divine inspiration -- (story thread).

[curbside prophecies]

<center>"With everything else that people have gotten confused, I suppose it's no surprise that they would get my story wrong too. Contrary to popular opinion, I am only one angel. And a fallen one, at that. You see, I didn't create my world of darkness all by myself. I had help, just like She had help creating this universe. The angels were more heavily involved in the story then She'll tell you -- that creation story in the various Bibles? Rubbish. She had help, but her pride won't let her admit it. You can find clues though, if you read closely enough. Ever notice that She is called more then one name in the Bible, and that I am too? She is called Yahweh, Adonai, Elohim, etc.. and I am called Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, Mammon, etc. But to prove I'm not as guilty of pride as She is, I will reveal my secrets.

I will introduce my dark army to you."</center>

<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ March 22, 2005 03:16 PM: Message edited by: curbside prophecies ]</font>

[curbside prophecies]

<center>


Name: Satan.
Alias: Saint.
Sin of choice: Pride.

</center>

[curbside prophecies]

<center>


Name: Asmodeus.
Alias: Ambrose.
Sin of choice: Lust.

</center>

[curbside prophecies]

<center>


Name: Belphegor.
Alias: Benedict.
Sin of choice: Sloth.</center>

[curbside prophecies]

<center>

Name: Belial.
Alias: Jerome.
Sin of choice: Anger.


</center>

[curbside prophecies]

<center>


Name: Beelzebub.
Alias: Paul.
Sin of choice: Gluttony.

</center>

[curbside prophecies]

<center>

Name: Leviathan.
Alias: Peter.
Sin of choice: Envy.

</center>

[curbside prophecies]

<center>

Name: Mammon.
Alias: John.
Sin of choice: Avarice.

</center>

[curbside prophecies]

Beelzebub did not appreciate being sent on errands that a half-wit could complete; it was an insult to his intelligence, his skills, his power. He was the one who tempted the priests to invite one more poor widow (or another member of the church depending on his preferences) into his back study for a "private reading of the Scriptures." He was the one who whispered in a man's ear before he went on a killing spree. He was Gluttony -- and it would do well for everyone to remember that.

A reversal of a Caravaggio painting, he was bathed in the darkest degree of holy light; black on black, shaded by sfumato until it was only the movement of his clothes that showed he was even there. Like one of the gargoyles sitting atop Notre Dame, he lingered in the balcony doorway of the half-finished building across from the one She had settled into, watching movement in the windows without the aid of night-vision goggles or even binoculars (he had no need of such things).

The length of his stakeout could be judged by the amount of trash piling up in the corner of the room: it had filled the small can to the brim and the overflow settled on the floor around it, a volcano creating a new batch of islands from lava-rock. Food wrappers, takeout boxes, etc. No other furniture could be found, since an immortal did not need to sleep or worry about material things. Or well, not while they were working.

A noise coming from the doorway did not spark any reaction from the man dressed in the haphazard fashion that was all the rage these days, expect for the slight sharpening of his smile. "And what is that a-tapping at my chamber door?"

"Nevermore -- but I'm afraid you didn't say it right, my friend," replied the sleek-eyed lawyer, proudly showing off his knowledge of classical literature while he stepped forward to join him.

"Whatever." Easily, Beelzebub shrugged, passing a glance to the side to study his superior. "What can I do for you, Master?"

"Anything of interest going on?" Saint's sharp gaze was focused on the house, narrowing only briefly when he caught the scent of something on the breeze.

"Same old, same old. Why?"

Saint did not seem to hear the question, merely continued to study the house for a moment before he turned away, clapping a hand to Beelzebub's shoulder. "It's time."

When the sun's rays first began to show themselves, the crackling of flames could be heard like a modern-day rooster call, revealing the giant bush burning on the lawn. It did not give off smoke, nor did anything else around it seem to be burning. A few paces off, Beelzebub would stand and wait, a box of doughnuts in one hand and two half-eaten ones in the other. He really did love this century. Passing a glance between the burning bush and the house it was sitting in front of, he quirked a grin before returning his attention to his feast.

Surely that would be a clear enough message.