Free Attic Clowns: Volume Four by Jeremy Shipp Page A

sections of her body illuminated by the vertical strips of light shining through the blinds. For quite some time, Geltharidge stands in silence, smoking her cigarette, despite my efforts to apprise her of my presence by clearing my throat.
    At last, the Archangel faces me and holds out a glass filled with amber liquid. “Drink?”
    “I appreciate the offer,” I say. “However, I never indulge when I am on the job.”
    “So then your last drink was during the Paleozoic era, I take it?”
    “Was that a joke, Madam?”
    “Only a failed attempt at one, Zab.”
    I laugh politely. “Your wit is as sharp as always, Madam.”
    “Uh huh. Anyway, the reason I called you here is because you’re one of the best angels on our team. I need—”
    “The sentiment is music to my ears, and yet I am ill deserving of such praise. I merely perform the way any angel would had they my work ethic and my propensity for diligence.”
    “Right. So, a rather difficult case landed on my lap this morning, and I thought it wise to pull out an ace in the hole. That’s where you come in, Zab.”
    I have been an angel since the beginning of time, and yet my heart still thunders in my chest whenever I find myself on the verge of embarking on a formidable mission. You might misconstrue the sudden whiteness of my cheeks and the sweat on my forehead as symptoms of fear. However, let me assure you that my reaction is merely a manifestation of joy at the thought of benefiting humankind.
    “Are you alright, Zab?” Geltharidge says.
    “I am perfectly content, Madam. What would you have me do for my beloved Earth?”
    Of course, I know what she will say. My colleagues speak to me very little, and yet even I have heard whisperings that the life of world leader might be in danger in the near future. Some would dismiss these whisperings as mere rumors, but I have discovered that even in the capricious realm of gossip, there is rarely smoke without some semblance of fire.
    After the Archangel extinguishes her cigarette, she turns and gazes out the window once more. “Recently, one of the Seraphim received a letter from a demon.”
    I attempt to swallow, but I cannot seem to manage even such a simple feat at the moment. “A…demon?”
    “It’s on my desk right in front of you.”
    I take a step back, fearful that by “it,” Geltharidge is referring to the demon itself. However, when I glance at the desk, I catch sight of the letter of correspondence the Archangel spoke of and nothing more.
    “Read it,” she says.
    Obviously, there is no good reason for me to sully my hands by grasping the chthonic missive. Therefore, I bring myself to reading distance by leaning forward over the desk. The note appears to be written in black ink on parchment paper. However, I am not naïve to the ways of the underworld, and the letter is in all likelihood written on dried human skin using, for ink, the blood of infants or female virgins.
    As soon as I look up from the letter, the Archangel turns to me, lighting another of her perpetual cigarettes. Every time I witness this vulgar sight, I cannot help but execute a silent prayer. Just because Geltharidge is immortal does not make this habit inoffensive. The smoke offends my senses, and beyond this, the act itself offends me on a moral level. Far be it from me to ask my superior to deny herself a smoke as an act of solidarity with all those dying of lung cancer in the mortal realm. However, sometimes I desire to say as much.
    After a few more puffs, Geltharidge says, “What do you think?”
    “To what are you referring?” I say.
    “The letter.”
    “Ah. I fear this spasmodic scratching is completely illegible to my eyes.”
    The Archangel sits at her desk. “Basically, the letter’s a plea for help. The demon wants to atone for his sins, but he’s having a hard time of it. You don’t really get a lot of opportunities for redemption in hell. He has no soul, so there’s no place for him in the Maker’s Womb.