At work, the beginning of an adventure is born.

[jackshoegazer]

Tonight I forgot the power cord for the laptop, and thus I cannot recharge the battery here at work.  Thus, I have a mere two hours and thirty-three minutes before I am computer-less.  I have just finished the only book I brought to read, George R.R. Martin's A Clash of Kings, and thus I have nothing to do.  Rather than attempting to watch a movie in the mean time, I will do some writing.  This will be my first attempt at writing a LiveJournal post offline.  And perhaps I will write some fiction or poetry while I'm at it.  Who can say? Hmm?

There is nothing
but a vacuum hum
and a buzz
a rumble
in my ears as I write
try as I might
to create a titillating
narrative
which ever escapes me
in my cube of doom.

I realize now the folly of the unprepared, the unplanned.  Without the internet, I am helpless, my mind clean and ready, primed and pumped, but missing the key little details I've told myself I need but to look up.  My, how the ethereal connections, the information floating in the nether regions of the universe elude me when I am without a modem.  Why does my brain taunt me with these thoughts; that if only I knew how, I could attune my feeble grey matter into these invisible caches of knowledge?

For now it will suffice that I merely encode these mumbled ramblings, perhaps unedited into the bowels of LiveJournal; my failings strung up like fallen heroes, paraded before people, shame and honor reduced and scattered amongst the stars.

    The Adversary, the Accuser of the Brethren, Prince of Darkness, the Lightbringer, Father of Lies, the Great Lord Satan sat on the brimstone veranda overlooking the largest flaming ocean in the deepest pit of Hell, eating a tasty lunch of foie gras with lemongrass.  Actually, everything in Hell was consctructed or carved from brimstone. The decorative monotony was hellish. Satan tipped a goblet of sangria to his lips and drank deeply.  He took a deep, weary breath and addressed his First Demon, Belial, "What is the status of the Soul Harvest?"
    The First Demon, Belial, shifted the beady spectacles on his nose, as if the adjustment was for focus and not a moment to gather his thoughts, and squinted at the clipboard in hand.  "The Soul Harvest goes much as usual.  The Dow Jones is low, so we're getting more souls from brokers and investors.  Plus it's tax time.  And tomorrow is Fat Tuesday, so the Mardi Gras rush will begin soon.  It looks like we are to have a record season."
    The news should have been pleasing but that satisfaction of accomplishment did not reach Satan's eyes.  He stared vacantly at his lunch.
    "Sir?" said Belial.
    "Oh, yes, very good.  That's great.  Yes, yes, good, good," Satan replied distractedly.
Belial swallowed nervously and began to stammer, "Sir, there uh, yes, is a, uh, slight problem though."
    Satan looked at him with an eyebrow raised, seeming to say, "Ah, this should be interesting," or perhaps, "Oh, really do go on."
    "Well, as you well know, our numbers have never been higher, almost as if the humans don't even need Souls anymore."
    "Yes"
    "And thus our power - your power - has never been greater"
    "Yes"
    "However, we're running out of room."
    "What?"
    "We've run out of room.  Almost.  To store the Souls."
    Satan looked perplexed.  Perhaps poleaxed even, but definitely perplexed.  He took several moments before he replied, gathering his thoughts like strewn clothes after a hot bedroom romp.  Finally he spoke, his words slow and lumbering, like Paul Bunyan, "Say that again."
    "Room.  None.  Zip.  Zilch.  Zero.  We're full.  Nada. No vacancy."  Belial was getting curt.  He wasn't a demon who liked to repeat himself.
Satan roared and bellowed, flame and smoke spurting from his various facial orifices, "How the fuck can we be out of room?!  This is all metaphysics down here!  We don't have a set number of square feet!  This isn't some shitty apartment we're all cramming into for a fucking TV show!"
    "Yes, well, see, as a metaphysical realm, we are regarded to certain, um, limits."
    "By who?! What?!  There's no city planners here!  Sure as hell no fire code!  Who?  Fucking Einstein?  Newton?"
    Belial swallowed nervously, and adjusted his glasses again, as was his tic, "Dante, actually."
    "That 15th century prig?  What's he got to do with the size of Hell?"
    "As our existence and confines are, as you say, metaphysical and archetypal, a certain amount of our reality is based upon common beliefs."
    "Yes"
    "And as far as the average Hell-fearing citizen of Earth is concerned, we have just the seven levels of Hell, as dictated by Dante.  No one's really expounded on the structure and limits of Hell since, no one with much authority or impact on the Collective anyway."
    Satan knew this already, long forgotten and dusty in the back of his mind.  Everyone used to be so pious.  Harvesting Souls was a hard business.  One had to be clever and shrewd, slick as a snake, pardon the expression, like a used car salesman or a bastard telemarketer.  Now, people sold their Souls for a quick and clear ride to work in the morning.  The thought that Hell would ever fill was so far from his mind that it had been forgotten, gone on vacation, ran away from home, and now came back, with a family of billions wanting a place to crash until it found its own place.
    The way he saw it, this was a two-prong problem with a two-prong answer.  Two prongs, two plugs, that was the way Satan liked his problems, simple no round pegs for square holes.  "So Belial, you're telling me we either need less Souls or more room."
    "Uh, yes sir, I suppose so."
    "The we shall have both.  Take me to the cells."
    "Sir?"  Belial was confused and it showed on his demonic visage.
Satan smiled wide, his handsome teeth reflecting the boiling ocean off the veranda.  They were good teeth, clean.  It was obvious he flossed.  Or they just had good dentists in Hell.  The contents of his mouth weren't important though, but the words that came next were. "The Universe has given us so much, we drown in our abundance.  It's time we started giving back.  We're going to start recycling."
    Belial adjusted his glasses once again and said, with confusion literally dripping from his words, pooling under his feet to make befuddled mud, "You mean like bundling newspapers and number two plastic bottles, starting compost piles and the like?"
    "No," said the Prince of Darkness, "we're going to send Souls to the Abyss."
    "Can we do that?"
    "Watch me."
    As Belial led Satan through the bowels of Hell - pardon the expression - he pondered his decision.  Was it too rash?  Had he thought it through thoroughly?  Were there repercussions he hadn't unearthed?  Satan was never one for great thinking and surpassing cleverness.  It was his rash decisions and haste that got him this ungodly Kingdom in the first place.  He was well aware of his weakness though, and it troubled him, but like any good ruler, he couldn't show his indecision.  I must be cruel and fearless, he thought, but couldn't quite remember why.

Alas, this is my finish, the last I will write tonight.  Fearless is the man who is megalomaniacal enough to assume that others wish to read what he has written.  But that's not true.  It's a facade and we all fall for it.

Toodles!

Comments

[lux-et-amor.livejournal.com]

so toodles is internet slag too?

[jackshoegazer.livejournal.com]

It is for me :P It's apparently short for toodleloo.

Here's what it says in "The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Slang" by John Ayto and John Simpson (Oxford University Press, Oxford & New York, 1996):
: : TOODLE-OO int. Also tootle-oo. Brit. Dated. Goodbye. Also toodle-, tootle-pip. 1907- Standard. Toodlepip to the poor British Exec (1983). Origin unknown; perhaps from 'toot' noun, short blast on a horn.

[lux-et-amor.livejournal.com]

i like how even the definition says it's "dated"