Content Warning: Discussion of murder; delusions; religious themes; language

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God wasn't always giving instructions, and Satan wasn't always leaving patterns, but that was the most fulfilling kind of day, when they were talking to their favorite prophet and leaving him some tasks to do. Daedalus knew he was their favorite prophet because they said so. He hadn't come across any others, but it probably didn't matter, because he worked hard enough to be at least three prophets.

But even so, even so, right, he was just one, and sometimes they didn't have any work to assign him too, and that's when he woke up hearing voices that insisted incessantly upon things like "A THOUSAND DOORS A THOUSAND DOORS A THOUSAND DOORS" and "GREEN LIGHT SPECIAL ON APPLESAUCE APPLESAUCE THE TOP PROVIDERS IN AMERICA BRINGING YOU TO A BETTER TOMORROW A BETTER TOMORROW IT'S TIME FOR THE FUTURE TO PRESENT ITSELF," et cetera. And sometimes he would see bugs as well, even when he knew perfectly well that orchid mantises weren't found natively in this area. These were harmless distractions though, sometimes they made for good inspiration. Certainly, for all the insects he saw but didn't really see (he knew) Doodlebug made an excellent alias. Or was it a stage name? Was he a performance artist?

Boch found this difficult to categorize, and considered it occasionally, just what exactly was he? He considered this as he got out of bed, kicking his thin covers off of his body and mattress, which was on the floor of an abandoned studio, which was where he was hiding out this time around. He had to laugh every time he thought about that, could that leathery rat with wings really be so clumsy and deaf that he couldn't think to find an artist in a studio? Or was he even looking still?

This deadly game of hide-and-go-seek amused the artist, even as he was laying low, continuing to produce piece after piece, some of it gospel, some of it absent and doodlish. Not doodlish as in Doodlebug (although it did bare all the signs—all of the quirks and idiosyncrasies as a Boch piece was wanting to do—he meant doodly like loose—wiggly and fun and sometimes meaningless).

But what was for breakfast today? He wondered as he stared at himself in the mirror, peering through an obstructive curling hedge of swirls and symbols that he'd painted in red paint.

It actually had been paint, that time. You can't waste blood on something like a mirror. He might just wash that off later, since he'd only done it for fun.

The things—what was for breakfast? He wondered as he peered at the pores on his nose. Egads, they were big. He washed his face and put on some music and pulled out a hot plate.

The artist stared down at his hotplate like it had just barfed on his shoe. No. Never-fucking-mind. There was no way he was cooking this morning, he had greatly overestimated his own personal motivation.

Maybe he would go down to a restaurant—of course he was double famous, so it would be tricky. Famous once for excellent art, famous twice for criminal works.

The Devil told him to kill and God told him what to do with their remains. Mostly, they both agreed, they wanted Daedalus to paint in blood and leave the rest. Tripe-harvesting wasn't really his bag anyways, but painting was.

Also sometimes they just popped in to say 'hi.' God also had other missions for him, little things that Doodle never questioned, even if they seemed a little silly sometimes.

God had told him last week, 'Buy ten shampoos Doodle, ten, ten, buy ten shampoos.' And sometimes he wanted him to paint. Just to paint all day, which was fine. Buy a wheel of cheese today Doodle. Slash that car's tires today. Give that little girl a shiny quarter, and then go cut your hair—my hair? Can't it be something else?—It can be your shirt, if you prefer.

He wasn't an unreasonable guy. Sometimes there were things he couldn't budge on though, some things that weren't up for debate. It was very difficult, when the two Big Guys came together to suggest that they wanted a painting in one of their favorite prophet's friends. That hadn't been a good time, but after a few failures in a row, they'd let up. Good thing his friend was fast, otherwise her vital fluids would have been filtered into a can of Red AF-290.

Daedalus tossed a shirt on, some shorts and shoes and pushed an errant dreadlock back into place.

What to eat today, what to eat.

Maybe he'd get some fruits to eat today, at the supermarket. It had been a while since he'd had still-life practice. The whole "bowl of fruit" thing was pretty trite, but he assumed that it would be just trite enough that the resulting painting could be interpreted as facetious. Anyways, he'd paint some of his symbols over the bananas in intricate tiny swirls, and add some crude angels, and then reward himself by making a fruit salad, which was far enough from feeling like actual cooking to really upset his loafishness. Fruit wasn't cheap these days, but he had no need for money. Doodle's favorite thing to remind his fellow prisoners—policemen, civilians, anyone—was that a meager sketch from one of his pencils would go for hundreds of thousands on the black market. One little scrap of lineart could put a kid through college. Maybe law school, for that kid, or she could study the classics.

Even as he liked going on his little missions, Doodle liked to have his days off. He also found, even though he got his start following orders, his start in high crime anyways, he still liked breaking the law for himself. He'd been an urban tagger before, and worked his way up from there.

No, I'm not like Banksy, stop saying shit like that!

He hated it when stupid pseudo-knowledgeable clods compared him to Banksy. His best influences were more like Basquiat. Or like Grosz. Just because a guy slaps something on a wall—they had the same canvas, true—that didn't make him like every other bastard out there doing graffiti.

Besides, Doodlebug was on Gotham's Most Wanted list, and he was also God's favorite. And the Devil's favorite. Despite what people seem to think, God and Lucifer got along just fine. Heaven and Hell weren't warring, they mostly worked together, trying to tame the twisting patch of disorder and stiff defiance that was Earth, which was more like purgatory.

Good and Evil coalesced like a mixed drink, like shadows and shapes and ten dimes made a dollar. All that shit was symbiotic, it was Earth that was the nuisance, but that's why they needed Doodle, afterall.

He lolloped down the stairs into the street, feeling very self-satisfied. He was their favorite prophet. And he was doing a good job. They always told him so, not with their words, but with their provisions. Because whatever Daedalus wanted or needed, somehow it always worked out. He wanted to be a great artist and he wanted to get out of his unyielding poverty, so they gave him the tools to rise in the ranks—to succeed.

Thanks God, for the inspiration, thank you Satan, for the skill. Thank you for the opportunity to carry out your will; I think I'm doing a good job.

Fruit salad would be good, he thought, stepping into the store.

With his little wheelygig cart on hand—no, wait, too big. His mind had gotten away from him, he was being absent minded, grabbing the big cart, not the little basket. But he was like that. He grabbed the little basket and tucked it under his arm like Dorothy, moving in, still deciding just which fruits to buy when the loudspeaker crackled.

Not the store one, mind, it was just a turn of phrase—there weren't even any sounds, but the old man squeezing peaches two displays down had the telltale marks. Intricate swirls, red, flashing, yellow, pulsing, all about his person, little notes from one of his Masters left for him to see, things that only Doodlebug was privy to.

He almost dropped his apple when he saw it, and with a rush of childlike enthusiasm, Daedalus knew that it was time to paint.