This is yet another submission to Dude Write’s September Flash Mob . This week’s competition is has a picture prompt theme. Head on over to Dude Write to check out the details and submit a story of your own. Be sure to read everyone’s submissions, as well. You won’t be disappointed.
Word count: 500
"Gabriel, put down the drink."
Gabriel turned his attention to Michael and was practically blinded by the reflective, gold armor that decorated his body. "Well, don't you look shimmering," Gabriel retorted.
"Drunk again, I see," countered Michael. "The apocalypse starts in an hour, and you've got the look of a leper fermenting in brandy. At least fasten your armor correctly."
Gabriel stared down at his dangling, colorless breast plate. "Oh, you mean these hand-me-downs? Here let me tighten these crusty, shredded straps." He began to tug at the straps in an exaggerated manner.
"Will you relax? I know you're still mad that I was assigned the position of Archangel, but it was God's decision. I had no say in the matter."
"Mad? Who's mad? Certainly not I, the Angel of Death. What business does the Harbinger of Demise have leading an army to victory over the innumerable spawns of Satan? No let's leave the job to a carrier pigeon. Let's have the Angel of Public Transportation lead an army toward a throng of daemonic assassins." Gabriel was off his stool and pacing the barroom floor.
"See? This is precisely why God chose me to lead the charge. Who in their right mind would want an inebriated sponge cake with crusty mustard in his feathers leading them into battle?"
"Hey! I bet The Four Horsemen are getting smashed at this very moment. Do you think that's going to hinder their ability to slaughter the masses?"
"Well seeing as the prophecy foretells of their defeat, then yes, I think it's going to have a bit of an impact on their mobility."
"Regardless, I am the Angel of Death! D-E-A-T-H."
"It's only a nickname! God sent you to maim the Egyptians, not murder them."
Gabriel hesitated for a brief moment. "What?"
"Yeah, the 'Angel of Death' was a joke, a nickname, started by the other angels. Why you decided to proudly boast the title is beyond me."
“Still, you can’t tell me I’m not good at killing.”
“True, yet considering every one of us as well as our enemies are perpetual beings, I doubt there will be much killing. Didn’t you listen to God’s lecture this morning?”
“There was a lecture this morning?” Gabriel tilted his head to the side.
Michael rubbed his eyes and let out a sigh. “Our job is to banish our opposition to the Lake of Fire. Nowhere in our game plan is there any mention of killing.”
Gabriel glared at Michael. He opened his mouth to reply, but quickly turned his attention to the bartender and help up his finger. “Another drink, please.”
“God damn—I mean, gosh darn it, Gabriel! Did you listen to a thing I’ve said?”
Gabriel hovered over the freshly poured drink. The liquid reflected what was once a battle-hardened angel now turned shabby and pathetic.
Trumpets blared outside the saloon doors. “Gabriel, ride beside me, brother,” Michael desperately pleaded.
With that, Gabriel tipped the glass, spilling the destructive contents upon the bar top.