There’s a bar on the corner where the Angels meet.
Its old fashioned-ness falls on you as you walk through the door, the air as heavy as the dark and ancient wood that fills the place. There’s no straw on the floor but there might as well be. All in all it’s a bit of a shit-hole but that’s what you’d expect when it’s frequented by lowlife’s.
Oh yes, don’t believe everything you read, most of them, most of the time are twisted little bastards with massive chips on their shoulders. Don’t let the Glorious Divine Light fool you either, they turn that off and on as it suits them, usually when they want someone to look a complete idiot or to rip their head off. And they do that a lot.
Me? OK, yes I’m bitter. I was one until I was royally shafted, lost my wings, or rather had them taken from me, and was cast down here like a naughty dog for all eternity. That was a long time ago but I still take every opportunity to repay that treachery. I have a good memory. A very long memory.
These days I do what I can. Because I see them for what they are I make it my business to watch them. I watch where they go, what they do, who they talk to and who they don’t talk to. With special attention paid to the new faces in town. Most of the old ones I’ve got sussed. I might even call some of them friends if I’ve had a drink or two.
I call myself Helen now. It’s a little ironic.
alisondarke 