A confusion of Angels, an arm and a leg for a bottle of milk. Diary of an Occult Resolution Assistant.
The shop seemed to be a lot further away than I was led to believe, but it gave us a chance to be out in the fresh air and away from personal politics that undoubtedly had been created, bent, twisted, broken and fixed again between the two of then over centuries. There was something going on and it was really nagging at me why my name generated so much interest and why thus man, sorry Angel, who deposited me and abandoned me in the wilderness after sitting with me in the back of a van for hours then said he had no idea who I was. I'm sure Xanthic will sooner or later get around to filling me in with these details; I used to ask him outright and he would purposefully hold things back but in the end he always spills the beans like an old gossip eager to pass on what he knows over others ignorance.
There was a shop, it stood out from the other well maintained buildings by looking more like a pile of bricks that has fallen down and been re-stacked in order of discolouration. Glass as old, misshaped and thick as 18th century bottles and with as much translucence and clarity, filled wooden frames that were decorated with flaking paint everywhere it hadn't already rotted away. There was, even at this time, a few shoppers either staggering out with microwaved inedibles or strangely whole bags full of groceries. Not a single shopped matched in height, appearance or style but they all shared one key feature; they all played the universal anthems associated with 'Others'.
I enquired whether Hastings heard the magical symphony of the hustle and bustle of everyday life, or as close to everyday life 'Others' can pass off in our mortal world. He looked at me blankly as if I were a child talking through with great inaccuracies of a cartoon watched moments before that already made no sense to any adult unlucky enough to be sat in the same room. So, just me then.
The door opened and a thick fog of stale air escapped, a small brass bell rang our arrival as we crossed the threshold . A small man hunched over a counter reading a paper casualty looked up took the smallest of glances in our direction and lowered his head back down to the paper. His long lank hair barely covering his head sagged to the counter, the majority on the left side had fallen into a chipped mug of coffee and had soaked it up so it appeared as if he had grown out brown tints.
"Pet food in isle 5." He sneered through teeth stained in an assortment of brown shades.
We walked up the first isle that was home to the chillers, all rattling away with steam drifting from behind. Old wood shelves that sat upon wrought iron brackets each cast into shapes of heavenly Angels riding on rays of striking light or twisted souls trapped in torture with raise moulded flames licking at their skin. What was on the shelves looked normal enough on first impressions, boxes of cereals sat side by side with jars of jam and packets of biscuits; but on closer examination, which I took while reaching out to put some groceries into a sharp edged and a wicked finger trap basket I found minced placenta in the jam jars, packets of chocolate coated crushed scabs with the tears of virgins and a box of cornflakes......gluten and salt free! I passed on the chance to stock up for the house (if I ever find my way back there) and with growing doubts the milk we'll be getting wouldn't have originated from anything even remotely bovine I looked into the chillers.
A rat the size of a dog was curled up on the thin metal roof next to a metal box with heat haze being given off and a thick electrical cable complete with exposed copper wires sticking through gnawed areas on the side. Dead flies were everywhere. The milk looked fresh and some of the bottle contained milk that was white, you don't want to know what the other bottles contained; but there was a recognised brand of milk amongst the other.......chilled liquids, so I popped it in the basket, cursed as a loose woven wire element of its construction snapped catching my fingers a good whack and hurried to the till with haste to get out of here top of my agenda. I noticed a tall thin individual watching us from a few isles over, his height easily putting his almond shaped thin head over the products on the top shelf, he moved the flop of hair that covered his face down to a sharp pointed nose and eyed us hungrily. The music I heard from him was that of bow being drawn a wire string under high tension, it was like being watched by a hungry shark in a paddling pool.
The troll at the till took an age to recognise my arrival at the checkout and even longer to fold his paper over and acknowledge he had a task to perform.
"Did you find everything you were after? We do a lovely line in human cuisine." He chuckled nastily.
"We did thank you." I said as sickly sweet as I could manage. "We didn't come in for food, but I will consider you if I plan a dinner party in the near future."
"I don't think he mean food for humans." Said Hastings into my ear quietly.
"No, but I wasn't going to think about it." I whispered back.
We looked back at the troll thing who was waving the little bottle of milk against a barcode reader with fingers and as shapeless as gourmet sausages stuffed by a blind butcher whose already lost a few fingers through previous on the job accidents. He wasn't looking at what he was doing, he was looking at us and smiling with all of his very sharp looking teeth.
The bell rang behind us and the old human trait of looking at where the noise comes from meant I looked away from the grinning clerk. The gentleman who caused the bell to ring took one look at Hastings and I and abruptly u-turned and left causing the bell to ring again.
"89p." Said the clerk and held out a huge slab of meat that could have been his hand for the money and I then realised I had not a penny on me. With a panicked expression that alerted my companion I turned quickly to Hastings.
"Please say you have some money on you." I said desperately not wanting to either put the milk back or return without any to Xanthic and the Angel.
"Alas, not a groat." Came the reply and I then tapped his pockets hoping loose change had accumulated somewhere; a jingle emanated from an outside waist pocket of the coat and like a gift from God there was just enough change to cover the cost of our purchase. I dropped it onto the out stretched palm not wishing to make physical contact with thing without some seriously thick chemical protection gloves on first.
"Why thank you for you custom." He sneered once more opening his paper. "I do enjoy these large transactions. Do you want a bag? 5p."
I grabbed the bottle by its little handle and we hurried out the shop glad that the cost of the milk was only a few coins and not an arm and a leg. The bell rang as the door closed and the cool night air tasted as fresh as the first air ever breathed by man in this world to me after the stuffy tainted and thick air we had just left behind. Without breaking pace or a pause I marched straight back along the superior white streetlight lit road and back to Casa Angelus.
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