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“I’m going to the coast, soon as I get enough money. Got a friend in the music biz. He knows this guy who knows this guy who cleans Janice Joplin’s pool.”
It had been almost forty years since a quarter of humanity died from a mutated virus, the T4 Angel.
We never made it to the moon, turning science inward instead of outward to kill ourselves.
But the largest reason civilization remained intact was that most Inderland species were resistant to the Angel virus. Witches, the undead, and the smaller species like trolls, pixies, and fairies were completely unaffected. Weres, living vamps, and leprechauns got the flu. The elves, though, died out completely. It was believed their practice of hybridizing with humans to bolster their numbers backfired, making them susceptible to the Angel virus.
I set Mr. Fish—the Beta-in-bowl I had gotten at last year’s office Christmas party—into my dissolution basin, trusting chance would keep both the water and the fish from sloshing out.
I've tried using the chance method. it didn't work.
Purple doesn’t go well with yellow. It never has; it never will. God help me, his wing tape was purple, too. “Don’t you get hung over?” I breathed.
“Want to go with me, Jenks? Not as a backup, but as a partner.” Jenks rose up, his wings shifting to purple. “You can bet your mother’s panties I will.”
“On the far side of the human graves. Pink wings in the lowering moon as the earth slipped ’round her silver light. They reached our wall. Our lines were strung. We held our land. What’s said is done.”
Even so, I was tempted to give a few one-fingered waves, but decided it might blow the old lady image. Then again, maybe not.
I like libraries. They smell good and are quiet.
It's true.
