Forever After - By David Jester Page 0,25

so I can enjoy the moment more when it’s their time to die.”

“Bit harsh.”

Michael groaned and gave an apologetic nod. “I know. I don’t mean it, I don’t really care, truth be told. If someone finds the path and the possibility that doesn’t lead them into my hands then great, good for them. I’m just being an unnecessary bastard. It’s been a long day.”

“Angela’s Washington,” Naff said with a thoughtful frown. “That name rings a bell. She’s a werewolf right?”

Michael shrugged.

“I remember reading her file. I’m sure she is.”

Michael shrugged and took another long drink. “What’re you talking about?” he wondered.

“What are the odds?” Naff quizzed. “The first guy was a werewolf. I was on duty at the time, I checked his file. Two people show up dead on the same day, both shot and both are missing their souls. This can’t be a coincidence.”

“I don’t care,” Matthew said apathetically. “Whatever it is it could cost me my job.” He checked his watch; his eyes sank at the sight. “I should have reported in after that,” he explained. “I couldn’t bear to face them. The ridicule. Or worse.”

Naff was looking increasingly animated, even Chip had started to pay attention and had lifted his head to take a drink.

“But don’t you find it weird?” Naff pushed.

Michael stood. “No,” he said simply. “Let it be. I’m going for a piss.”

Naff wrinkled his nose. “I prefer to hold it in until I get home,” he said, reluctantly changing the subject. “It’s hell in there, and trust me, I’ve been to hell. Less fire, more piss, but I can take them in equal measures.”

“Too many shakes,” Chip said suddenly.

“What?” Michael asked.

“They say shake it once or twice that’s okay, shake it three times and you’re playing with yourself.” Chip recited some of his encyclopaedic knowledge of the obscure, pointless and disgusting. “Judging by the floors we have a lot of excessive masturbators in here.”

Michael paused with an open mouth, ready for a reply, but it shrugged it off for sanity’s sake.

“I don’t understand that phrase,” Naff said as Michael worked his way around them with increasing speed, trying to get away from the conversation.

“What’s not to understand?” Chip wondered, seemingly perking up now that the topic was urine and masturbation. “One shake: fine. Two shakes: fine. Three shakes: not fine.”

“But what constitutes a shake? Is it one movement up and down, thus spraying yourself? Or is it left and right, spraying the floor and the poor idiot standing next to you.”

“You’re putting too much thought into this.”

“Well, what do you do?” Naff wondered, taking a sip of whiskey.

“I wipe my cock on the hand-towel.”

Naff nearly choked on his drink. Michael left the table, and his friends, with a smile on his face.

8

Michael awoke with a hangover. The perils of drowning his sorrows had caught up with him. His head ached. His stomach groaned. His mouth tasted like he had spent the night gargling toilet water.

His mind ran through the nights events, or at least as much of it as he could remember. He remembered drinking glass after glass of whiskey in the Seamstress. He remembered stumbling out into the street in the early hours.

He rolled over, scrunching up his face when the movement threw a dagger to the back of his brain. He sensed someone above his bed, saw their large form silhouetted against the amber glow from the closed curtain on the other side of the room. He slowly peeled his sticky eyes apart, at first he only saw a blur, but then his eyes adjusted.

“Jesus Christ!” he spat, rocketing upright.

His head exploded at the movement, his blood pressure plummeted. Sitting by the side of his bed, awkwardly positioned on a chair barely big enough for Chip, was Michael’s boss.

“Not quite,” the large figure replied calmly.

“Azrael?” Michael spat in astonishment, wondering if he was still drunk and seeing things

“Indeed.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

Michael dropped his head tiredly into his hands. He furiously rubbed his eyes with his palms and fingers and used the base of his hand to knead some life into his skull.

He said, “What are you doing--” but then stopped himself. “Can you give me a moment to get dressed?” he wondered.

“As you wish.”

****

Azrael, the Angel of Death, calmly walked to the kitchen, leaving Michael to rouse himself in the bedroom. His huge body bound gracefully through the grimy flat, almost floating with an ethereal decorum.

He paused by the fridge and knelt down to open it; his eight foot frame towered over the large appliance.