opened, and a figure strode in. The soul recoiled in awe before the dreadful glory of the angel that appeared, beautiful and terrible as a thousand stars. A blinding light shone from her raven hair, and from her face of unutterable imperious beauty. Behind her came the impression of a thousand wings, alive with wondrous colour and radiance, transcending all the substance of creation. Existence itself trembled at her coming, the matter of unreality unable to contain the wonder of her being, her grace and fearful majesty manifesting like a blazing beacon. She opened her mouth, and in a voice as resonant, mighty and encompassing as a universal ocean, said:
"Mornin' Muriel."
"Mornin' Lucy," replied the drab angel.
The soul, its mere being almost effaced by the power and the ferocity and the joy of the wonder before it like a twig in a hurricane, glanced with eyes unworthy (if, of course, it had had eyes) upon the celestial being. Upon the whitely shining pearlescent robes, like a tiny moon trying to eclipse a supernova, was a small badge:
HELLO, MY NAME IS:
LUCIFER (THE ADVERSARY)
TEMPTATION & DAMNATION
"Can I borrow some milk, Muriel? Xaphan's used the last of it up, and the bastard never buys more. I'm screamin' for a cuppa."
"Sure Lucy. Help yourself."
The soul screamed silently in horror and wonder, desperately trying to hold the strands of its consciousness together in the face of the dazzling storm before it. The Father of Lies and Author of All Sin ambled over to the mini-fridge and extracted a bottle of milk.
"Cheerio!" she said, her voice saturated in eternal glory and glamour, and then she was gone and the office was returned to as close to normality as it could ever manage. The soul lay on the floor, panting and heaving. If it had had a stomach and bladder, and right now it was supremely thankful that it did not, it would have emptied them.
"You alright, dearie?" asked Muriel, though not enthusiastically.
"That... that was..."
"Lucifer. Lucy. Nice girl when you get to know her. We carpool."
"But isn't he... she... supposed to be in Hell?"
"Oh no, she's down the corridor. She used to be in Hell, but a few million years ago He moved her whole operation back up here. It makes inter-office communication that much more efficient. Instead of having to harrow Hell, we just give the office the odd spring clean."
"He moved her up here?" asked the soul incredulously. "What about the fall? Isn't she the enemy? What about the war in Heaven?"
"Oh goodness, no. It's amazing how much you humans can over-dramatise everything. It wasn't so much a war as a scuffle," said the angel. It was clear she preferred to gossip instead of work.
"What happened?"
"Well, a few billion years ago He decides to throw an office party - the usual thing: drink, canapés, and bottled up frustration. And before you get clever and point out there were no such thing as office parties back then, just remember that He moves in mysterious ways. Or at the very least He does a passable Macarena. Anyway, the Archangel Michael, always bit too uptight if you ask me - not that anyone ever does - had had more than few drinks and was becoming a bit emotional. As you probably noticed, Lucy's a bit of corker, and Michael had a torch for her back then. Anyway, he starts coming on a bit strong, so she kicks him in the nadgers."
"The... nadgers?"
"The nadgers," she repeated. "He had it coming, if you ask me - stuck up old sod. But then Himself had to get involved of course - you see, it was technically the first conflict in Heaven."
"So Lucifer got flung into the pit for kneeing the Archangel Michael?" asked the soul.
"Not flung, no. I wouldn't use the word 'flung' - He decided that she should go on a probationary period, so for a while He moved the whole T'n'D Department to the Foul Pit, but to be honest it was a token gesture. Eventually He moved them back up here. Something to do with the inflation of property prices in underworld, He said."
"That's it? The war in Heaven was the result of an office grope? And we've formed a whole theological system on that basis?"
"Well, it was quite a powerful kick to the nadgers," Muriel said reflectively, "but like I said, she's nice girl."
"She's terrifying beyond all compare," said the soul with a shudder, "I'll never look at another woman in the same way again."
"Ah, well that answers my next question," said Muriel, tapping away at the keys, "I'll put you down as 'gay' - then you'll never have to worry about women like her. Not that I expect there are many women like her in Belgium."
"I never said I didn't find her beautiful."
"Oh. Well, can I put you down as 'bisexual' then? Only I've got a quota that needs filling..." she said.
"Sure," said the soul with a shrug. It was amazing how dispassionate you could be about sex when you hadn't got any organs.
"Okay, next question: job?"
"Wait, don't I get to decide on my physical appearance?" interrupted the soul.
"Sorry dearie, but no. That's down to genetics," the angel replied. "We used to hand craft everyone of you, and bloody ages it took too, but then He hears about this thing called 'evolution' that you lot have come up with, and suddenly that's all the rage - why create each one, He says, when they can just produce themselves? So you get a few options, like the enormous todger you've so thoughtfully opted for, but that's it. Job?"
"Billionaire?"
"Sorry dearie, but your karma ain't that good."
"Movie star? Astronaut?"
"Well, let me put it this way: how about a traffic warden? I could even stretch to a call-centre operative, if you like?"
"So I definitely can't be an astronaut?" the soul whined.
"I don't think Belgium has a space programme, Or many billionaires for that matter. And as for your other choice, being Jean-Claude van Damme is no walk in the park, let me tell you."
"So I can't do the job I want to do?" said the soul, feeling slightly despondent.
"That's the way of the world, dearie. Take me, for example: I didn't always work in reincarnation - the Archangel Muriel used to be a big shout in the early days of Heaven. Did you know that it was originally going to be me who visited the Virgin Mary? Then that bugger Gabriel did a bit of prize boot-licking and got the job instead."
The soul shuddered at the thought of how different human history would have been if Muriel had visited the Virgin: if the latter had survived the ordeal, she probably wouldn't have been overjoyed about her son getting involved in it all.
"Anyway," continued the angel, "I'm glad I didn't get it in the end. Nowadays, Gabriel has to spend all his time sitting on His left hand, which I think sounds uncomfortable, not to mention unhygienic. But anyway, you can still find satisfaction in the job you're given."
"Like you?"
"Yes. Like me," she said through gritted teeth. "But imagine all the fun you'll have as a well-hung bisexual Belgian traffic warden. It'll be laugh-a-minute, I promise you."
"I'm not sure I like where this is going. Can we start over?"
"No refunds!" Muriel barked. She thrashed violently at the keys.
"Fine," replied the soul. "Anything else you need?"
"Well, I suppose we could spend the next four hundred or so hours going over the details of your destiny... or I could just hit the random button, and save us both the embuggerance?"
The soul, thrilled at the prospect of escape, immediately acquiesced.
"Funny," said Muriel, "no one ever chooses to go over the details." With a final clatter of keys, she gave the 'Enter' button a final, resounding smack with her fist.
The soul felt its being begin to unravel, the threads that made up the tapestry of the memory of all its lives slowly rewinding themselves. Its last conscious thought, before it entered its mother's womb and memory faded entirely, was of a voice that said: "Don't forget to send me a postcard! ...not that any of you buggers ever do."
Muriel was left alone in the office. She took a swig from her filthy mug, and once again wiped her nose on the sleeve of her robe. A new soul winked into existence in the exact same place as the last one, and began to look at the walls. Muriel sighed.
"Well?" she said. "Have you finished staring?"