“Un-reconstituted angel, please,” you tried some
time ago to order from the disputatious vast Akashic
Record Store, when of a sudden you discovered
in your cupboard that somehow you hadn’t any more.
Not to have a bit of angel at the ready to supply its
expertise at cleaning and its excellent cuisine could
make existence quite the wretched bore: indeed,
a heavily egregious chore. “We’re not allowed to sell
that now,” they bellowed at you in their shifting
harmonies of major, minor thirds: it took a chorus
of a dozen souls to scream as loudly as they could
to have what they were hollering be even slightly heard.
“Powdered Angels lately have been turning into gritty
tasteless paste – all their powers gone to waste: holy
water now no longer lent the desiccated stuff sufficient
wherewithal to turn into the fluffy, moist and tender
nutrient it once had been that favored life: it’s now
a sandy glop – full of stop, devoid of go. Which was not,
to put it mildly, what The Great Redeemer had in mind.
So Angel, Un-Reconstituted is no longer something you
will find. But an angel's dried reductions could be set up
to be “fried.” You learned this meant electrified,
a process by which frozen angel filaments would realign
in parallel arrays of colors, weaving back to usefulness,
and finally reliably result in the arrival of that cherished
helpmeet: a fleet new angel by your side. “Be careful,
though,” the souls arose again to yell, “don’t overcook
them; even slightly singed, they have been known
spontaneously to reveal insidiously hidden portals. Some
lead to hell.” You rather thought that might be swell!
So you opted for la poudre d’ange prêt-à-sauté, took it
to your kitchen range, electrified its filaments a touch too
much – which splintered bits of it to crispy black. From
the hiss of its disreputable crackle now has surged this
Impresario of Impermissibility! An indolent deliverance,
a cunning halt, a cul-de-sac. You’ll never give him back.