Title: Cenagal
Author: Scynneh
Feedback: Surely you will indulge me? scynneh@yahoo.com
Improv 11: wax, shelter, alert, vice.
Rating: R, I am not nice to certain characters, afraid I'm deficient in sympathy to idiots, so be warned.
Dedication: To Ducks, who added to her FTECB series and made my weekend- Evil Baby likes to play, doesn't he? And to Briar who wanted more. Here ya go luvie, cheers.
Spoilers: It's a good idea to have read 'Rubesco', but if you haven't...Angelus is loose, and he's one annoyed Master Vamp. He's snapped Darla's neck, and then returned to the Hyperion. In this universe, the Bat Gang have returned to Angel, not the other way around. Cordelia has sensed that Angelus is not who he pretends to be, and she is also keeping quiet about it. 
Author's Notes: I don't like the way the 'Darla' storyline got resolved, so here's what I think should have taken place. Oh, and the title is Spanish for 'mire.' Y'know, the stuff that someone struggles through until they understand their purpose...something like that...
March 2001

    *
The sun stretched and rose lethargically into the sky. performing as all small children were planet-wide.  First peering over the edge of its bed; it debated the merits of actually getting out of bed willingly, then belaying that thought, it scrambled back to safety.  But, with all the stealthy instincts of a mother harassed to fringes of patience, the moon had caught on by that time, and yanked the cover of clouds away brutally, scolding with dusky light that did nothing to illuminate the ground below and the results of which were feelings of discontent from the sentient life below the eternal struggle.  After more tussling, the sun gave up the field and threw itself into the sky, giving humans light, and demons the call to retire for the day.  I had watched the tug-of-war from the cover of velvet curtains, and when it was resolved, retreated for a reprieve from my reorganization of my city.

    The Arabs were a resourceful people, devised a variation on the sextant, which measured the position of that hateful sphere I must avoid.  Those saps had to know about the sun in order to find Mecca, that five times a day, kissing the dirt and plying the deities with prayers and devotion.

     I know that 60% of the U.S. believes in the existence of angels, but other than PAX television, there is a lack of evidence supporting the faithful.  Whereas I am tangible whether people want to accept or deny that is up to them, I am liberated, sinfully wise, and amused by the foolishness of this world.

    The lawyers of that little law firm, doing what they thought was nefarious, never realizing that far worse things were moving among them, waiting to strike.  Envy, Falsehood, and not lastly, the Wrath that has been compounded against those foul ticks as they fuck Justice like a common mongrel.  No wonder the bitch has been less than receptive to having someone else take her name as their motto.  My soul really got he shorter straw when he came to this city; the only way to come out on top is to step on everyone else on one's way up.  And I've always worn the boots in our relationship, so it seems that it's up to me to organize things as they ought to have been some time ago.

    It is a sad truth that most humans are not afraid of the dark anymore.  Unwise that, but such stupidity is widespread in this 'Age of Reason'.  That mentality implies that what went before was the 'Age of Unreason'.  Amusing concept, but all for naught are these pathetic self-help books that humans use to make themselves feel more empowered.  

    Demons don't need courses in self-esteem, we as a whole have learned that we are more powerful than the mammals that share our world, and so the darkness is our clothing rather than chloroform.  And humans say that they are not afraid of shadows; while at midnight, they open up their 'Anxiety Closet' and let the worries pour out.  They don't need a priest to communicate with some deity and drag the sun over the horizon so that they can try again.  Or, so the fantasies tell them.  By questioning the existence of god, they are not diminishing that creator, but increasing their own importance.  Flouting traditions gives a heady feeling to the trapped, and as they are looking around, they find Progress.  

    Progress is a cultural thing, many don't have it, and those who want to move are fascinated by the idea.  They feel enlightened, and look upon the past as a time of error, never mind that devils were identified and defeated, now there is no place for the supernatural or fantastic.  This century reminds me of the 17 and 1800's, when Candide traveled the world with his somewhat imbecilic math professor and poked stinging fun at the supposedly 'knowledgeable populace'.  

    Candide was about rape, murder, pillage and all the things that make life worthwhile.  Delicious read.  He dwelt a little on the aftershocks of the earthquake in Lisbon, in, oh, 1755, I believe it was. A viceroy burned Jesuits at the stake in hopes that it would appease his deity.  Never thought that the viceroy would endorse a power that was fond of charbroiled priests, but he thought it appropriate.  The Jesuits were not pleased.  In Zadiz, another of his works written after the earthquake, Candide ripped into the people, noting  lovely idiosyncrasies: all the churches fell down, and the brothels were standing when the dust had settled. 

    Now, it is evident that Madame Dorian's is doing as well as can be expected, taking into account that some of her clientele have fled town following the slaughter of their lawyers under strange circumstances.  But the churches have not filled any more seats.  The truly wealthy are still well and need no spiritual guidance.

    Nothing fails in religion like success and nothing succeeds in religion like failure, an old maxim, is true even today.  Good times empty the temples, and misfortune will replenish their ranks.  

However; this is what I have to say about religious fervor: one has to be poor enough to have no other option.

   And, while many find shelter in the stone walls of a God they will never see; not all of the unfortunate stick around to learn about the world beyond death; some of those emancipated intelligent noblemen were more than a little charmed by American classlessness.  See, the good ol' U.S. of A has its classes, the people have just never been too good at bowing.  Bill Gates may be the richest man in the world, but no one is going to pay homage to a computer geek, unless he's got them on a payroll.  Americans certainly know what they're made of.  In the past, the gap between Church and the citizens with a few brain cells has led to some interesting expressions of deism.

    Thomas Jefferson was so bored with the job of President that he decided to rewrite the Bible.  He removed all references to otherworldly events, and anything that couldn't be explained by means of reason, and was left with a pamphlet of forty-seven pages which he submitted to Congress for publication.  It sits now in the Library of Congress: 'Thomas Jefferson's Bible.'  The evangelicals should be cautious when referring to the 'deep unwavering faith of the Founding Fathers.'

    Theologians quibble about a pack of nonsense, as others try and figure out ways around the laws that apply to all living and unliving creatures.  The philosophes look at the past and conclude that it was a series of miseries, and there is no need to continue in that direction.  And when they present the question, it's a relatively easy thing to consider: would you rather live in a world of misery or a world of hope.  'Course, the definition of 'hope' is not universal, and I have my own little dictionary to explain my views.  My nature is that of a demon; I am not a nice being, no matter how much the humans that have gathered around me like to pontificate about 'internal struggles with darkness', they have no idea.  I wasn't meant to take care of the hopeless masses, my intended purpose was causing hope to run for the hills.

    A few hundred years ago, people like him would have been burned at the stake for being too damn curious for their own well-being.  There are reason why they're called 'the good old days.'

    Yeah, 'trial by combat' was a legally recognized form of conflict resolution, and God was on the side of the winner.  It's like the lessons taught by Henry V; the play has the glory and rage of the English offset by the senseless murder of the French nobles who know not the power of the king.  But if you've killed ten-thousand Frenchmen and only lost roughly one-hundred men, then yes, I can see how one might draw the conclusion that God was an Englishman.  if not, then he was mightily put out with the French for some reason. 

     Henry V was written forty years after the Reformation, so the Church 's people were portrayed as yammering buffoons, which they were, a great institution losing all it had stood for, left to scrounge for common manipulations.  Oh sure, I can empathize with Henry, the lad was a bit of a playboy in his youth, which discolored the French opinion of him, and they got off to  a bad start.

    My own past has been both a wonderful tool, and something to inspire fear in those I might wish to dominate without the added burden of cajoling them out of their moral trees.  

    I mean, what does it matter who one eats for supper? The aristocracy were the ones with labels after their names, and now the yeoman can buy clothing with a label to prove that he can pay three times what something is worth to advertise.  Which is the true idiot, the sales representative catering to the drain of the public, or those who purchase what is hocked on the corners?

    My mind dwells on Lindsey's quest to know my shadow as intimately as if it were his own and then obliterate me. 

    'Little Lindsey  McDonald hunted monsters in his pajamas.'  Satan take the bards who introduced the rhyme to the ignorant masses.  Bad enough that I'm harassed by a spited 'boyfriend' who fancies himself Luke to my Vader.  Despite what that thrice-damned director scripted, everyone knows that no pissant fresh- cheeked infant could ever hope to steer some great warrior away from 'The Dark Side.'  Fact o' the thing is that the lad is in sore need of a Master.  Someone to worship, and yes, to fight.  Deviousness abounds in those blue eyes, reminds me of another I rescued from the hovel his life had become.

    His facade is well-crafted though, successful, obedient and dedicated to his company and cause.  All the while he plays nursemaid to a murderer who loves another.  I smelled him on my Sire when she came knocking.  She stank of raw need and lust.  But Lindsey is much too normal; for what is normalcy without some crippling flaw to throw a wrench into the mix and broaden one's horizons.

    I remember when my aunt Jane, a staunch Catholic spinster, rolled out of her pew one especially dull Sunday service, foaming at the mouth and speaking in tongues.    It was a bit much for our village, and she went off to become part of some wild-eyes church in  the hills.  It was a memorable experience, to be sure.  Apocalyptic visions were new and different, so when Darla introduced me to another Gifted flower, this one even kept in an even more enclosed greenhouse to blossom, I was entranced.

    Lindsey doesn't have Dru's Sight, or Will's fire, but he has a vicious streak that Darla obviously found of enough interest that she let him take care of her.  When she gets bored, she rips out arteries, and she lost patience easily with humans, that I remember at least.  No, Lindsey's talents are hidden behind the gold he wears, just as his superior s do, and this display of wealth is only because the imbeciles think that they are above needs that leave them vulnerable.

    Sure, and if that's true, then journeying off to be a 'man in a habit' in the 1500's was the best way to have a spotless spirit and only good thoughts, with nary a vice to be seen.  I hate to spoil any illusions that the desperate parents have about their children being shuttled off to learn about God, but the traditions were most assuredly not aimed towards speedy passage through the Pearly Gates.  To go off and be a monk during that time was to shirk all responsibilities.  

    The Friars drank, whored, had a splendid life, didn't make their child support payments.  One must keep in mind that this was the Renaissance, there was no spiritual direction whatsoever.  Sounded like terrific fun for some time, but after a few decades, the general consensus was that a priest was too essential.  They were a special-interest group, a conspiracy.  Today lawyers are in the same leaky tub, dividing up the towns like any other predator, but unaware that their claws have been clipped.  I am a much more effective killer, and a classic that can adapt and grow more influential, while the servant of a demon will remain marked as such, even taking into account a subject's level of alertness about threats posed by other large-toothed beasts wearing ties.

    He is branded, his soul is concave with the force of his owner's sigil, and only another of like nature may hope to reverse that indentation.

    I smile with this thought as I quickly pass through the tunnels that my other half so thoughtfully diagrammed for this exact mission  He sketched both his intended and the most expedient route on which to travel to his destination, now mine.  I have found a treasure worthy of my hands' touches, be they gentle or splintering.  Perhaps I will shred this one's pride, toy with him for lack of anything more pressing, give him a little sample of the bloody cold that he's been fascinated with, then yank him partway through, so he is not one thing nor the other.  Or death might be deserved, for his insolence, I haven't made up my mind yet. 

    Arriving at the station is as much anticipation as satisfaction in having reached the right stop.

    A lawyer is like a wax apple, all surface beauty and usually not a thing edible beneath the skin.  See, the apple market has undergone a decline in recent years, appears that their product is not sexy enough.  Maybe with genetic engineering something can be done.  For both breeds.

TBC