"The Dive"
Sashira
"Where ya headed?" asked the cab driver. His voice was flat, too
tired to pretend interest any more, and his accent was thicker than
usual.
His passenger, a swaying young man in a ripped silk suit, only smiled
serenely as he appeared to ponder the question. "The Dive," he
finally replied. "You know, that nightclub on 78th Avenue with the-
"
"I know where it is," growled the cabbie, swinging the wheel around
with one hand. Metal shrieked against metal as the ancient motor
fought the turn, but the car complied. 'Well, damn,' the cabbie
thought. 'By now the fuckin' thing should know the way there by
itself.' Everyone ended up at The Dive if they were still drinking
after two in the morning - it was one of three clubs that served
drinks in the wee hours. Of the other two, one was secret and both
were illegal. That left only The Dive for alkies to drink in the dark
and fondle whatever they didn't want to be seen with.
The drunk said abruptly, "My friend." He was smiling his odd
smile.
'Dear God,' thought the cabbie irritably. 'This is where it starts.'
"Yes?" he asked, glancing back over his shoulder. No weapons that
he could see, not even a suspicious bulge. Drawing the safety glass
could needlessly provoke an otherwise harmless madman with money. He
left it open.
"My friend, I have found the truth. I've done it." The man
laughed. "I've been looking for it all my life, and tonight - it
just came to me." The cabbie said nothing, but the man continued,
"Wouldn't you like to hear it? You're the first person I've
seen since I realized it, you know.... Don't you ever wonder whether
there's a God?"
"No," the cabbie said guardedly.
"Well, there is and there isn't a God," the man said
triumphantly. "You see, everyone has a bit of holiness deep inside
them. That's what they see when they talk to God." He leaned back
on his crossed hands, eyes mockingly raised to the sagging cloth
ceiling above him. He added in a softer tone, "We need no longer be
bound to Gods, as long as we recognize that we ourselves are Gods."
Now the man seemed to be talking to himself.
"That fucking tears it," muttered the cabbie. He swung his right
hand from his lap and pulled the trigger. The man in the back didn't
even have time to be surprised by the hole in his forehead before he
fell.
It was nothing special, the gun, just something cheap and under the
table. But his aim had always been good. He tossed the gun out the
window indifferently - it wasn't as if he was worried about
fingerprints.
It had been a long day. His back hurt like hell, and now the goddamn
cab was a mess again. The bullet hole was explainable and the vinyl
seats would wipe down easy enough, but where the cushions were sprung
the ticking stained like virgin goddamn cotton. Not to mention the
extra inconvenience of one corpse, minus back of skull. The
subtraction added to the problem.
"Fucking atheists," muttered the cabbie into thin air. "Really
make me sick." He lit a cigarette, and considered the situation.
Why not? If anyone noticed him before he got to a garage, he was
screwed anyway.
He took off his coat. With a sigh of relief, he stretched his white
wings as far as he could. If he hunched them forward to the windshield
and over the tops of the seats, he could almost unfurl them all the
way.
'It does you good to stretch once in a while,' thought the ex-angel,
and found a little peace in the idea.
[The man in the backseat really is dead. He might have been a vampire
or something, but we'll never know now.
If the angel had a name, he's forgotten it by now. He's from the
Judeo-Christian tradition, the legend of the Morningstar War.
Basically, when Lucifer rebelled against God and became Satan, he was
cast from the heavens, as well as all the angels who had supported him.
Satan founded Hell after that as his own kingdom.
This particular "fallen angel" is still shell-shocked from the war.
After his side lost, he deserted from Satan's army and decided to hang
around the Earth. He's been stuck here ever since, and forgets a
little more every century. Even if God or Satan could forgive him for
his double-desertion, he's unpredictable and wouldn't make a good
servant, so they both avoid him.
Since he's a tool-turned-free agent, he has no magical/holy/unholy
power. But he's had a long time to study the things he likes - like
guns. He is not sadistic, just short-tempered and not an advocate of
that "sanctity of life" bull.
His boss is a human he calls "Sahib" (real name Kamal, Hindu American);
Canary Cab Company (intended fictitiously, if there really is one I
apologise.)
Gossip -
It's been a longer hiatus from this thought experiment than I intended,
but real crises trump imagined conflicts. It's been chaotic and
hellish for the past few weeks; those problems are all dealt with for
now. 'Nough said.]