IGMS Issue 8 (12 page)

While we're out, a terrible storm blows in. Acting on an hours-old complaint about a gas smell, Melanie's landlord goes around to her place, finds all the windows open with the rain pouring in, the carpet ruined with burns and melted wax from some depressive late-night ritual of self-loathing, the brand-new ceiling fan on the floor in pieces, and a smell like bad chicken and cigarette smoke.

Long story short, Melanie is evicted and moves in with her true love, me.

And it's wonderful, except for one thing.

She can't get over that I supposedly knew about Warren all along, so conversations like this become the staple of my day:

"So when I signed up for that dance class on Wednesday nights and bought the shoes and leotard and everything, but never practiced even once, you must have known I was meeting Warren. There was one time he stood me up, some stupid thing with Ursula he couldn't get out of, and I just sat in the car and cried. You were so sweet when I got home. You could tell I'd been crying. I told you I fell doing a difficult move, and you iced my ankle. You must've known, and yet . . ."

Yeah. Saint Masochistic Brian-the-All-Knowing must've known and now gets to hear it all. It seems her life has been one long furtive attempt to screw Warren. There are no details she sees fit to spare me. Blow jobs in elevators, previous suicide attempts, daydreams about murdering Ursula, shrinks she's gone through attempting to deal with her obsession. "I spent weeks talking to Daphne about whether I should tell you or not, and it turns out the whole time you already knew."

Turns out.

One evening -- after a vivid account of her meeting Warren in a Target parking lot for a quickie and her subsequent remorse she couldn't go shopping with him -- she's so upset she has to take to bed.

I bang my head on the kitchen cabinet. "God, I can't take this anymore!"

"And how's that
mercy
plan working out for you, Loverboy?"

Apparently anything passes for prayer these days. I smell him before I actually turn and see him. The scar on my cheek, not quite healed after months, begins to throb. I once saw a marble cemetery angel that had been worked over with a sledge hammer. I wondered why anyone would do such a thing. I'm beginning to develop a theory. But all I have is a wooden spoon, and he still scares the crap out of me. "It's doing okay."

"So you were taking the Lord's name in vain, were you? You didn't really
mean
what you just addressed to Him?"

There's something a little different about the angel today. A little less smirk maybe. My kitchen's small. Last time he was here he would've pulverized the spice rack, but now he's got his wings tucked in like a pigeon's. "I only meant that her obsession with her dead lover can't be good for her healing, and I only want what's best for her."

"Oh my. You're almost getting good at this."

"Good at what?"

"The Lord's work, of course." Smirk, sniff. "Mister Mercy, I call you." He smiles.

I think it was a sledge hammer. It might've been a chain saw. A jack hammer. "Thank you," I say.

"Nasty work,
mercy
. You couldn't
pay
me." He screeches with laughter. Angel humor, I suppose. "But I didn't come to exchange pleasantries. You're in the brotherhood now, so to speak. I must keep you informed. Justice, as you know, thrives on truth
.
"

"And what truth would that be?"

"She's screwing Clifford again."

"You're kidding."

He gives me a brotherly, you're-a-total-idiot look, and my wound begins to ooze. "She confronted him about telling you about Warren, which he denied at first, but, opportunist that he is, eventually confessed to it when he realized she saw it as a strange bond between them, an erotic one as it turns out. Surprise, surprise. Oh yes, she sneaks cigarettes in the basement. Her pack is on the circuit box."

He watches my reaction with the greatest interest, like a cat watching a songbird. I try to emulate his marble serenity and choose my song carefully. I know this creep. This is definitely a trap. "Clifford. Tsk. Tsk. She must be terribly unhappy."

His eyes narrow. "You're concerned about
her?
"

"Of course. I suspect she's consumed with self-loathing."

His feathers ruffle. "As well she should be. You should return her fate to me. Much easier on everyone, wouldn't you say?"

I smile. I couldn't possibly contradict a member of the brotherhood. I just smile what I hope is a merciful smile. I'm glad there are no mirrors in my kitchen, or I'd gag on my own sweetness.

He's aghast. "But she's hopeless. Completely faithless. A wanton Jezebel."

"Confused, heart-broken, a victim of a patriarchal society that teaches her to loathe her own sexuality." As pissed as I am at Melanie, I'm not going to let this harpy have her. He can't wait to wrap her up in those fiery wings of his and teach her a lesson she'll never forget. "I'll talk to her."

"You'll
talk
to her?"

"Yeah. That's what I said. You got a problem with that?" I don't know where this comes from, but it's all I can do to keep standing after the words leave my mouth. I fully expect him to incinerate me in a heartbeat.

But he doesn't. He steps back. He opens up the window and flies away as if he'd been a pigeon on the windowsill.

Over dinner I come right to the point. I tell her an angel has informed me of her latest indiscretion with Clifford, and I have just one question to ask her.

"An angel?" she says. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Have you been screwing Clifford?"

"Well, yes. It was stupid. But an angel, Brian, really -- "

"I haven't asked my question yet."

"I thought you just did."

"I don't have to ask about Clifford. I already know about that. Like I know about the pack of cigarettes on the circuit box. My question is, have you
ever
been faithful -- to anyone?"

She hesitates. "That depends upon what you mean -- "

"It's a fairly straightforward question."

She stops to think, boyfriend by boyfriend. "Well, since you put it that way, I don't suppose I have, actually."

"So it's not anything personal then? In fact, I would be foolish to expect anything else. You cheated on all your boyfriends with Warren, and with Warren on everyone else. Why should things change now that Warren has exited the material plane?"

She gives me a baffled look. "I guess you could look at it that way."

"I prefer to, yes."

"And you're cool with that?"

I shrug. "I'd rather not
hear
about it."

"I thought this
angel
tells you everything I do." I note the slightest dip in her skepticism. How else could I possibly know?

"He'll only tell me if I care."

"You didn't care about Warren, apparently."

"I didn't
know
until the angel told me. I only dragged Clifford into it because I knew you wouldn't believe an angel and I didn't want to lose you. But it doesn't matter if you believe. Look. Warren was an ass. He's dead. He has nothing to do with us anymore. But how about I trust you? I mean,
Clifford?
C'mon
.
"

She smiles. "You know what I think? I think you're the angel."

"Maybe I am." Smirk, sniff, kiss.

This marks a dramatic turning point in our relationship that I can't fully explain. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. We've remained completely devoted to one another for many wonderful years now. Melanie's even quit smoking.

There's no way to be sure of course, short of consulting with the angels. But why in
Hell
would I want to do that?

Introduction

Most dragons rarely think about accounting. But you've worked hard to acquire that hoard of gold and jewels -- shouldn't you be keeping track of what happens to it? Just sitting on it isn't good enough any more. That's why you need accounting. Here are some tips:

Tip One: A Copper Saved Is a Copper Earned

Your hoard isn't just valuable to you; it's valuable to thieves. Once word gets out that you're sitting on a big pile of treasure, it isn't long before they come skulking about, their greedy hands trying to snatch the things you've gained through honest plunder.

Dragons may have the reputation of knowing every single item in their hoard, down to the last copper, but the fact of the matter is that only a tiny fraction of dragons can remember more than six or seven thousand individual pieces before they all start to blur together. Admit it -- you really aren't sure whether you have twenty-seven ruby-encrusted platinum goblets, or only twenty-six.

But thanks to proper accounting, you can have a complete inventory of everything in your hoard. That way, if you find something is missing, you can go on a rampage across the countryside or demand a virgin as a sacrifice unless your treasure is returned.