Hi everybody! I know I've been gone a while but I actually have the excuse of final exams and an overblown family gathering in honor of my kid brother's graduation! Between catching up with relations I've never even met and wrangling my little cousins, I had very little time for the computer. But now they're gone and I've got the house mostly to myself again, I'm back to this story. I should warn you, this chapter is not for the squeamish, things are gonna get greasy! I would also like to apologize in advance to any Muslims in my audience who might take offense to my portrayal of Muslim people. I mean absolutely nothing by it beyond harmless satire and anything that might seem insensitive is simply a result of my ignorance of your culture and I would appreciate any efforts to remedy that. Now that all the legal stuff is out of the way, Shout Outs go to Talon88.1, Lori Gray Skies, ruff1298, Ajac, The Fool's Hope, and FlameDiadem. On with the show!
"Is this really necessary?" muttered Aziraphael as he and Crowley walked up the stoop after the nauseatingly bubbly blonde realtor.
"It's the best way we can keep an eye on the kid," hissed Crowley as the pink jacket-clad woman gave them a guided tour of the house, doggedly determined to meet her quota and oblivious to their conversation (1). They've been house-hunting all week long and they had patiently waited until they had wrangled a tour of a house near enough to their ward to keep closer watch.
"Won't he notice us?" asked the Angel.
"How do you mean?" asked Crowley.
"Well, the last time we met it felt as though he were staring right through us," said Aziraphael shakily, as the blonde woman prattled on about how the holes in stairs, which looked suspiciously like the handiwork of termites were actually made during the WWII air raids. "Like he could reach inside us, yank out our aura and make balloon animals out of them."
"That's why," answered the demon, as the realtor explained the benefits of the geysering "French" toilet (2). "We can't use our powers for as long as we're here."
"No powers?" repeated Aziraphale.
"No powers," confirmed Crowley as the blonde tried to cover up a gaping hole in the wall that totally wasn't made by the previous owner of the house shooting her unfaithful husband with a .45 gauge shotgun.
"Not even to clean house?" pressed the angel.
"No," answered the demon as the realtor stuck another piece of duct tape to the spluttering water heater.
"Not even to miracle away our hangovers?"
"No."
"Not even to fill the room with a soft glow so it doesn't seem so gloomy?"
Crowley stared at Aziraphale for a moment in disbelief. "Are you afraid of the dark?"
"Don't be ridiculous," snorted the angel, before adding sheepishly, "I just have a healthy respect for it is all."
"I'll mock you about that later," smirked the demon as the blonde thumped a broomstick against the ceiling to frighten off whatever was living in the attic. "But right now we need to focus on what he should do about the kid."
"I still don't see what the emergency is," insisted Aziraphale. "So he's having his first crush. It happens to everybody (3)."
"Adam Young isn't everybody," said Crowley soberly. "You know what teenagers are like by themselves right?"
Aziraphale blinked.
"Superficial, self-absorbed, socially inept, and angry at the world," the demon said dryly. "A magical world of fun for the entire family to my understanding."
"I'm certain you're overreacting," said Aziraphale.
"Now," Crowley plowed on. "Imagine someone with all these qualities who also happens to have supernatural powers."
"My God!" breathed Aziraphale, hastily begging forgiveness afterwards. "He could lay waste the entire world!"
"I think that's the idea," said the demon with growing urgency. "But things won't really get cooking until she gets here."
"She?" asked the angel as dawning understanding and horror creased his features. "You can't mean...?"
"That's right," hissed Crowley. "The Mistress of Evil, the Tramp of Tramps, the Dark Queen, etc., etc. She's awakened and she's coming here!"
"How can she already know where the boy is?" demanded the angel with growing dread.
"Are you kidding?" growled the demon. "That skank can smell a horny trombone-player in the middle of a brass band marching into the path of stampeding water buffalo. The kid's hormones'll be like a freaking beacon to her."
"Alright so all we need to do is keep them away from each other until we can figure out some way for Adam to resist his carnal impulses."
"Or until he dies," said Crowley candidly. "Whichever comes first."
"So how will we know her when we see her?"
"I'm afraid that's where it gets tricky," said the demon. "No one's seen her in millennia. All I can tell you is that she's at least a ten."
Suddenly they became aware of big vacant blue eyes looking at them expectantly with a fixed smile. The realtor had concluded her tour and was now waiting for the verdict of her prospective buyers.
"We'll take it," said Crowley and Aziraphale in unison.
- - -
R. P. Tyler peered over his shrubbery, pretending to prune them with a pair of shears while watching as the pink-jacket-clad realtor skipped away humming to herself over meeting her quota and being allowed to keep said jacket for another month, and he frowned at his new neighbors, obviously a pair who led a deviant lifestyle, and composed a lengthy letter to the Advertiser concerning the degenerating moral fiber of his neighborhood allowing such individuals to take up residence. First co-habitation. Then gay-marriage. Next thing you know, they'll want to vote!
The unpleasant image of hundreds of men clad in Hawaiian shirts and billowing blouses and all kinds of fru-fru attire, marching up and down his street, dancing to boy-band music and rubbing one another down with some sensual oils fluttered unbidden through his mind.
"There would be banana-hammocks everywhere!" he muttered to himself.
What he found even more troubling, though, was the gentleman in the dark glasses. There was something hauntingly familiar about him, though he couldn't quite place it...
A whine from behind jerked Mr. Tyler from his reverie and he found Dog staring amorously at the pants that Mrs. Tyler had hung out to dry.
The deviant couple next-door forgotten he grabbed a rake and chased the little mongrel off the property.
- - -
Achbar Ahmed drove the truck down the deserted Syrian highway. Unbeknownst to most, Achbar was actually the cousin's bother's nephew's sister-in-law's uncle's wife's cousin twice removed of bin Ladin himself. However, it was a fact that the family liked to keep quiet as he was something of a black sheep (4).
In the passenger seat sat the stoic Omar Ali, scanning the landscape for U.S. military blockades. In the back of the truck were two others, Achmed and Achmed, who watched the rear while making sure their latest cargo (5) wasn't jostled around too much.
Achbar allowed his mind to wander. He wasn't interested in his cousin's husband's aunt's brother-in-law's, niece's sister's cousin twice removed's (6) jihad. He'd be practicing dentistry in California by now if it weren't for bin Laden's ill-conceived plan. All 9/11 had accomplished was pissing the U.S. off, and now the fearless leader was hiding in some cave in the desert making more of those idiotic home movies.
Achbar sighed. He was sick of the fucking jihad. He was sick of this fucking desert. And he was especially sick of towing weapons though enemy territory to Iraqi insurgents in this fucking truck.
Suddenly Omar shouted for a halt. Achmed and Achmed peered through the slot between the driver's and passenger's seats and asked what they were stopping for. Achbar could only stare. There in the middle of the road was a strikingly beautiful woman, walking straight toward them. She had luscious raven-black hair, smooth sun-browned skin, and best of all she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. As a Muslim semi-extremist, he was offended and angered by the woman's blatant immodesty (7), but as a healthy man in his late-twenties, he silently thanked Allah for this vision of beauty.
She confidently walked up to the driver's side of the truck, seemingly oblivious of her nakedness, placed her hands on her hips and said in perfect Arabic, "I need a ride."
Omar tried to reach for his rifle, but the seatbelt had retracted so he couldn't quite reach it. He began to swear colorfully, denouncing the woman as a harlot and a disgrace to Allah. Unlike his driver, he kept rigid control over his desires. Achbar often wondered if Omar even had a sex-drive.
"Aw," pouted the woman. "Do you really want to do it this way?"
Omar shouted for Achmed and Achmed to restrain her while he continued to reach for his gun. Eager to please - and to get their hands on the delectable specimen before them - the two leapt from the truck and took each of her arms.
"Two big strong men just to keep lil' ol' me in line?" cooed the woman. "Silly! You'll need a whole lot more than that!"
Suddenly her eyes glowed blood red and, without warning she punched through Achmed's stomach and through his spine. He slumped to the ground with a stunned expression on his face. The woman smiled wickedly and slowly, almost seductively licked the blood from her fingertips.
The other Achmed was petrified to the point that she couldn't think to let go of her other arm and run full tilt in the other direction. She took him ion a head lock, bent him backwards, twisting his spine unnaturally and literally stuck his head where the sun don't shine.
He scuttled back and forth in a panic for a moment or two before collapsing.
"Now then," she purred, as her eyes returned to normal and she turned back towards the two in the truck. "About that ride...?"
BLAM!
Omar had been trying to negotiate between his rifle, the safety belt and the terrified Achbar, to get a better shot while Achmed and Achmed were getting killed. At last he managed to take aim and shoot her in the chest right through one of her perfectly jiggly bouncy juicy bosoms.
The woman stood there, stunned, staring at the hole in her chest. Achbar and Omar stared too, sorrow turning to shock for the former, triumph turning to panic in the latter as the hole began to close up, leaving only a white scar.
"You son of a bitch!" the woman snarled, her eyes turning red again. Omar had had enough. He kicked open the passenger door, wriggled free of his seatbelt and made for the dunes, only to find the woman, whom he was now convinced was some kind of djinni, standing there waiting for him.
"My rack!" she howled, fangs protruding through her perfect mouth. "You scarred my perfect rack! I was flawless before! Now look at me!"
Omar turned to run again, but the demon grabbed him and turned him back to face her. Then she jammed her hand down her throat, dug shoulder-deep inside of him and then yanked his... er...man-berries out through his mouth.
He stared at them in horror and disbelief before crumpling to the ground.
The woman, her eyes once again returned to normal and her fangs gone, gave a contented sigh. "I needed that."
Then she turned her attention on the terrified Achbar. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't fight her. He couldn't escape her. All he could do was sit and wait his turn for this death-dealing woman to perform some unspeakable act of torture upon his person.
She casually walked up to the truck seated herself in the passenger seat and clicked the safety belt in place.
"Hey, handsome," she purred softly, sending pleasant chills up Achbar's spine as she musky scent filled his nostrils. "How about giving a lady a lift? I promise I'll make it worth your while."
"Wh..." stuttered the reluctant terrorist. "Where to?"
"England."
"I can take you as far as Turkey," said Achbar ruefully. "We'll never get past the checkpoint though."
"You just drive sweetie," smiled the woman. "And leave the rest to me. By the way, is there a place I can send a message to a friend of mine?"
"Can't you call him on a cell phone or something?"
"I'm afraid I don't have one..." answered the woman with a bemused smile, gesturing at her naked body.
"Oh," said Achbar sheepishly. "A thousand pardons miss! Please use mine!"
"Thanks sweetie," she said taking the phone from him and dialing a specific number to someone who would help both her and her consort take their rightful places as rulers of humanity...
1.) A trick they use from time to time when they're attending to divine or infernal matters that mortals don't need to know about or to avoid the embarrassment that comes with the impaired judgement all those in an advanced state of inebriation.
2.) It was actually made in Hong Kong.
3.) Aziraphale actually had a memorable experience with his first love which you should remind me to tell you about later.
4.) He never wanted to be a terrorist. Ever since he was small he dreamed of being a dentist. He was interested in molars, not mortar. He tried to reach a compromise with his disapproving father by telling him that he could place tiny undetectable detonators into operatives' teeth but his father didn't read enough sci-fi magazines to buy that story.
5.) They thought they were transporting uranium but it was really a cartload of pamphlets for The Vagina Monologues. What a silly mixup!
6.) Don't think about it too hard, you'll get a hernia.
7.) She could at least cover her face!
Crowley and Aziraphale: Homeowners! What could be in store for our odd couple? How is Adam coping with the changes in his body? Who is this friend Babs is gonna call, all this and more will be revealed next time! And for those of you who are still waiting for my next Shang-wēifēng update, rest assured, you don't have much longer to wait! 'Til next time, Shibui out!