Angel Dust


Hi. My name is Gary. I’m an angel, complete with golden sword and sparkly halo. How I came to be Sasha Nalumansi’s guardian angel is a long and unfortunate story involving bean stalks, a demon named Jack and stations left unmanned. The method of attachment is usually gender specific (because too many female earthlings had started to give birth to gigantic babies who sparkled in the dark and sneezed angel dust). Sasha is bangin’ hot. She’s got the wrists of a nymph and the backside of a popstar. Her grating raven laugh is quickly forgotten when she speaks because she’s got a voice that puts one in mind of dark chocolate being crumpled into a bowl by vanilla scented fingers. She’s the sort of girl that you spend metaphors on and hone similes against.

Because I’m a nice guy not a eunuch, I’m perpetually bothered and hot. Guardian angels aren’t ever allowed to leave their wards unguarded, not even when they’re lounging on their beds in provocative positions, wearing those sheer boxers from Mr.Price.

This is how a day in my life goes.

12.00pm: ‘Ring ring. Ani ono?’ That’s what her phone says when she’s receiving a call. I can’t imagine why. It’s some stray friend of hers inviting her to a house party. This can’t be good.

4.00pm: Despite my spirited pleas and objections, she’s going. I’ve even asked for back up from heaven, but you know how bureaucracies work. Nothing ever gets done fast enough.

7.00pm: I’m standing in a corner with the other guardian angels, 20 forlorn and exhausted looking fellows, some of whom have decided to sample the liquor and make like human beings. Posers.

9.50pm: Oh gosh. I’m going to be the first angel to take his ward’s life. What in the world was in those drinks? This girl should know better than to behave like the vessel of all the spirits of Sodom and Gomorrah.

10.23pm: Woooweee! Tufudde. This is it. I need back up. Conscience, please kick in.

10.50pm: She’s decided to relocate, thank goodness. Now we can go sit in a boring bar and I can chastise her properly.

11:12pm: Oh fudge. Oh crud. Oh ship! Of all people to meet tonight; the infernal, dangerous and heart-stomping Alex. Can’t an angel catch a break?

11.40pm: Where’s she going? No! no. Sasha! For shame. We’re over this guy, remember? We’re not going to his little house, are we? Say it ain’t so. Great. We’re going.

12.20am: This is the part where I cover my eyes and tune out. I’m not like some of those angels who broadcast these beastly human activities for the whole of heaven to see and tut tut at. I didn’t even bring my iPod along. This is just great.

7.30am: She’s stirring awake. I nudge her knee so that it catches that repulsive Alex right below the soft and curlies. That should give him a jolt.

9.20am: Three words. Walk of shame.

9.22am: She’s giving off waves of humiliation and I have to try and shield her from the disapproving looks that the righteous types are shooting her. Also, Humiliation does to my wings what acid does to human skin.

9.25am: Mssscheewww. Humans and their large judgmental eyes; Nkmt!

9.35am: It’s true that boda bodas were put on earth by the dark one to rid people of legs, brain matter and make earth an altogether more bruised and fearful place but there’s nothing for it. I have to make her take one. This might mean me getting scraped and scratched as I go about protecting her from falling to her death, but right now I couldn’t care less.

 

 

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