It was a beautiful day today. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky and people were sunbathing in the park and dressed in their skimpiest clothes. Not that I’m a voyeur, or anything. People can wear what they like – or nothing at all – and it won’t bother me one jot. Humanity was loving it.
I had a quiet word with Martu, a mate of Lucifer’s from the old days after the Fall. He was a bit bored and cheesed off because the jobcentre couldn’t find a placement for an out of work weather god.
I swear, I’ve never seen clouds form so fast. Everyone for miles around was drenched. The collected level of petty anger and frustration was a delight to behold.
I took the dog for a romp in the park. I say dog but you know who I mean: Felicia. It does her good to get out of her business suit and romp around on the grass and fetch sticks. Wait! You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? I read back that last section and it reads as if I’m some tacky dominatrix taking her tricks out in public. Not that I object to such things – the righteous anger such acts engender further our cause tremendously. What I’m actually talking about is the werewolf. She likes our romps as much as I do. Sometimes, when there are no Parkies around, I let her off the lead. That causes terror in the faces of the people feeding the ducks. In the ducks, too.
Contrary to popular belief, a werewolf’s bite only passes on the virus to Nephilim. Mortals will just need a few stitches and won’t have to go out and buy a second razor.
Nephilim are born ‘blank’ and will, if there is no further interference, pass their whole life as a mortal. Only when angelic DNA is introduced – such as a bite – will they develop the abilities of the donor, be it werewolf, vampire or mage. This is why mages tend to be solitary. They don’t want to dribble and make more competition.
I was working in my garden last night. My garden, I mean, not Harold’s, so it’s easy to garden at night. In Hell, you see, there is no sunlight, just the everlasting glow of the fire reflected from the cavern ceiling. It was sweet. I planted a bunch of red-hot pokers. They were cold to begin with, but they soon warmed up. Edward II stays out of my garden now.
Harold’s been shafted good and proper. Not by me, I hasten to add, but by the bint who runs the bowling club. She says she doesn’t run it, but hubby has the keys to the clubhouse and the lawnmower shed and if she says she doesn’t want Harold playing then Mr Redd (Hubby) will disband the whole club rather than let him.
“Vengeance,” I said, pressing Kali’s telephone number into his hand. “Get your own back. She’ll cut off their heads and set fire to their mock-tudor house.” He just laughed and shook his head. “Leave them be,” he said. “Would you punish a child for swallowing his own dummy?”
Actually I would, but that’s not his style. He reckons that Karma will bite them in the bum.
He’s wrong, though. I know Karma and she’ll do anything for fifty quid, just not without a condom.