Author's opening message: Here it is, guys, the final chapter. I just wanted to say that you guys have been great, and I really appreciate all the support I've gotten on this project. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, and especially to those that liked it. A special thanks goes out to Meghan and Marisa, who worship Loki as much as I do. Another special thanks goes to my sometimes editors Lena [Assassin Shura] and Josh, for rocking the house and saying, "Yes, Casey, it's funny. I think you should be put in an insane asylum, but it's funny."
Author's note: Some system or another does not want to support html, so stage directions or whichever are in //'s, word emphasises are in **'s.
Author's feeble request: Please R/R!!!
Disclaimer: Loki and Bartleby were created by Kevin Smith. I am not Kevin Smith. Thank you.
R for language
***
Loki and Bartleby were lounging about their hip, renegade-angels-cum-suburbanites pad, when they heard a voice from above. More accurately, they heard The Voice, who said, "Loki. Bartleby. This is the Voice of God."
Loki jumped off the couch, squatted, threw his hands in the air, squinted his eyes, and said in a nasally voice, "Incoming message from the Big Giant Head."
Bartleby swatted his friend in the back of the head, which caused Loki to fall over. "Blaspheming idiot."
"Ow," Loki said, crawling over to the edge of the couch and leaning against it.
"If you two don't watch it, I'm going to smite you myself," the Voice said irritably, dropping the 'sent from God' act. With a flash of fire, a few loose feathers (one of which Loki inhaled), the Metatron appeared in the angels' living room. He looked around, made a disgusted face. "Quaint.
"Anyway, it's come to the matter of your return to Heaven," he said.
Loki coughed and frantically pointed to his throat. He was choking on a feather.
"Oh, dear *Lord*," the Metatron groaned, and buried his head in his hand. Bartleby began to pound his fists furiously against Loki's back. Loki hacked, reared his head back, and then heaved a spittle-covered feather, which, naturally, landed right in the Metatron's face. The Metatron made noises and gestures of disgust, prying the damp article off of his face, his entire display going unnoticed by his fellow angels, who were bickering as usual.
"That's your idea of saving me?" Loki said.
"It *worked*, didn't it?" Bartleby answered.
"You could *work* on your bedside manner a little bit!"
"I saved your life!"
"I'm immortal! The least you could do is learn the Heimlich maneuver."
"Why would I waste time learning that? You can't digest!"
"For occasions like this one!"
"Jesus Christ! I *give* and I *give* and I *give*..."
"Could you two shut your ungrateful, phlegm-y little traps for all of five seconds so I may finish this mission and go home?" the Metatron exploded, and two angels, immediately remorseful, turned to the seraphim with contrite expressions. "As I was saying, as you two have served six months--"
"There was a time limit on this sentence?" Bartleby said. "I don't remember that."
"--God has decided you both may return."
"So we did a good job?" Loki said excitedly.
"Not in the slightest!" the Voice answered. "You two are horrible actors. It's a good thing you two aren't mortals trying to make an honest living off of this escapade, you'd've been laughed clear out of the industry. The way I see it, we're doing the world a favor by letting you two back in."
"So when can we go back?" Bartleby asked.
"As soon as you want," the Metatron said. He checked his watch. "Leave a message in my box, would you? I have a lunch meeting with Donald Pleasence for lunch." With those as his parting words and a shake of maracas (he must have had a supply on hand), the Metatron disappeared.
Loki turned to his friend. "Can you believe that? We get to go back! This is outstanding!"
"It is cool," Bartleby agreed. "But there is one more thing I have to do before we go..."
***
Loki found himself following Bartleby into a studio. He recognized this place as being the studio where they'd shot the McDonald's commercial. He edged close to his friend and muttered, "Just what do you have in mind?"
"I want to hit 'im," Bartleby said, a phrase that sounded familiar somehow, but Loki couldn't place it.
"Who?" Loki asked.
"Could I have a little less traction and a little more action, puh-*leeeze*?" a voice drawled. Loki lifted his head, and saw Gareth Quentin come into view. He was wearing a black beret, set askew, a tight sweater and tighter pants, and was clutching a clipboard. Hovering near his shoulder was his angry Swedish assistant, Uli. Loki glanced at the Grigori and saw a steely look in his brown eyes. One of rage. One formerly directed against the Last Scion, then at the whole of the human race, and now at a Swedish assistant director.
"I hate that little fuck," Bartleby muttered, struck with a flashback of him, sitting on the curb in front of the studio, fired from his job, while Uli taunted him through the window. He let out a low growl, and charged at the unsuspecting Swede.
There was a long squeal as Uli collapsed to the ground and was pummeled by an enraged Bartleby, who muttered breathlessly, "Speak! English! Dammit!," his words matching his punches.
"Bartleby!" Loki said, and flung himself at the two, hoisting Bartleby away. "Are you trying to sabotage our trip? They finally let us back in, you fuck! Don't ruin this!" He grabbed Bartleby's arm and steered him to the door. "Come on, we're going home."
As they left the front door, they heard Gareth Quentin call, "Barty, dear, is that you? You've gotten so much bigger since last time. Call me!"
***
It had been three weeks. Loki paced their swanky apartment anxiously, wearing a circle in the cloud-soft carpeting. He looked out the window every time he passed, taking in the fluffy clouds underfoot, the glistening sun overhead, the perfect blue sky everywhere you looked, the people walking and talking, happy to be dead.
Loki flopped on the couch next to Bartleby, who was staring glumly at the television, occasionally flipping the channel. "I am so bored."
"Ditto," the Grigori said. "They get lousy cable up here. I can't even find the Daily Show anywhere."
"This is going to sound crazy, but..."
"But?"
"I want to go back to Earth."
*The end ?*
Author's note: Some system or another does not want to support html, so stage directions or whichever are in //'s, word emphasises are in **'s.
Author's feeble request: Please R/R!!!
Disclaimer: Loki and Bartleby were created by Kevin Smith. I am not Kevin Smith. Thank you.
R for language
***
Loki and Bartleby were lounging about their hip, renegade-angels-cum-suburbanites pad, when they heard a voice from above. More accurately, they heard The Voice, who said, "Loki. Bartleby. This is the Voice of God."
Loki jumped off the couch, squatted, threw his hands in the air, squinted his eyes, and said in a nasally voice, "Incoming message from the Big Giant Head."
Bartleby swatted his friend in the back of the head, which caused Loki to fall over. "Blaspheming idiot."
"Ow," Loki said, crawling over to the edge of the couch and leaning against it.
"If you two don't watch it, I'm going to smite you myself," the Voice said irritably, dropping the 'sent from God' act. With a flash of fire, a few loose feathers (one of which Loki inhaled), the Metatron appeared in the angels' living room. He looked around, made a disgusted face. "Quaint.
"Anyway, it's come to the matter of your return to Heaven," he said.
Loki coughed and frantically pointed to his throat. He was choking on a feather.
"Oh, dear *Lord*," the Metatron groaned, and buried his head in his hand. Bartleby began to pound his fists furiously against Loki's back. Loki hacked, reared his head back, and then heaved a spittle-covered feather, which, naturally, landed right in the Metatron's face. The Metatron made noises and gestures of disgust, prying the damp article off of his face, his entire display going unnoticed by his fellow angels, who were bickering as usual.
"That's your idea of saving me?" Loki said.
"It *worked*, didn't it?" Bartleby answered.
"You could *work* on your bedside manner a little bit!"
"I saved your life!"
"I'm immortal! The least you could do is learn the Heimlich maneuver."
"Why would I waste time learning that? You can't digest!"
"For occasions like this one!"
"Jesus Christ! I *give* and I *give* and I *give*..."
"Could you two shut your ungrateful, phlegm-y little traps for all of five seconds so I may finish this mission and go home?" the Metatron exploded, and two angels, immediately remorseful, turned to the seraphim with contrite expressions. "As I was saying, as you two have served six months--"
"There was a time limit on this sentence?" Bartleby said. "I don't remember that."
"--God has decided you both may return."
"So we did a good job?" Loki said excitedly.
"Not in the slightest!" the Voice answered. "You two are horrible actors. It's a good thing you two aren't mortals trying to make an honest living off of this escapade, you'd've been laughed clear out of the industry. The way I see it, we're doing the world a favor by letting you two back in."
"So when can we go back?" Bartleby asked.
"As soon as you want," the Metatron said. He checked his watch. "Leave a message in my box, would you? I have a lunch meeting with Donald Pleasence for lunch." With those as his parting words and a shake of maracas (he must have had a supply on hand), the Metatron disappeared.
Loki turned to his friend. "Can you believe that? We get to go back! This is outstanding!"
"It is cool," Bartleby agreed. "But there is one more thing I have to do before we go..."
***
Loki found himself following Bartleby into a studio. He recognized this place as being the studio where they'd shot the McDonald's commercial. He edged close to his friend and muttered, "Just what do you have in mind?"
"I want to hit 'im," Bartleby said, a phrase that sounded familiar somehow, but Loki couldn't place it.
"Who?" Loki asked.
"Could I have a little less traction and a little more action, puh-*leeeze*?" a voice drawled. Loki lifted his head, and saw Gareth Quentin come into view. He was wearing a black beret, set askew, a tight sweater and tighter pants, and was clutching a clipboard. Hovering near his shoulder was his angry Swedish assistant, Uli. Loki glanced at the Grigori and saw a steely look in his brown eyes. One of rage. One formerly directed against the Last Scion, then at the whole of the human race, and now at a Swedish assistant director.
"I hate that little fuck," Bartleby muttered, struck with a flashback of him, sitting on the curb in front of the studio, fired from his job, while Uli taunted him through the window. He let out a low growl, and charged at the unsuspecting Swede.
There was a long squeal as Uli collapsed to the ground and was pummeled by an enraged Bartleby, who muttered breathlessly, "Speak! English! Dammit!," his words matching his punches.
"Bartleby!" Loki said, and flung himself at the two, hoisting Bartleby away. "Are you trying to sabotage our trip? They finally let us back in, you fuck! Don't ruin this!" He grabbed Bartleby's arm and steered him to the door. "Come on, we're going home."
As they left the front door, they heard Gareth Quentin call, "Barty, dear, is that you? You've gotten so much bigger since last time. Call me!"
***
It had been three weeks. Loki paced their swanky apartment anxiously, wearing a circle in the cloud-soft carpeting. He looked out the window every time he passed, taking in the fluffy clouds underfoot, the glistening sun overhead, the perfect blue sky everywhere you looked, the people walking and talking, happy to be dead.
Loki flopped on the couch next to Bartleby, who was staring glumly at the television, occasionally flipping the channel. "I am so bored."
"Ditto," the Grigori said. "They get lousy cable up here. I can't even find the Daily Show anywhere."
"This is going to sound crazy, but..."
"But?"
"I want to go back to Earth."
*The end ?*