Rapture
...deinde nos qui vivimus qui relinquimur simul rapiemur cum illis in nubibus obviam Domino in aera et sic semper cum Domino erimus...
…then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so we shall ever be with the Lord…
1 Thessalonians 4:17 (Latin Vulgate)
Michael Venator wasn’t your typical angel, even he knew that. With his long brown greasy hair and pockmarked face, he’d be the first to confess he’d never be the vision of beauty most people came to expect. But he’d never let that discourage him, it merely made him even more determined, and anyway he was pretty sure that his immortal body would look a damn sight better than the one he had now. Michael had a mission to fulfil and the unbelievers could do nothing to sway him from his righteous path.
As Michael eagerly heaved the tools of his trade up onto his back, he adjusted his stance to balance the additional weight. They definitely felt different. Slightly heavier but a better fit than his last ones. More – what’s the word, not aerodynamic, no, more ergodynamic. They clung snugly to his shoulders and the reinforced jacket he’d bought from the angel accessory section held them perfectly in place. No more wonky wings for Michael. The smell of the scotchguard he’d applied so liberally the night before still caught in his throat but he knew that would soon wear off once he got outside. It just wasn’t worth the risk of getting caught in the rain again without protection.
He hadn’t even been able to go out last week. Didn’t feel right without them. Naked somehow, exposed. His last ones were still stuffed behind the settee, matted; covered with bits of chewing-gum and God knows what else - ruined. Should’ve known better than go down The Moor really. The people down there weren’t as tolerant as those you came across on Fargate, but he’d fancied a change. It got a bit boring standing in the same place, week after week. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven. Michael reached over his shoulder and ran his fingers through the soft white goose feathers, sighing contentedly. They were a bit pricey, but worth every penny. He’d certainly come a long way from playing Carmina Burana full blast. There’d been too many complaints for a start, and besides, no one could hear him preach.
Michael lifted his new wings carefully and perched on his computer stool. Catching up with news on the Rapture Ready website was an essential part of his day - he certainly didn’t want to go out if The End was imminent. Click-click-click. No more natural disasters as yet, but he knew it wouldn’t be long. The prophecy was being fulfilled at an astonishing rate and Michael knew he had to be ready. For this reason you be ready too; for the Son of Man is coming at an hour when you do not think He will. It was definitely building; you only had to look at the stat charts to see that, they’d been off the scale last year.
What really got to Michael was the fuss everyone was making about the Kyoto Protocol. People slate the Americans, but no one stops to think why they refused to sign up. At the end of the day, they know it’s futile. The heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up. What’s the point in planning for the future when there isn’t going to be one? You had to enjoy it while it lasted. And as everyone knows, the US does have the largest number of true believers in Christ. Michael even thought of moving there at one point, but he was a bit worried about what might happen if Christ came down and he was still stuck on the plane. When he saw the price of the ticket, his decision was made.
Michael looked at his mother and shook his head sadly. She squinted down at him from the photo on top of his monitor. Although she never let on, he always suspected she knew. When she died, the cupboards were so full that he didn’t have to buy any food for nearly three months, well not tinned stuff anyway. Rows and rows of them staring back at him wherever he looked; not just in the kitchen cupboards, in the one under the stairs as well. He even found some under the bed in the spare room, though what she thought she was going to do with them all was beyond him. Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. As far as he knew, you couldn’t take anything with you, wouldn’t have thought you’d need to -they’d take care of all that, he was sure. That’s if you actually needed to eat, maybe you didn’t once you were there. Talking of food, it was time to get going, even practising angels needed to feed before the hunt commenced. Michael picked up his leaflets, packed them neatly into his bum bag and set off for the bakers.
As soon as he walks in he knows something’s up. Old Mrs Denby clocks him, a side-ways glance at her sister and then back at him again -forced smile. What was it this time? Mikey, she says, filing through the bewildered customers, would he like to come through the back a minute? Wouldn’t be long, she just needed a quiet word. She knew he was busy, so was she, but it was important. Michael glances worriedly at the joint of pork. It’s already half gone and there’s a queue of people waiting. You had to be quick, couldn’t afford to wait around. It was taken out anywhere between about 11:40 and 12 noon and if you weren’t there it’d be gone in less than ten minutes. Weekdays were the worst. Sometimes when he got there there’d be a queue right out the door; workmen, decorators, builders; lines of vans parked up outside. When he joined the rest of them in their ritual pilgrimage, he could see them watching the joint then looking at the queue, panicked eyes darting, trying to work out if they’d be one of the lucky ones. The chosen ones. Totally oblivious of the roasting they were in for once He got hold of them. He could have tried telling them, of course, but a few of them were quite hefty-looking…
She didn’t want to be rude but could he come now, Ethel would put some meat aside for him, wouldn’t she, he’d be alright. Ethel gives him a reassuring wink as the people in the queue shuffle uneasily, perplexed; if he was getting some before them, would there be enough left? Michael sighs and walks reluctantly towards the counter, head down, wings and shoulders slumped. Reaching round with both his hands he pulls his feathers in close as he squeezes through the gap that leads behind the counter. He didn’t need this, not today. Hadn’t she even noticed his new-
‘I see you’ve got a new set of wings love, very err… professional. Yes, I like them. Are they a little bigger than the last ones, or is it just me? Anyway, it’s like this love. Now, you know me, it doesn’t bother me what you get up to and you know I thought a lot of your mother, God rest her-but when I start getting complaints off the customers, what can I do? I’ve got no choice. I’ve got to say something, haven’t I?’
‘Get to the point, will you – you can see I’m on my way to work!’ Michael growls through gritted teeth, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.
‘It’s those wings – do you think – you could, if it wasn’t too much trouble – do you think you could put them on after you’ve collected your sandwich?’
‘And why would I want to that? I wasn’t aware you had a dress code.’
‘Well, it’s just that – there’ve been a few c-complaints – you see. They’re really beautiful and everything but it’s just, well -they are rather big aren’t they, and there’s not a lot of room in the shop and p-p-people can’t see past them to see what they want to buy.’
Bloody hypocrite, calls herself a church-goer and then tries laying this shit on him. There’s no way she’s getting in now. He knows what she’s trying to do. Persecution. I suppose he should have come to expect it, he’d had enough of it at school. He knew he’d have the last laugh though, once he was safely transported to Paradise and they were all drowning in the sea of eternal damnation, burning in the unquenchable fire. With a disgusted tutt, Michael flings his money on the counter, grabs his pork bun off a stunned Ethel, and storms out of the shop -as fast as he can with two enormous wings on his back.
‘I’m so sorry, Michael, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that someone found a feather in their ham roll after the last time you’d been in and there was no other way it could have…’
Shutting his ears to the feeble cries of the desperate old women, Michael continues his crusade, angrily chomping on his pork bun.
Finally, he reached the city centre. He’d given up trying to get the bus in; it just wasn’t worth the hassle, or the wing pulling. He was pleased to see that it was fairly busy and, Praise the Lord, there were plenty of wrinklies shuffling about just waiting to be saved. He was guaranteed a good result when the old ones were out. Not only because they were closer to death and easier to frighten into submission, but also as they couldn’t run as fast as the younger ones.
Michael took his place outside the Virgin Megastore. He cleared his throat, inhaled deeply, expanding his pigeon chest, and began his sermon,‘Behold people of Sheffield, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation. Repent and return, so that your sins may be wiped away, in order that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord. Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him, and he in God…’
Things were going fine until a couple of Goth’s walked past, grabbed some of Michael’s leaflets and threw them to the floor. He’d been so absorbed, he hadn’t even noticed them coming. Michael clenched his fists in fury, desperately fighting the urge to grab one of the said heretics by his dyed black hair and show him what the power of the Lord could do to his talc-covered face. The only thing stopping him was the memory of what his mother used to say about them, that they were all weirdos who worshipped the Devil – and let’s face it, he could come in any form, so you couldn’t be too careful. Michael puffed out his chest and bellowed,‘And men were scorched with great heat, and blasphemed the name of God, which hath power over these plagues: and they repented not, they repented not, to give him glory. And the fifth angel poured out his vial upon the seat of the beast; and his kingdom was full of darkness; and they gnawed their tongues for pain, and blasphemed the God of heaven because of their pains and their sores, and repented not of their deeds.’
After two hours preaching, Michael was ready to call it a day. He’d managed to give out all his leaflets and was pretty sure his new wings had done him proud. If only that ignorant cow down the job centre could have seen how hard he worked. She’d tried to get him to sign up to train as a fork-lift truck driver last week. Told him he needed to be more realistic about his employment goals! As if he wasn’t busy enough doing God’s work.
Michael was a believer but even this, he feared, may not be enough. There had to be something he could do. He knew that a place wasn’t guaranteed but he could see nothing wrong in improving the odds. If you were to ask him, he’d more than likely tell you that it was the death of his mother that did it. The timing was perfect though. His salvation, not her death. He’d been absolutely devastated until he found out that grief was the Devil’s work, Satan’s way of leading you up the path of perpetual torment, soon put a stop to that. Though in reality, it all started a few months later when he watched that documentary on Channel 5. And yes, he had been taking magic mushrooms but that had nothing to do with it. He’d taken them loads of times before that and had no visions at all.
He couldn’t wait to see what eternal reward he was in for. He knew it would either be the soul-winners crown, awarded to people who laboured to save souls from the fires of hell, or the crown of glory, reserved for those who faithfully teach and preach God’s Word. Although he’d be happy with either, he wasn’t too bothered as long as he got at least one of them. After all, he wasn’t doing all this for nothing. You never know, if he did really well, he might even qualify for one of those many mansions he’d heard about.
Michael removed his wings carefully and sneering at Goldie, his late mother’s pitiful excuse for a dog, who if there hadn’t been a codicil in his mother’s will, would have been swimming with the shopping trolleys down in the canal, he placed them on their stand, another good buy. He settled into his favourite chair with a can of Red Stripe and a substantial spliff and switched his television to the news channel. What better way to warm-up for the impending Rapture?
Page(s) 50-65
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