Good is Evil
1021 Words
"Good." Madge said, over the phone. "You survived. Practice Sloth and heal. Light yourself on fire, if you want."
"I can be back at work next Tuesday." Harold said.
"Your skill at lying is terrible." Madge said.
"But I'm not lying." Harold said.
"Exactly. Practice, practice, practice." She hung up on him.
"Well that went with less cursing than I expected."
"What exactly is your story, anyway?"
"No, I mean, you focus sins to kill things, right?"
"Can you ... command my arm to swing yourself?"
"Yeah, that's another thing I don't get. How many men do you slay?"
"That's a terrible image."
"You mentioned that earlier, said that they're some sort of supernatural cop?"
"So there are courts and prisons?"
"Wait, that's an option?"
"So why do I want to be anywhere near them? And is this a him, a her, or an it?"
Slayer of Men said.
"Swetland's... not always human."
"No, I mean... he has good days and bad days. Some times, he's normal. On others, it's like he's ... a doll, something being manipulated by something that doesn't understand how human beings work."
"I'm probably not describing it very well. More like... only part of him is there, and the rest is somewhere else. It's still him, it's just... it's not all of him, if that makes sense."
"What? NO! That's not what I'm saying."
"Even... I thought he was just another Bloodling, like me."
There followed a nonvocal sigh.
"You are very condescending, for a piece of sharpened metal."
"Ah, ah hwawk." Harold spat out a piece of bone.
Slayer admitted.
"No, a tooth. I just lost one of my teeth."
"Well... How long does that take?"
"Wait, so I'm going to lose my humanity?"
"As decided by who or whom?"
"So you're just a weapon?"
"Is that a threat?"
"That's... how does that not frustrate you?"
"Okay, I don't understand that."
"The Black Death? The disease that swept across Europe?"
"As it killed, Slayer."
"No, that was centuries ago. We're pretty sure it's dead and gone."
"That's a different disease. Welcome to the year of our lord twenty twenty one."
"Nope. So, who else other than Swetland might know the Sheriff?"
"Oh, like Old Marishka." Harold said, putting on his left turn signal.
- Writer
