From: <>
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Touched by a Dark Angel (Repost)
Date: Wed, 1 Dec 1999 20:07:16 -0600
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Arguing amiably, Saul Lenin and David Stalin strolled
towards Communism, the Red section of Heaven.  At the
last minute they had to dodge a cluster of Tarquat
fedayin who were battering at the electrified gates,
using a few of their own with particularily hard heads.
"Who let them out of Paradise this time?" Saul asked,
raising his voice to be heard over the screams of the
faithful: "Jihad, Jihad! Allah Akbar! Ferengi suck!"

"How would I know?" David replied, smiling angelically,
unable to do it any other way, of course. They slipped
through the razorwire- and brokenglass-topped wall at
the postern gate, illuminated by a seven watt bulb and
marked "Party Members Only".  They both breathed a
little easier when they found themselves back in the
gloomy corridors of the Socialist Workers Paradise. The
looming cheesy concrete walls soared up to the Eternally
overcast sky, kept that way by an enormous parabolic
reflector that diverted the Divine Radiance from Throne
Sector down onto the statue of the Patriarch Tikhon
(it's Heaven, after all), tastefully done in classic
gigantic Soviet Heroesque.

The wall newspapers proclaimed an abundance of black
bread, potatoes, and cabbage for all, as they always
did. Saul and David ignored them, as they always did,
since they'd invented those sort of lies (which were
perversely true here) during their last assignment on
Mundis Fundis. They made their way through the hordes
of grimly smiling, ideologically trustworthy shoppers
looking for a bargain in workboots and sugar-beet vodka
to their favorite hangout, Smokin Sam's Samovar Komitet,
just across the street from Cafe Saigon.

Andropov greeted them both with a smile and obseqiously
ushered them over to their favorite table in the corner.
Instantly glasses of hot tea appeared, so strong and
sweet in the Russian fashion spoons had to shoved in.
Saul and David relaxed and began rolling spliffs of
mahorka rabbit tobacco, remininscing and swapping lies
about the glory days of Red Terror they'd instituted, in
tag team fashion, on their last job.

Between assignments, a chance to relax for two ace agents
of the Mysterious Stranger Bureau ("God conceals His
Mysteries for the Kings to reveal"), the exoteric label
and cover organization for Heaven's Own Surete ("We put
the HOS in HOSannah"). Wreathed in tobacco smoke, their
competitive juices jolted by the caffeine and sugar goop,
they took up their friendly sparring from earlier...

"I'm always doing the groundwork," Lenin complained;
"Just once I'd like to see you do the really dirty stuff."

"Saul has slain his thousands, David his tens of
thousands," Stalin sang out in that clear, mesmerizing
baritone he'd borrowed from the Seraphim Supply & Support
(and neglected to return, no hand receipt heh heh) for
the Sweet Singer of Israel gig.

"That's exactly what I mean," Saul grumbled; "I'm always
having to set them up so you can knock them down..."

"Oh, Lenin has killed his millions, Stalin his tens of
millions," David sang on, teasing, watching Saul's face
flush with that ancient spear-hurling rage.

"That's not in the Book, dammit, and you know it!" Saul
interjected, choleric and bunching his fists as he leaned
forward. David laughed and eased back, pitching his voice
higher into a saccharine soprano; "...I write the Psalms,
I write the Psalms..." Saul swung and David ducked; just
at that moment, fortunately, the centerpiece arrangement
of holly and lilies of the field burst into incandesence.

"Saul, David." the Voice intoned from the flaming flora;
"Attention to Orders! Report to the A.o.D. for your new
assignment immediately." Saul blanched and looked at
David, who was poking at the uncharred, unmarred grouping
of shrubs and flowers. "Nice trick, that..."

"Nevermind, we're back on the clock," Saul hissed; "I
thought the Angel of Death was off on special assignment

"No, that was over even before mine was," David replied
absentmindedly as they got up to depart: "He was a nasty
sort, a chicken farmer named Gimmler or something like
that, did some tailored wetwork in Poland..."

"Must be something top-drawer going on," Lenin speculated
as he ditched his greatcoat and spread his wings. Stalin
imitated him and as they leaped into the aether together
shouted; "You don't think it's the Big One, do you?"

"No, can't be," Saul asserted; "The Peacock Angel is a
personal friend of mine and he's still working the black
gang detail..." They swooped and beat their way towards
the single scarlet spire of the Mortality Directorate;
"And he's already got standing orders cut for a thousand
year stint down there before the Eschateon."

"Do they know that?" David asked, making the thumbs down
gesture, the universal shorthand for all Matters Mundane.

"If they can read they do," was Saul's answer; "But what
are the odds? They can't even count, most of them..."

In perfect unison they began to sing; "Ninety-nine
bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer."

"Shouldn't that be a hundred?"

Laughing uncontrollably they fell out of the sky onto the
Mortality Directorate LZ.


Hopefully this time it's readable.
Please advise if not.