Dreams and Shadows - By C. Robert Cargill Page 0,87

Old Scraps knew it was empty. Scraps hopped up on the bar and, grabbing the bottle, marched over to Bertrand’s table.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Colby.

“What? You thought he was collecting souls for some war at the end of time? There is no end of time. There was no beginning. There just is. It’s all just energy. Nothing is forever. One day even Hell will be gone—dried up and spent, floating through space and time as a lifeless hulk before it is consumed by whatever the next thing is. It is just another star in the universe that will one day burn itself out. That’s just the way things work here. Nothing is permanent, but everything is never ending.”

“So who gets to see this paradise?” asked Old Scraps, pouring the angel another glass of whiskey.

“Whoever brings in the most souls gets a garden of their own, I suppose,” he said.

Colby shook his head, confused. “Wait, so the most evil men in the world get a pass?”

“What do you mean evil? What is evil? Do you mean sin? No, the greatest sinners don’t get a pass. But the greatest persuaders do, the men who lead others into willful oblivion. They build the pyres upon which their furnace will be heated.”

“Like who?” asked Colby.

“Hitler.”

Old Scraps removed the lit pipe from his mouth and waved it around wildly. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying someone like Adolf Hitler is in this hellish paradise of yours?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Why wouldn’t Adolf be dead center at the Devil’s party? Millions upon millions of people committed atrocities and sins of all sorts in his name, at his behest, or in opposition to his influence. All of their own free will. Don’t kid yourself; it’s all about free will, every last bit of it. He never forced those people; he gave them the chance to become the people they always dreamt of—at a price. And that price filled the coffers of Hell for two generations. Krauts, Ruskies, Yanks, Brits, Japs, Guineas, Frogs, Polocks, Protestants, Catholics, Jews. They all did unspeakable things in the name of righteousness. More coal for the fires! But did you ever hear a whisper about Hitler pulling a trigger or flipping a switch and gassing a room full of people himself? No. You didn’t. Because he always convinced someone else to do it.

“No one is born damned; you have to damn yourself. Hell’s fires are fueled by the stuff of dreams and stoked with man’s attempts to grasp them. Few men set out to damn their fellow man; those that do have a special place carved out in the brimstone of the underworld. The Devil loves a self-made man.” Bertrand threw back the remainder of his whiskey, swallowed it hard, and with a grimace looked around the bar. “Fuck this place,” he said. “Bring on the next thing.”

The angel rose to his feet, stumbled toward the door, careful enough not to get his wings caught but not so much so that he didn’t spill a few drinks along the way. Pushing the door open, he managed half of a polite bow before falling through, picking himself up, and making his way out into the street.

“Such sad creatures,” said Old Scraps.

“Angels or drunks?” asked Colby.

“Pfff. Drunks are God’s chosen few. Angels are just his messengers. Can you imagine? Being one with everything, born with a purpose, getting told everything you need to do to make the world a better place, only to have it all torn away, to be cast down, and left to experience creation alone on such limited terms? No wonder they’re all drunks. This place sucks.”

“Aye,” mumbled the room, drinks held high, toasting misery.

“Why doesn’t he drink with his own kind?” asked Colby.

“Bertrand? He does. But they have the decency to throw him out before he gets this drunk.”

“And you don’t?” asked Yashar.

Old Scraps laughed. “Ain’t a cluricaun born that can so much as spell decency, let alone appreciate it.” The door opened once again. “Another whiskey then, is it, Berty?” he called toward the door.

“No,” said Coyote. “But I will take a beer.”

The room fizzled and all fell quiet. Coyote stood at the entrance, smiling back at the looks of shock and disdain.

“No. You. Out,” said Old Scraps, struggling for the words, pointing angrily out the door, refusing eye contact.

“You’re not going to tell me that you don’t serve my kind here, are you?” asked Coyote.

“If by your kind you mean foul trickster spirits, then no, we