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.
.
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