it's easy to blast them all away, pull a trigger push a button say ADIOS to today
Mitchell Crake is a not, as demons go, particularly competent. He's not stupid or clumsy, it's just that he doesn't have the focus to really excel at anything - and when you have an Afreet with a focus problem and an interest set that includes things that tend to explode, like meth labs and homemade pyrotechnics
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The little note that was inside the wallet gave some nice details about a meeting ol' Marty was having- his contact was Mitchell Crake, Afreet demon, for example, and, well... Clearly no one's noticing the difference in body chemistry just now.
Jesusfuck, a twofer. It must be his lucky day.
"Mitchell, baby, you gotta not ask questions like that out here in broad daylight. You stupid or somethin'? Got archangels all over the place. They's got ears, you know. And what wouldja 'a done if one of them guys was one, huh? You gonna light up the whole pier like a fuckin' Christimas tree? What's a'matta with you?"
Apparently, Sky has decided that Marty Banks is quite possibly from Jersey... That or he's seen a few too many of these sorts of films.
"Yeah, I'm Marty, in case my irritation at your lack of subtlety didn't make that crystal clear."
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He pauses, realizes that there are ways this is supposed to work, and he's a demon, dammit! A bomb-building demon who's working for some demonic bigshot, even by proxy, and he doesn't have to take this shit. He r tuff guy. Hear him roar!
"Hey, man, I brought the thing-" Stuff, he thinks, that would have been a better word. He hefts the bag up to his shoulder, the weight and hard angles pushing down into his scapula. "Money and a good word, man. And it's good, high-quality - your boss will be pretty happy."
He pauses. Scuffs one boot on the ground. Holds out his hand.
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Well, whether or not that was the real Marty's intent or not, it's certainly Sky's intent.
"Yeah, my boss will be pretty happy," Sky says, dropping the accent in favor of his normal voice as he allows his wings to unfurl. They're in a fairly isolated area of the pier and with the fear gas last night and the steady misting rain that's been on and off all day, there's really no one around to see what he plans on doing. "I mean, what First Angel doesn't like the sight of a mangled demon corpse?"
Sky is not the subtlest of angels either.
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"You mean - you're talking - I seriously got commissioned this for an angel?" he asks, and then it occurs to him that, hey, "mangled demon corpse" probably means him. He yelps, his wings shoot out, and he turns and leaps off the pier toward the nearest ship. It happens to be something like a mini-cruise-liner - a lake tours boat of some sort. He lands on the deck with a jarring thump, and looks around for somewhere to hide.
Mitchell Crake, chronic failure, has chosen perhaps the dumbest place to run.
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Sky doesn't even flinch when he takes off running, just keeps a hawk's eye gaze on wherever he's going and- oh there he is.
Well, someone's going to be short one lake tours boat tomorrow, that's all he's saying. He pulls a grenade out of his pocket and tosses it in the hair, catching it deftly as he walks a little closer to the edge of the pier.
"Hey, Mitchell," Sky says in sing-song. "You forgot something."
He pulls the pin out with his teeth and tosses it onto the boat, making sure to back up- back way, way up before it blows.
It's safe to assume this is going to be a big explosion... Bigger than he anticipated anyway.
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And then the grenade explodes.
And then the bomb explodes.
And then, because Mitchell, while an idiot, actually was pretty good at building things, the ship rocks and careens and a few of the maintenance lines catch, and whatever they were doing must have been pretty flammable (or maybe it's sabotage - with the terrorism in the city today you never do know) and catches, burning like a fuse to what may be a secondary bomb or may be a fuel tank, and the ship explodes.
And the explosion is BIG. It shoots a geyser of flame up into the air and a spray of water out into the lake, starting off a few good surfer's waves. Fortunately the pier is taller than the ship was and all that makes it over the edge is a spray of water, a bit of a concussion, and a blast of hot air, or Sky might very well have been cooked in his clothes.
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