motel was a run-down little momand-pop place on the outskirts of Springfield, just off of Highway 55 – The Land of Lincoln Motor Lodge, according to the sign around front. The room was courtesy of one Mr Ethan Strickland, a little object lesson about the perils of leaving one's wallet in the center console of one's car. The car in question, a faded blue Fiesta two-door with all the roominess and pickup of a riding mower, was in a spot out back, out of view of the street in case ol' Ethan managed to wriggle free of his constraints and notify the authorities of its theft. The room I wasn't as worried about – the desk clerk wouldn't run Ethan's credit card until checkout, and since I planned on skipping out before then, I'd be long gone by the time the charge posted to his account. I know I told him I'd put in a call to the cops once I got where I was going, to let them know where they could find him, but after the day I'd had, I didn't think Ethan would begrudge me a few hours' grace for a shower and a little shut-eye. OK, that's not entirely true. I was pretty sure he would begrudge me that, but truth be told, I didn't care.
At least today's collection had gone well enough. Guy was a big muckety-muck at the local state house who, after an unsuccessful gubernatorial run back in '98, cut a deal with a demon to curse anyone elected to the post. He was allowed to stick around for long enough to see the next two dudes go up the river on corruption charges, but he won't be around to see what happens to the third. The guy was a politician to the last: when I showed up to collect him, he tried for half an hour to talk me out of it. Once he saw that it was useless, though, he didn't put up much of a fight. Eh – if it's true what they say about hell being a committee, I'm sure he'll feel right at home.
Once the job was done, exhaustion hit me like a cartoon anvil, and I set out looking for someplace to lay my head. Even when I've got the cash – which for the record ain't that often – I tend to avoid your nicer hotels, because their staffs are typically friendly and attentive, and I've got no use for either. Hence my shabby motel digs. But hey, the shower was plenty hot, and the bed looked soft, so shabby or not, it was good enough for me.
I dried off, and padded naked to the bed. Then I slipped my boxers back on and switched on the TV. CNN was covering a ferry accident somewhere off the coast of Maine. A dozen bodies had thus far been recovered, their skin stripped from their flesh by the force of the blast that had caused the ship to founder. The survivors they plucked from the chilly waters of the bay reported that immediately prior to the blast, two passengers had been heard arguing atop the upper deck. One of them was a local named Larry Thibodeau, though those who'd spoken to him that day claimed he hadn't been himself, and one obviously distraught witness said there was something wrong with his eyes – she claimed they flickered with black fire. I'm sure the authorities just assumed she was in shock, but my guess was, she'd caught a glimpse of a demon walking around in Larry's skin. The other man was a stranger to them, and apart from the fact that he was of average height and build, not a one of them could remember what he looked like. That's pretty much standard operating procedure for angels working out in the open; they're far too dignified to take human form, opting instead for a sort of vague sketch of a person that human eyes slide right off of.
Lily was right: these skirmishes between the demon realm and their angelic counterparts were getting out of hand. But right now, I was too tired to care, so I changed the channel in search of something I could ignore. By the way, you know there's a whole channel dedicated to game shows?
Anyway, I turned down the comforter and pulled back the sheets, wanting nothing more than to collapse into a nice, warm bed. And I would have, too, if the damn
At least today's collection had gone well enough. Guy was a big muckety-muck at the local state house who, after an unsuccessful gubernatorial run back in '98, cut a deal with a demon to curse anyone elected to the post. He was allowed to stick around for long enough to see the next two dudes go up the river on corruption charges, but he won't be around to see what happens to the third. The guy was a politician to the last: when I showed up to collect him, he tried for half an hour to talk me out of it. Once he saw that it was useless, though, he didn't put up much of a fight. Eh – if it's true what they say about hell being a committee, I'm sure he'll feel right at home.
Once the job was done, exhaustion hit me like a cartoon anvil, and I set out looking for someplace to lay my head. Even when I've got the cash – which for the record ain't that often – I tend to avoid your nicer hotels, because their staffs are typically friendly and attentive, and I've got no use for either. Hence my shabby motel digs. But hey, the shower was plenty hot, and the bed looked soft, so shabby or not, it was good enough for me.
I dried off, and padded naked to the bed. Then I slipped my boxers back on and switched on the TV. CNN was covering a ferry accident somewhere off the coast of Maine. A dozen bodies had thus far been recovered, their skin stripped from their flesh by the force of the blast that had caused the ship to founder. The survivors they plucked from the chilly waters of the bay reported that immediately prior to the blast, two passengers had been heard arguing atop the upper deck. One of them was a local named Larry Thibodeau, though those who'd spoken to him that day claimed he hadn't been himself, and one obviously distraught witness said there was something wrong with his eyes – she claimed they flickered with black fire. I'm sure the authorities just assumed she was in shock, but my guess was, she'd caught a glimpse of a demon walking around in Larry's skin. The other man was a stranger to them, and apart from the fact that he was of average height and build, not a one of them could remember what he looked like. That's pretty much standard operating procedure for angels working out in the open; they're far too dignified to take human form, opting instead for a sort of vague sketch of a person that human eyes slide right off of.
Lily was right: these skirmishes between the demon realm and their angelic counterparts were getting out of hand. But right now, I was too tired to care, so I changed the channel in search of something I could ignore. By the way, you know there's a whole channel dedicated to game shows?
Anyway, I turned down the comforter and pulled back the sheets, wanting nothing more than to collapse into a nice, warm bed. And I would have, too, if the damn
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