Alcohol & Economics - Something Dangerous - Part 2

Crypt kicked a poorly placed rock in frustration. He had caused trouble, which was a common occurrence. He’d also been caught, which happened less frequently but still pretty often. The detail that made this event so damn irritating to him was a rather simple one: his god. Of all the possible people to catch Crypt red handed- both literally and figuratively, it was the one being he held in the highest respects. Sure, he didn’t exactly show it very well, and he had never really been the picture of purity and righteousness that angels were supposed to be, but those minor details didn’t really matter. If all of that had not been bad enough, his maker hadn’t so much as spared a word about it. Not a scolding or a guilt trip, nothing. He didn’t even receive a change of expression from his normally emotionally inclined creator. No, instead he had become file number 734-65 (among several others) on Saint Michael’s desk, dropped there to await review without a second glance.

The primary ruling was rather harsh, if Crypt was to be fair. Recent academy grads caught spray painting the Gates of Saint Peter a more fitting color traditionally got a slap on the wrist and a decade’s worth of community service. Crypt, however, wasn’t so lucky. He was suspended from all the fun parts of being an angel; his rights to become a guardian angel to beings in need (or with rather questionable life styles) were revoked. Any and all of his open cases were to be evaluated, and passed off to fledgling angels in need of a first case if they weren’t deemed closed. Crypt was on probation until further notice, which was worse than being stuck in the academy, at least in his opinion. To top it all off, he was metaphorically grounded, and restricted to the inside of the Gates of Saint Peter.

He kicked the rock again in frustration, not paying any attention to his surroundings or the direction of the now airborne stone. If he had been, perhaps Crypt would have seen it spiral straight through Saint Raphael’s only eastward facing stain glass window.

“Damn,” He breathed once the sounds of shattering glass caught his attention. His least favorite of all the archangels just happened to be the very saint stomping his way toward Crypt, fuming about his broken window. Incidentally; he was also the most modernized, with is signature shock of untamed platinum blond hair and steely cobalt blues.

In short, the so called Healer of God was a rather frightening picture on his best days, and it only got worse when his rather short fuse was sparked. That was Crypt’s favorite past time, of course, and it was usually entertained in the form of stark comments about Raphael’s dark roots showing. (It was never the case, Raphael would argue. He took a great deal of time, patience and the latest in hair care technology into maintaining his appearance.)

“Crypture!” Crypt rolled his eyes, strolling away from Raphael’s office at a calm, comfortable pace. Raphael was one of maybe a dozen or so beings that knew his given name- and stood as one of just three that used it in normal conversation. More importantly, he was caught, and he was aware of the fact that running would cause Raphael’s reaction to snowball into epic proportions.

“Why, Raphael, you’re looking absolutely stunning- and feminine- this afternoon.” Crypt complimented the archangel before him with a Cheshire smile. The latter just grew red at the comment, and to say that it was from anything besides ire would be a lie. “You should really think about taking a couple deep breaths, or perhaps learning some breathing exercises,” He continued. “You’re looking a little red and that can’t possibly be good for your blood pressure.” He could hardly contain his glee at the barely visible vein throbbing on Raphael’s forehead, and his tone made that increasingly evident.

“You broke my b-rand new stained glass w-window,” Raphael huffed, venom coating his words. Or, well, calmly malevolent desires; Angels and saints were supposed to be pure, and the whole may you choke on my words thing wasn’t exactly the picture of innocence.

‘Well, there goes my fun.’ Crypt tried- and promptly failed to suppress a grimace; he absolutely hated Raphael’s stutter, which only seemed to appear when he was angry. He couldn’t explain his distaste, but wrote it off as the dislike of how high Raphael’s voice would go whenever he stuttered.

“It’s six hundred years old, Raphael; it hardly constitutes as new.” Sure, six hundred was a long time, at least when it came to warring races such as humans, but Heaven hadn’t seen so much as a skirmish in almost six millennia. On top of that, there was a large time difference between Heaven’s calendar year and the de facto human calendar year. He wasn’t too sure of the specifics, but it was something close to double the human’s year. It wasn’t like he could check his charges’ calendars to find out, either. Damn that Michael, Crypt thought, may all his ink dry up at the worst of times.

“-Crypture! Are you even listening to me? It was a handmade single pane work of art! And this is the sixth one you’ve broke!” Raphael squeaked, taking more and more steps toward both Crypt and losing his ability to speak in such a rage. Crypt, however chose not to correct him when he realized Raphael was still talking. It was the sixteenth window pane in the past year or so, but who was counting?

“Raphael, everything in Heaven is handmade.” Crypt pointed out, boredom already starting to get the best of him. Raphael was all too easy to anger, and it just wasn’t as amusing as it used to be. “The stone was an accident, I swear.”

Raphael only grumbled some more, his anger dropping like a lead balloon. The phrase “I swear” was never uttered by a heavenly being that was lying. It was physically impossible- and tested on three hundred and two angels and saints over the past millennium or two. (They were all volunteers, of course.)

“You’re nothing but an annoyance when you’re left to your own devices.” Raphael said after a few moments of cooling off. Crypt didn’t argue, either. He could admit that much. “Perhaps measures should be taken to avoid the possible damaging of grounds and residents of Heaven.” After a few more moments devoted to thought, he motioned for Crypt to follow and set off toward the main grounds, where the tribunal of the saints Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel held their office.

Crypt was at a loss. Not only did he not understand how Raphael had gotten from an accident to his possible maiming of breathing people, but the tribunal office was the last place on his list to visit. Not only was his newest case with Saint Michael still pending, but only bad things ever came of visits to the tribunal building- at least as far as he was concerned. Titus, his fraternal twin brother, was a totally different, untainted picture of righteousness. Always winning awards and being recognized… and being dragged down a peg or two whenever Crypt would get caught.

He sighed and headed in the general direction of Raphael, making no attempt to catch up. Crypt may have been obligated to follow the archangel, who was technically a superior being in one sense or another, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep a bit of distance between them on long walk into the lions’ den.