He Who Is Without Sin
A free short story for Halloween
With a sigh of contentment, I leaned back in my favorite armchair and summoned a glass of Chablis. I considered listening to some music, but decided, after the day I’d had, dealing with the war in Eastern Europe and some freak with a suicide vest in Africa, I’d rather just kick back and watch TV. I admit, I’m a real sucker for telenovelas. I’m currently binging Arrayán, and I’ve got about 1300 episodes to go. I didn’t get far, though. Before the opening credits were finished, there was a knock at the door.
“Boss?” came a nervous voice.
“Call me Azrael,” I replied, irritated. “We’ve known each other since, uh, literally the beginning of Time. You can use my name.”
“Okay, Boss,” he replied, sticking his head round the door. I shrugged. “The thing is… you gotta go back down there.”
“Says who?” I snapped.
“This guy. He… ah… did all the things. So you gotta go.”
“All the things? The parchment made from a virgin goat? The ink made with crystals ground under a full moon while reciting prayers for twelve hours without stopping? Blood sacrifices in an olive grove on a mountaintop and everything?”
“Uh-huh,” nodded Sopheriel. “All the things. Took him several years, apparently.”
“Persistent,” I admitted. “Where do you even find a virgin goat these days? And who makes up these rules anyway?”
Sopheriel cast his eyes upwards.
“I was being rhetorical,” I muttered. “Oh well, if he’s done all the things, I suppose this guy’s earned his moment with an Archangel. But I don’t have to like it. Okay, so what’s his name and where do I find him?”
Sopheriel told me. I tried not to laugh. I gulped the entire bottle of Chablis before I left.
“So, Zechariah of Hell’s Kitchen, what do you want of Azrael, Archangel of Death?” I asked, managing to keep a straight face. His apartment was small, all the furniture pushed aside to make room for the circle. The walls were covered with religious pictures and photos of his extended family. Zechariah himself was a small, thin man with hollow cheekbones and dark eyes. Six months of intermittent fasting will do that to you.
“I call upon you to purge the world of sin,” he said. “Bring death to every sinner, this very night. Leave a world fit only for the godly.”
“And by what authority do you make such a demand?” I roared. For extra effect, I let my eyes flash with flame, and stretched out my wings as far as I could. To his credit, he didn’t even flinch.
“By the authority of the Most High,” he said. “By the name of every Archangel, every Angel, every Principality, Power, Dominion, Throne, Cherub, and Seraph.” He held up a silver disk. “They’re all on here, every one, with their seal, everything. Want me to run it up on my laptop and prove it?”
It’s amazing what humans can do with computers. In the old days, that would have taken a hundred lifetimes to compile. Now, they don’t even have to write a program, they just tell an AI what to do and leave it running.
“I believe you,” I said. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”
An instant later, I was home again. “Can he do that?” I asked Sopheriel.
“Yup,” he replied. “He’s done all the things, he’s got all the names, he gets his one wish. That wasn’t supposed to be possible, but… well… he did it. Can’t argue with that.”
Well, crap. I was in for a busy night. Arrayán would have to wait. Killing close to eight billion people takes time, even for me. You can’t just go in for mass extinctions like earthquakes and floods, because in every town there’s at least one good person who needs to be saved. Almost every town, anyway. So it’s all one by one, slowing down time, appearing in multiple places, and just working through them as fast as possible. “Hi, you’re dead now, follow that light, do not pass Go, do not collect $200, next.”
The thing is, almost everyone’s a sinner. We’re not just talking about murderers and usurers and the really bad people. Ever talked back to your mom? Sneaked a cookie from the cookie jar when nobody was looking? Admired Salma Hayek’s cleavage? Uttered the name of the Big Guy’s son at an inappropriate moment? Gone to work or mowed the grass at the weekend? Eaten a spring roll with a piece of shrimp in it? Blamed the dog for your farts? Sorry, you’re a sinner. Probably not bad enough to deserve Hell, but it’s off to Purgatory with you until we decide what to do with you.
But I’m a professional. I got the job done. Not a quality job, I admit, but I was finished three minutes before sunrise. I went back to Hell’s Kitchen. Zechariah was sitting in his armchair, muttering a prayer.
“All done,” I said.
“Every last sinner, gone?” he asked.
“As you asked,” I replied. I may have been a bit sullen. I was tired. And irritated at missing Arrayán.
He jumped to his feet and threw his arms wide, gazing upwards. “Look upon this world of purity, inhabited only by the godly!” he cried. “Oh Lord, am I not your most faithful servant? Will you not shower me now with your blessings?”
“Oh,” I interrupted. “‘I’m sorry. I missed one.”
Zechariah of Hell’s Kitchen stopped and glared at me. I pointed at him. Little sparks came from my fingertips, just because I could.
“Pride,” I said, not even trying to conceal my smirk. “Let’s go, asshole.”
I’ve always liked playing with the idea of blending the occult and technology. And I’ve always liked taking the tongue-in-cheek approach to making supernatural beings feel prosaic and ordinary. Add in some of the ridiculous things that are technically regarded as sins, mix them all together, and this is what I came up with.
Anyway, Happy Halloween!
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