Next day.
Typical.
There’s always some idiot who’s prepared to spoil everything, isn’t there?
It was all going so well; grand baroque music and charming flickering candles in the cathedral; I had a pew not too close to any crucifixes; lovely new roof and an impressive new green and gilt rood-screen.
Come half-time and the mulled wine is going down a treat and young Deidre and I had just popped out behind the Social Centre for a quick nip when some total bastard decides to open up a temporary interdimensional rift. For ten or fifteen tentacled seconds of claw-slashing, crimson-spattered chitinous horror, the cathedral became a chthudral.
The authorities will probably put it down to a gas explosion, now that terrorism is no longer a safe excuse to explain away supernatural slaughter. After all, who would ever slaughter a churchful of worshippers and their friends whose only offence was to listen to some Christian music? Who could possibly be offended by such innocuous behaviour? It just never happens. Anywhere. Too much trouble asking such questions.
Nope, a gas explosion is what it’ll be, and the job’s finished. Dignified services for the dozen or so dead, a news blackout about the strange lights in the sky, and a quick, misleading, and above all accurate account in the weirdoes’ news magazines. No-one but a few witnesses will remember a black-clad figure leaping like a flea through the shattered east window and hopping out again with the wheelchair-bound and Zimmer-framed survivors. Government-appointed ‘Stress Councillors’ will treat and discredit with any such false memories.
Not that I want the attention. There was a lot of claret about last night whose owners no longer needed it, and ‘waste not, want not’ is a
But now I learn that there’s an eschatological nutcase hanging around my hometown. That should add to the fun over Christmas; finding him/her/it/them, and dealing. As if I didn’t have enough to do this month already, what with staff parties and the Homeless Shelter work on Christmas day itself…Busy, busy, busy.
It’s two-thirty GMT and it really is time I got some sleep. Got people coming round tonight for my wake, and I still haven’t sorted out the catering.
Sainsbury’s deliver food right to your door now, they say.
Sleep well, friends.
1 comment:
Got him!
It turned out that our would-be world destroyer was a ‘scientist’, commissioned by the United Nations to find evidence that the vampire-made Ice Age is not going to happen at all. Seems he stumbled across something in Bonneville Salt Flats whilst doing temperature testing out there on the salt. Ironic, really, that a stooge employed to disguise one end of the world buy proving that a different disaster was on its way, should discover the power to destroy the Earth in a third, and wholly supernatural, manner.
I love it when they attack me. It means that all bets are off. I can kill in self defence for sure; a basic human right, that. This goon had obviously been expecting his predator paymasters in the cabal to stop him letting the fun in and so he had a crossbow ready. Glad to say I’m getting faster reactions as I mature. So the book’s dispersed again to places that, if they were attacked and looted, it would already have to be Armageddon, and our global warming scientist has, well, cooler globes and is an empty vessel who will no longer be able to make any noise at all. Yum.
Also I get the chance to gloat at my ancient great grandsire here, whose continued existence is courtesy of my efforts.
AB-
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