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To
Touch the Face Part 2 About 10pm, Joe did a blues set on the small stage, strumming with those beautifully strong, but worn and wrinkled fingers and singing in his smoky, warm twang, and everybody sat back and listened, as well they should, and I watched their faces as they reacted to one of God’s greatest gifts to humankind. Music is a completely giving, sharing, living-in-the-moment experience, both for the performer (at least for someone like Joe Dawson, who had more soul in his little finger that most of these bozos had in their entire extended families), and for the listener. Joe Dawson, who and what he is, is one of the reasons I was here in damp, gray Seacouver, WA, instead of East Poughkeepsie, New York or Bumfuck, Mississippi. That, and trying to stay out of Constantine’s way so heading north as fast as I could seemed like a good idea. That bastard’s smug, self-righteous enjoyment of my fall from Grace was too much to take, and if I had hung around I have no doubt he would take every opportunity to make my life a real living Hell – and Yahweh needed no help on that score. So, I needed a strategy. Something to show I could get the job done, that I deserved to be back where I belonged – in charge. And to do that, Joe Dawson, in addition to being one of the true Voices of God in the musical sense, was the key to something else. A lost soul. Well, not lost, exactly. A while back Michael just got all angsty about being the Sword of Justice in Perpetuity and asked for another assignment. Well, that didn’t go over well with the Big Kahuna, I can tell you. Thunderbolts flying everywhere, for God’s sake! I just tried to stay out of the line of fire. So, the God of Infinite Wisdom did what has been done before with rebellious members of the Heavenly Host. Michael was sent here, sans memory, but with his basic personality intact. Surprise, surprise, he ends up doing pretty much the same thing he did Up There. Looking for the good in people, helping the downtrodden and punishing the wicked, yadda, yadda. He’s especially good at the Punishing the Wicked part, although even in his present guise he’s gotten more and more reluctant about leaping to judgment about what constitutes evil. Never been a problem for me. Give me that Flaming Sword and I’d sure as heck know what to do with it. One John Constantine comes to mind. Anyway, the set was finally over, it was getting late and I was trying to get the glassware all washed up and put away as I sent up prayers that these drunks and hangers-on would leave. Didn’t they have homes to go to? My feet hurt. My feet never hurt before. Not pleasant, not pleasant at all. The door opened and the words, “We’re closed!” were out of my mouth before I even thought about it, but the intruder just strolled in anyway, so I turned to give him a scathing look that would send virtually any human scurrying back out the door… and found myself frozen, mid-scathe. I’d forgotten. And in this all-to-human body, I felt a roil of something utterly unrecognizable bubble through my veins. It was a kind of strange warmth that spread from my chest, tightened my nipples and sizzled to the surface of my skin so that I knew I must be flushed bright red, then it quickly moved south straight to my crotch. I honestly didn't know whether I liked the feeling or not, and I realized I was staring, which was very uncool. So even though Joe admonished me that the help doesn’t imbibe, I poured myself a shot of the nearest bottle of booze and slammed it down to distract myself. Hey, it works for humans, right? And now I’m… sort of… human. I guess. Oy. That might not have been the best idea. I choked and wheezed and the next thing I know I was being thumped on the back by a hand broad enough to spread wingpost to wingpost. “You all right?” that smooth baritone asked in obvious concern. “You know, doing straight shots of,” he picked up the bottle I had grabbed and examined the label, “Peppermint Schnapps isn’t highly recommended.” I spat into the sink and pushed my face under the running faucet to wash the horrid, sickly sweet, nasty taste from my mouth, and the combination of almost poisoning myself and the cold water on my face was an effective distraction, so that by the time I turned around, I could summon a haughty raised eyebrow and condescending look. It’s one I’ve perfected, actually. Guaranteed to humble the proudest heart. And the owner of that proud heart cocked his astonishingly lovely head and looked at me, dark brows furrowed in mild confusion. “Have we met before?” he asked.
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