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Interviewing the Angels - Part 1 / We can reschedule this, right?

January 1, 2018

For 2018 I've decided to experiment a little with some short blog entries about Luce and gang. I'm not sure how long this will run, where it will go or if it'll be any good - but here is to the adventure of it! I hope you enjoy.

                                     ~ Sid

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Interviewing the Angels - Part 1

We can reschedule this, right?

 

 

            I spot the first hell hound trailing my car not even three minutes after I pull off the highway.
            "That's not a good sign," I mutter, squinting through the dense trees. Feeling like a Bigfoot hunter, I spot the beast dashing through the foliage to my right; the world around it barely whispering to signal its presence, despite its size.
            Usually when I turn off onto the dirt road I never see one of them until I reach the cliffs, a good three miles ahead. If the packs patrol had been widened, it could only mean that defenses were up and I was headed towards a show down — with the devil. Again.
            Whoop-de-frickin-doo.
            My little car bounces over the rough road and, being the grandma driver that I am, I’m crawling along at barely twenty miles an hour. To be truthful, I'm mentally running through the laundry list of other things I need to do on a Saturday instead of driving all the way into the wilds of Northern California.
            Because, honestly, Luce doesn’t like me all that much. That's not to say I'm somehow singled out. He's just very selective on who he chooses to care about. . . and so far I haven't made that list. 

            The drive along the coast is breathtaking as I climb in elevation. One moment I'm surrounded by compressed Redwoods and ferns, and with the next turn in the road I'm in a clearing with the ocean to my left and wildflowers to the right. Ahead lies my destination, a shining white, three-storied mini mansion with a wraparound porch and columns reminiscent of a Greek temple.          
            As I pull up the drive, I park next to the only side building on the property, a massive garage. Hopping out of my car, I grab my messenger bag and sling it over my shoulder before tip toeing to one of the open doors. The garage easily holds six or seven cars, but when I poke my head inside, I only see three. Sadly, there is no shiny silver Sting Ray Corvette to be seen. Azazel, who sometimes serves as the buffer between me and the great deviled egg, doesn't seem to be home.         
            Biting my nails, I contemplate heading home and faking a cold or the flu. We could reschedule this, right? For, like, sometime next century?

 

 

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