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The King, the knight, and two pawns Facing your demons part 3
by Julie Michaelson
01/24/11
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As Commander
of the
army
of the
Lord
I have
now come.
[Joshua 5:14]
*********************
(Guardino sniffs: an
odd smell is penetrating
Hallway leading up to
the Throne Room. Just
inside the Golden Door
Way, the Chief Guard
Angel, huge but not
at all handsome, shifts
one big bare foot.

What was that.....SMELL?
It was now getting
stronger, and STRONGER:
an odd mix of Earth-garbage:
four days' old and damp;
and Earth-burnt-plastic-
bags, and........

Guardino suddenly
became even more
at-attention, than he
had been several moments ago.
He knew that OTHER smell:
it was that of the Lord's
Archangel, Michael. Of
course the LORD was
Guardino's TRUE Commander..
...but
Archangel Michael was,
well........

Michael.

The overpowering
scent of a midnight
campfire, in the middle
a mountain pine forest,
filled the Hall Way.

Michael had returned,
from his most recent
journey down to Earth...
and, THIS time.... he
was not alone.)
_________________________
"BUT, I DON'T WANNA
GO IN THERE,
MICHAEL!"
(A woefully loud voice:
it belongs a short,
plump angel, smelling
a lot like Earth-garbage,
being carried by the collar
of his long beige gauzy gown
by the hand of one enormous,
exceedingly handsome
angel: whose brilliant,
rainbow-colored wings
almost fill up the length
and breadth of the Majestic Hallway.
In his other angelic hand
is the gauzy-beige robe collar of
another woeful-faced
angel: this one taller
and more muscular, but
with a head of blond frizzy curls,
and a big ruddy face
full of freckles.)

"YEAH! THE LORD'S
GONNA BE REAL MAD
AT US! Let us DOWN,
MICHAEL!
(Squirm.)
(Freckled face screws
up: resembling a plump tomato
that's hung on the vine, too long.
It belongs to the angel,
Briggund.)
(Squirm.)
"PUT US ........
D...O...W...N!"

(Stern silence.)

(Squirm!)
(Squirm!)

[GENTLE VOICE,
COMING FROM THE
CLOSED THRONE
ROOM DOOR MADE
OF PURE GOLD.]
"Come in,
My ANGELS."

(Heavily-accented
voice: neither melodious
nor musical. Whisper.)
"Yes,
My LORD!"

(Loud woeful voice of
the other, much shorter
and plumper angel:
his name is Sylvestor.)
"CAN WE GET D..O..W..N
NOW?"

(Stern silence.)
(Michael, carrying the
two angel-buddies by
the edge of their gauzy-
gown-collars as if they
were a couple of bags
of Earth-popcorn,
strides into the Throne
Room on his beautiful
bare feet. Michael's
flowing mass, of long
dark tendrils of soft thick hair,
wafts behind him almost
like a dark cape; his muscular
shoulders strain against
their light, gauzy covering.
As always, upon entering the King's
Presence, Michael's magnificent
gold-tipped, rainbow-tinted wings are
closed and perfectly at
attention.)

(One of Sylvestor's
wings is pointed straight
upward; the other, smelling
of an Earth-garbage-truck, and
oily-mud-puddle,
is swinging off-center like
a giant wedge of soggy pineapple.)

"MY LORD!"
(The Archangel unceremoniously drops
the two squirming friends wreaking of
Earth-garbage, and
immediately falls face
down upon the velvet
kneeling cushions in
front of the Two Thrones.)

[GENTLE NOD.]

(Sylvestor, squirming
about on the Golden
Tile and rubbing his
gauze-covered behind, whines.)
"LORD? CAN I
E...X...P...L...A...I...N?"

(Still absolutely silent
and face down upon the
royal-blue cushions,
Michael reaches up
and unceremoniously
pulls Sylvestor's
dark curly head toward
the Floor. Sylvestor,
whose bulbous nose
smashes against a bright
orange velvet cushion,
continues whining: his
muffled mumbles coming
through the bright orange velvet.)

"LET ME DO IT,
LORD! I CAN EXPLAIN
BETTER!"

(Michael's other huge
hand reaches up and
grasps the blond, mud-
spattered head of Briggund:
unceremoniously pushing
it down upon
a dark-purple-velvet pillow.)

(Briggund's mutters
can be heard through
the dark-purple velvet.)
"OW!
YOU SQUASHED
MY NOSE!
OW!"

[GRUFF, FATHERLY
VOICE.]
"Quiet DOWN!"

(Muffled mumble,
of the protesting sort,
from the bright orange
velvet pillow.)

[GENTLE VOICE.]
"Be quiet,
My Sylvestor."

(Mumble.)

[GRUFF SIGH.]
"NOW....that
Archangel Michael
has rescued you
from your hiding place
in the GARBAGE...."

(Sylvestor, his halo
dangling off the top of
his shoulder-length dark
curly hair that looks like
it is deperate need of a
shampoo & rinse, rises
up a bit from his orange
pillow. He looks like a
6th grader trying to do
his first real push-up.)
"BUT, WE WEREN'T HIDING!
UH, UH.....OUR LORD!
WE WERE FINE!
JUST ASK BRIGGUND, HERE!
WE WERE JUST LOOKING FOR THE HANDLE OF MY .........!"

(The Archangel, aghast
that any of his Fighting-Warrior-Angels
would dare to interrupt
the Holy Father while He was talking,
immediately reaches up and pushes
- rather ungently -
Sylvestor's filthy dirty head,
face down back onto his bright orange,
kneeling-pillow.)

(Woeful shout, muffled
through orange velvet.)
"OW!
OW, MICHAEL!"

(Mumble from the purple
pillow.)
"Is YOUR NOSE
SQUASHED, TOO?"

(Mumble from orange
pillow.)
"YEAH!"

[GRUFF SIGH.]
"You were both
hiding from your
DEMONS,
My children......"

[GENTLE NOD.]
"You two will never
retrieve Sylvestor's
sword, until you
have learned to face
your demons, like true
Fighters for the Angelic
HOST."

[GRUFF NOD.]
"Permission to speak,
Archangel Michael!"

(Michael, slowly and
quietly rises up: his
beautiful long black hair
sweeping off
the royal-blue velvet cushion.
Before speaking, Michael
bows once more to his
Lord and King;
he remains in his kneeling
position, however: the
only time he stands is
upon a direct summons
to depart.)
"Yes,
My LORD!"
(Michael's heavily-accented,
soft voice touches the still
air of the King's Abode.
His lovely, dark-hued,
sculptured face..
..very stern-looking and solemn...
provides an odd contrast
to the rapid rise and fall*
of his simple, unadorned, beige,
gauze tunic....
which covers an inhumanly muscular,
dark curly-haired chest**.)
"These Fighting-WARRIORS,
My LORD....."
(Michael glances down
first at Sylvestor's
dark dishelveled head,
and then down at Briggund's blond,
though garbage-smelling, frizzy curls.)
"......Need further PRACTICE.......
in their Demon-FIGHTING
SKILLS, and FENCING
TECHNIQUES! THEY
ALSO ARE IN NEED OF
GREATER SELF-DISCIPLINE,
my LORD! If NOT....
my LORD, they shall NOT be
READY.....
for the Coming FINAL
BATTLE with SATAN!"

(Anxious mumble from
the bright-orange cushion.)

(Muffled moan
from the dark-purple one.)

[GRUFF NOD.]
"I agree,
Archangel Michael.
Sylvestor and Briggund
must retrieve Sylvestor's
stolen sword - without help -
but, most importantly,
learn how to face not
only Darth-Demon but
all of the other Lesser-
Demons of the Northern
Most Quadrant."

(Woefully anxious
cry, from inside the
bright-orange pillow.)

(Another muffled-moan from the purple pillow.)

"YES,
MY LORD!"
(Michael's eyes,
slightly wet from tears
of adoration for his
God and King, flash with
the anticipation of being
able to show himself
worthy again, as a humble
servant of the All Mighty.)

[GENTLE VOICE.]
"And,
We
expect you,
Michael,
to personally...
oversee....
all the discipline,
and methods-training,
skills-practice......
of Our beloved
children,
in the next, few
coming Earth-weeks."

"YES, LORD!
IT WILL BE AN HONOR,
MY LORD!"
(Michael, with teary
eyes and trembling full
lips, lowers his head
back down to a face-
down position.

[GRUFF VOICE.]
"And,
there will be an In-House Demonstration
...for Our Syvestor and Briggund...
very soon after they
complete re-training with
you, Michael."

(Intense, though softly
accented-voice is heard
through the royal-blue
cushions.)
"YES, MY LORD!
WE WILL LOOK FORWARD TO IT!"

(Another voice, sounding
a lot like a screechy
Mina bird being muffled
by a great orange-colored cushion.)
"BRIGGUND? WHAT'S
THAT? A.......WHAT?
A DEMONSTRATION?"

(A moan, muffled through
dark purple pillows,
accompanies
the answer.)
"TEST, SYLVESTOR!
WE'RE GONNA HAVE
A BIG TEST!"

(Mumble. Mutter.
More mumbling within
the orange-covered cushions.)
"Ya MEAN.....IT'S LIKE
A PLAY? AND, WE'RE
THE ACTORS?"

(Answering muffled mumbles.)
"YEAH! SORT'A!"

(Muffled silence.)
(More silence.)
"Uh......well......
then.....WHO'S GONNA
PLAY DARTH-DEMON?"

[PATIENT VOICE:
VERY GENTLE.]
"Your
teacher,
My children."

(Simultaneously, two
muffled moans rise
very brightly-colored cushions
on either side of the royal-
blue ones.)

[GRUFF FATHERLY VOICE.]
"You and your angels
are DISMISSED,
My beloved Michael!"

(Again, a long mass of black
tendrils and angel-hair type
curls waft through the heavily
scented air, as Michael rises:
first bowing low to the Father,
and the Lord, before standing
at perfect attention, bowing
his beautifully sculptured head,
before pausing to collect each
of his angelic burdens.

Sylvestor and Briggund are going
to leave the Throne Room.....in
exactly the same manner...which
they came: being carried by the
scruff of their gauzy-gown-collars,
like two big puffy bags of buttery
popcorn.)

(Guardino, still standing at attention
beside the Throne Room Door and allowing
the odd trio of angels to pass, again
smells that same mixture of strong odors:
a campfire in the middle of a mountain
pine forest, burnt-plastic grocery bags
from Earth, and.....the inside of an
Earth garbage-truck.)
*************************************
And
the great dragon
was thrown down,
that ancient serpent,
who is called
the Devil and
Satan,
the deceiver
of the
whole world.
[Revelation 12:9]


_____________________________
*Angels breathe at a
faster rate than humans;
it has something to do
with Heaven's much thinner
atmosphere.
{The author got all C's
(and D's) in chemisty,
or else she would be
able to explain it, better.}
**Only the Archangel
is allowed to have hair
on his chest; the other
male-like angels have none.


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