Thomas Sniegoski - A Hundred Words for Hate

“Nothing personal,” he said softly as he lowered the body of the angel to the wet ground of the alley—a soft Southern rain falling upon them.

The angel, who had taken the human name of Luke, looked up at him with wide dying eyes.

“F . . . Fra . . . Francis,” he said in a strangled voice as dark blood oozed up from somewhere inside him and ran from the corners of his gaping mouth. “Why?”

Fraciel— Francis —did not respond. Instead, he removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit coat and cleaned the angel’s black blood from his blade. But the question echoed inside his troubled mind.

Why? It was something he’d asked himself a lot recently .

Why? Because God said so. That was why.

Francis was a killer for the Allfather, ending the lives of those who ran afoul of Heaven, penance for his own terrible sin.

He watched as Luke died on the filthy ground, his last breath trailing off in a whistle as the light of life left his eyes.

He had found this particular angel in the tent of a traveling church revival on the outskirts of Oak Bluff, Arkansas, preaching to those who believed that the Lord God was actually watching them.

Francis had been amused; as far as he knew, the only ones being watched were those humans who posed some sort of threat to Heaven and angels who had escaped to Earth after the Great War to avoid punishment. But the country was in the grip of a depression, and people were desperate.

Desperate for God to notice them.

Francis had attended the revival meetings, participating in the fervent praise to God, waiting for the opportunity to carry out his mission. Finally, at the end of a particularly zealous meeting, he had approached Luke, and although he was able to mask his true identity, even to other angels, Luke must have sensed a kindred spirit.

For some reason, Francis had allowed friendship to blossom, breaking his own cardinal rule. Though it was painful to admit, he had enjoyed having a friend, and hated to see it end in such a way.

But there was no choice.

Francis could sense his Masters’ impatience, and knew it was time to finish the job. He and Luke had been passing out flyers announcing a special meeting dedicated to asking for God’s forgiveness, and were on their way back to the revival tents when Francis saw his opportunity, suggesting they take a shortcut through the alley.

Luke had been so happy, brimming with excitement at the chance to preach God’s mercy to such a large gathering. Francis could practically feel the energy radiating off of him.

God’s mercy indeed.

Briefly, Francis wished it didn’t have to end this way, but he had no choice. He too awaited forgiveness, and if that was ever to happen, he had to kill this angel, and any other deemed an enemy of God.

It was the price he had to pay.

The act itself had been quick, as merciful as Francis was able, but it didn’t stop the questions.

What had Luke done to deserve this?

Francis returned the dirty handkerchief and blade to his inside coat pocket and waited; it usually didn’t take them very long to respond after one of the divine had met his fate.

The Thrones appeared in a blinding flash, followed by a sound like all the keys on the world’s largest pipe organ being played at once. The Thrones resembled balls of fire . . . six balls of fire covered with eyes, spinning in the air before him.

“It’s done,” Francis said, glancing at the corpse at his feet.

The angelic beings remained silent, rolling in the air, sparks of divine fire spewing from their awesome forms to sizzle in the puddles that had formed on the alley floor.

Francis wanted nothing more than to get as far away from them, and what he had done, as possible. A couple of stiff drinks are in order , he thought. Even during Prohibition there was always a way to get good and drunk if one really wanted to; and after the night he’d had, Francis wanted to.

“What took you so long?” the Thrones asked as one, their powerful voices ringing inside his head like the bells of Notre Dame.

Francis was quiet, not sure how to answer. He didn’t want to tell them that he had actually grown fond of Luke, and had enjoyed having a friend. He could just imagine how that would have gone over.

“I was waiting for the right time,” he finally said, refusing to look into their many eyes. “It took longer than I expected.”

“Is that all?” the balls of roiling fire asked suspiciously.

“That’s all,” he answered, keeping his anger in check.

The Thrones watched him for what seemed like forever, then finally glided through the air to hover above the body of the angel. Tendrils of white flame trailed down from their revolving bodies, wrapping around the dead angel and drawing him up into their fire.

Francis had seen them do this so many times, and still didn’t know exactly what they were doing with the bodies. Maybe they were storing them for transport back to the City of Light, or maybe they were burning them—not a trace of anything to show that the angels had ever existed.

Or maybe they were just being eaten.

Whatever the case, they weren’t offering any explanations, and Francis wasn’t about to ask.

“Am I done here?” he questioned, eager for the taste of gin in his mouth.

“You will be done when we tell you,” the Thrones admonished as the last of the angel Luke was drawn up into their burning bodies.

Not a trace of anything to show that he had ever existed.

Francis felt his ire rise, but knew better than to let it show. He reached up, removed the fedora from his head, and slicked back his dark, thinning hair before putting the hat back on. He would wait; he had all the patience in the world.

Especially if that patience would someday lead him to redemption.

“This is done,” the Thrones said, and Francis turned to leave, until the words, “But there is another,” stopped him dead in his tracks.

Once again, he faced his Masters.

“Another? So soon? Usually there’s some time between them.”

“This time there is not.”

“Obviously.”

“Do you grow tired, servant?” the Thrones asked him. “Should we relieve you from your duties? Perhaps you’d prefer to serve out the remainder of your penance in a cell deep within Tartarus?”

Just the mention of the hellish prison, where angels were made to relive their sins over and over again, was enough to set him straight. Francis couldn’t think of a worse torture.

Worse even than dealing with the Thrones.

“Sorry, I meant no disrespect,” Francis said, averting his eyes. “I’m just surprised that—”

“Surprised that the Lord God has many enemies?” the Thrones interrupted, their color becoming darker— fiercer —with anger. “The Almighty cannot . . . will not rest until all who oppose His glory are a threat no more.”

Francis didn’t respond, knowing he was better off keeping his mouth shut.

“There is another,” the Thrones repeated.

“Where?” Francis sighed, the taint of death still lingering around him like a bad smell.

One of the fiery orbs was suddenly in his face, a thick tendril of burning matter emerging from its body to touch the center of his skull. It was excruciating at first, and he was certain that they enjoyed his pain immensely, a little payback for disrespecting them.

It was done before he could scream, the tentacle of flame disappearing back into the spinning ball, as it returned to hover with its brethren.

Francis’s head was now filled with images: images of where he would go, and whom he would kill in the name of the Lord.

“Go,” the Thrones ordered, as they disappeared with another searing flash and a sound that could have been mistaken for thunder; the puddles that had been beneath them bubbled and steamed.