The Stranger
When he next opened his eyes, Ransom found himself in an uncomfortably spacious hall, built of the finest white marble. Tall columns flanked a deep purple carpet that ran the length of the room, but they did not appear to be supporting anything; the ceiling was a bright and bold blue color that looked just like the sky on a pleasant spring afternoon…assuming that this was even a ceiling, and not just the sky. The chair he sat on was clothed in a red velveteen upholstery, plush enough that he felt no reason to get up.
A voice - neither a man's nor a woman's - spoke from before him. "Be not afraid," it said, "for you are safe within the bounds of the Kingdom of Heaven. For now." Ransom could not see the speaker; everything in front of his chair was too bright to look at.
"For now?"
The brightness began to slowly fade as the voice continued. "It is most unfortunate that you cannot stay here; unfortunately, there is an outstanding black mark upon your record that we simply cannot reconcile." The voice belonged to a tall figure in a white robe, their platinum-blonde hair flowing as long as the robe. Their face was narrow and came to a point at the chin, but its features were soft and friendly. Ransom thought about his time at the chapel, reading about the appearances of angels - that he'd mainly been doing to impress his dear Evie - and realized that this one matched his thoughts perfectly. The angel sighed a most regretful sigh. "I would like nothing more than to admit you through Saint Peter's gates to claim your Eternity, but the Kingdom of Heaven cannot make an exception for you."
Ransom glowered at the impossibly handsome androgynous figure before him. "My Eternity…"
"…is unfortunately null and void, in the Lord's eyes," the figure replied, shuffling some papers around on the ornate acacia desk, itself bearing a nameplate not for its present occupant, but for the source of its wood: the same tree that gave itself for the Ark of the Covenant. "It is written, certainly, that they who follow the path of the Lord shall be granted Eternal Life. But by our records, you were not always so dedicated."
"I'd been pardoned and baptized, even," grumbled Ransom. "I put away my guns and started preaching the good word."
"That verse about beating one's swords into plowshares comes to mind," replied the angel. "Your weapons were merely hidden away, when they could have been melted down and turned into tools or nails for your town. You knew where they were the whole time, and even dragged them out of retirement in your final hour."
"I intended to save lives with them."
"But you saved some lives by snuffing out others. When Moses was given the Commandments, it was Thou Shalt Not Kill. There was never any question about WHO shalt not be killed."
"But Father Gaston, Evie, the kid…"
"Would have been granted their eternity without question. Their lives may have been cut short, but The Lord does not judge the means in which they have met their end."
"This hardly seems fair."
"Unfortunately for you, Ransom, I am not the judge here. My task here is to explain to you, and present to you, your sentencing. You are to be sent to Hell, for the sin of wrath."
He could not argue that. The righteous fury he'd felt in that chapel on the prairie, as his beloved Evie, and Father Gaston, and little Teddy Beckett, were cut down in a hail of bullets, could be described in no other way but Wrath. It consumed him. It had given him power. Who knew, that the works of the Devil Himself could grant such strength?
"However."
Ransom looked up at the handsome angel's face, and saw it almost smirking at him.
"Feel free to keep this under your hat, or however you'd put it… but just because I am sending you to Hell does not mean I cannot send you there with a purpose."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'll broker a deal with you, but first, I must explain to you, that Heaven and Hell have not always been so balanced. Many a time, things threaten to upset that balance, but for the time being, we have been engaged in an uneasy stalemate, with Earth as our demilitarized zone."
"Demilitarized? Fancy word."
The angel turned to look at the grandfather clock that stood behind them. Ransom only now noticed that its pendulum was moving significantly slower than a clock normally would, and that its face bore not 12 numbers, but 10, and at least six hands on its face, pointing in many directions. A brass slider beneath the face was shifted all the way to the right, towards Anno Domini, and on its opposite end, Ante Christum. Ransom had no idea how to read the hands, but it seemed no problem for the angel, who frowned at it regardless.
"I suppose you being stuck in limbo for so long means you would not have known this. On Earth, it has been many years since your passing. The Gift of Tongues is ever-changing, ever-adapting, and I occasionally forget that I am using words and phrases too new for our prospects to understand."
"So what."
"I am off the point. I need you to understand that there will be a great change. Events on Earth will soon threaten to break our stalemate, and it may not be in our favor. Which is why I am sending you to Hell, not as a punishment, but as an insurance policy. Your service to the Lord is valued and praised, which is why I only ask that you continue it by serving Hell, for us."
"I don't understand."
"Become one of their servants, their heralds. Make them trust you. Then…do what you would have done in life."
"Do you mean…"
"I do."
The mayor slapped his chest defiantly. "Think they'll pull one over on me, do they?"
"Sounds that way." Ransom's right hand itched within the pocket of his duster. The cold gunmetal at his fingertips seemed to be warming. It wanted to be held, used.
"And I suppose you're their envoy?"
"Nothing like that. They want your money. They want their power. I ain't interested in either of those."
"Don't want money? Son, it's what makes this world go round! The hell you saying, you don't want money?"
"Didn't say I didn't want money. Just that I don't want yours."
"And here I was fixing to reward you for the warning. Well if you don't want any of that, then, boy, your message is received and you can kindly piss off."
"I don't think you're taking this seriously."
"The Brixtons want to take me for their personal bank, that's fine. One of 'em wants to be the Sheriff? Fine, I'll do it if it shuts 'em up."
"Making your motivations real clear, Mr. Mayor."
"I'm telling you, boy, I guarantee they'll leave me be if I play along. Now I appreciate you coming and telling me they're gonna shoot me for it, but they won't. Because I'm gonna double whatever they're being offered as long as I get to stay where I'm at."
"Then they'll have to be disappointed."
Blam.
This page is pretty unfinished. Weasel plans to get to it eventually. Probably.
