Il parle française comme une vache Allemand
We were sitting at the bar, some deserted part of town. Everybody'd hushed down and looked away when we entered—even though we weren't the only ones there. There were some officers sitting in the corner. Reapers. I'm not one of 'em, I wanted to tell them. Not a real one, anyway.
"Not black. Only grey."
What, what, what? He was a real stupid parrot, that friend of mine.
"No lightning bolts. Don't worry about it."
I wasn't even sure what his name was. I'd only dragged him along because he'd been the only one willing. Who seemed willing. The rest of them, the new guys, were real edgy. Thought there were rebels lurking in every corner. Ready to kill them. God knows with what.
"Yo!" I tried to catch the bartender's attention again, "over here!"
He was ignoring us, focusing on polishing this glass, talking to this civ in front of him. A kind of passive Resistance.
"Hé!" I waved.
At that, a few of the officers in the corner noticed us. My companion coughed nervously.
The bartender edged further away, if anything.
"Est-ce que tu peux nous voir?"
Can you hear me now?
One of the officers detached himself from the shadows, got up and walked over to us. The kid next to me nearly fell out of his seat.
"Cut it out," he told us sternly.
He was a real one, all right. He looked like a real angel standing there, in that immaculate uniform.
"You are causing a disruption."
We were getting a few glares, now that I thought of it. From the civs and the like.
He glowered at me like an archangel.
Maybe that was it—or maybe my voice was just a tad too loud—but that's what got him up. Some real important guy, I could tell. It was only then I got an inkling of what we had intruded upon.
"Shut up," the kid hissed at me.
He wove through the tables, parted the thinning crowd like a shark (no, Moses), like even the civs couldn't help knowing who he was. And then He was there.
"What's the problem?" He said.
Mr. Archangel just indicated us. We were definitely the center of attention now, the scene. The types of things I live for.
"You," His eyes slid over us—us two slugs. "What are you doing here."
"Je fait un cocktail," I told him, "s'appelle coup de foudre."
He just looked at me. And then away.
"Where are you from?"
"We're from—the s-Seventh," the kid piped up, ghost-pale, "sir."
Seventh layer of Hell.
"And what are you doing here?"
"Just doing some—reconnaissance."
Archangel Gabriel grabbed me.
He dragged me up.
"Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"
"None other than—the G-dash-D. Himself."
He gave me that look again. Stone cold. His eyes. Carving us out of stone, in his mind's eye.
"What are your names?"
Poor kid. He looked miserable.
Gabriel shook me—I thought I was in for it—but, no. That would be too unprofessional. We don't get into brawls, nope.
"Is he drunk?" he asked the kid.
"He never drinks—" I reconsidered, as the world trembled around me,"—only a little."
The archangel let me go—typical, they always leave us to fend for ourselves—and I nearly fell.
"His name is—" the kid elaborated.
"Reinhard," I clarified from the floor.
And then He was gone. Leaving us with only silence. The wind in the reeds.
Well, empty glasses. On the ground I observed strange patterns, traced the outlines of the universe. I don't know how long it took. I only finished when the lesser angels—the other officers—pulled me up and forced me to go with them.
"…they got away…because…"
As we walked through that joint, I looked around at all the civs—staring at us, wide-eyed—and only then I noticed it. That piano. A grand piano. It was empty as we passed it, which was a damn shame. It was a real nice piano, I could tell.
And Night—all nights—would be better with music.
I turned to my companion, the kid.
"Look," I told him, "we're getting an escort."
Il parle française comme... He speaks French real shitty (kind of like me)