Life in the Falls Part 1

Life in the Falls Part 1: Coffee and Bagels

This story takes place just after the invasion storyline: [link]

Part one is here: [link]
Part two is here: [link]
Part three is here: [link]
Part four is here: [link]
Part five is here: [link]
Part six is here: [link]


Today was both a bizarre and typical day. Over the course of my life, I have found these days occur with the most frequency in Angel Falls. I’ve lived in other places and life tended to be, well normal. It was always normal. You wake up. You go to work. You go home. You fix dinner. You repeat it all the next day, but Angel Falls is a rarity. It is a bizarre and normal city. It has its wealthy, its poor, its middle class. It has bums, stray dogs, rats, and criminals. It has corporate executives, firemen, policemen, doctors, lawyers, crooked corporations, super-villains, super-heroes, super-science, and super-magic. On this day, I saw what Angel Falls was all about. I saw its most bizarre, its most normal, its most villainous, and its most heroic. Most importantly, I lived to tell the tale.

I awoke thirty minutes late to a pounding headache and a strange gummy film glued to the inside of my mouth. I saw my smashed alarm clock, dropped the hammer, and groaned a Monday-morning-hangover groan. I was then hit with the most god-awful smell. It was a strange and unholy combination of burning and rotten eggs. This did not improve my current physical state. Moments later I was worshipping the porcelain goddess with the utmost vigor. She was oh so cool and smooth to the touch. Best of all, she didn’t bitch at me once about being completely wasted for two days. (Do you hear that, Stacy? She didn’t bitch once, and she’s a goddess!) It is often strange what man finds comforting in times of trouble. The thing most reviled can suddenly become a source of comfort, and so it was with me.

I contemplated briefly the inequity of trying to go to work on such a day. Sure it was a tomb of my own devising, but facing the boss late and still half-hung over filled me with a new sense of nausea. Fearing that worshipping the same goddess twice in one day would appear as over-needy I decided to just simply take the day off and wander the town. Was there ever a better day to do that on? Probably, but I was doing it anyway.

Over the course of my life, I have learned a few things about what makes a good hangover day. It should first start with a plan, however roughshod and cobbled together it might be. My plan was as follows. Step one: call into work. Interestingly, the recent act of disgorging the meager contents of my stomach helped in convincing the boss of the veracity of my “stomach flu” claim. The natural pain of hangover didn’t hurt either. He didn’t complain once. I thought to myself, “Man, you’re getting good at this!” I’m not really sure if that should be a source of pride, but it was. Step two: shower, shave, get dressed. Step three: eat something easy on the stomach. Black coffee and a toasted bagel will do for now. Step four: procure sunglasses, wallet, and car keys. Step five: reset the answering machine to a suitably pathetic groan. Step six: get lost for the day and avoid alcohol … at least the hard stuff.

Now, back to the rotten eggs. They were certainly the smelliest part of my morning, beating out my offering to the goddess by a fair margin. I think I’ll blame the rotten eggs for my lousy morning. They should make an excellent skate goat. After all, dealing with hangovers is normal for a Monday morning, but burning, rotten, nasty, smelly eggs are not.

My search began with the kitchen waste basket. It was empty. OK, there was an empty bottle of Chivas but that doesn’t really count now does it? Neither were there any eggs in the refrigerator. There was an empty carton of grade A large eggs. I added that to the empty bottle of Chivas in the waste basket. No, I don’t know why it was empty and still in the fridge. I even tried looking in all the other usual places I might find a rotten egg: under the couch, behind the toilet (don’t ask), under the bed, in Mist-O’-Flees’ bed. Mist-O’-Flees is my malicious yet adorable black and gray Tabby. He never sleeps in his bed, but he often leaves presents there. I even tried looking in the fire safe. No, I don’t remember all the things I do when I’m drunk. Thanks for asking. This is when my two remaining brain cells fired in unison. A thought formed—a spark in the ark. The smell wasn’t localized. It was everywhere. Some things, especially on a day like today, simply must be investigated.

Five minutes later I left the world that is my apartment and entered the world of Angel Falls. I wasn’t ready for what came next. As I opened the door, the smell hit me hard right on the nose. It came after me like an aggressive prize fighter at the opening bell. It almost had me too. If not for my oath never to pray to the same goddess more than once in a day, I would have certainly gone down to the fiendish odor! It was as if the gates of Hell had opened and an army of smelly midgets had poured forth. It was only the tattered remains of my personal fortitude that allowed me to hold my ground against the onslaught. As it was, I was momentarily stunned, staggered even.

Round two started when a stray dog ran past me. His fur was short and matted. His skin was stretched tight across his ribs, and his abdomen was drawn so tight that his spine threatened to rub a hole in his stomach. This is a sight rarely seen in Eden. The upper-crust tend to stuff their pets with fancy food, and strays are rounded up quickly and removed from sight. I however, do not live in Eden. I content myself with the land of mere mortals where stray dogs are common as are the downtrodden. The dog ran by me with a very meaty bone clasped firmly in his jaws. He had at last found a meal and was intent on keeping it. His teeth were bared as much as was possible under the circumstances, and there was a wild and strangely joyous glint in his eyes. Having missed my two meals on many occasions, I felt a great deal of sympathy for the poor creature.

A red-faced, profusely sweating man chased after the poor mongrel. He was older and substantially rounder than the dog, though his rotundness didn’t indicate he took up living space in Eden. No, his girth signified a poor and fatty diet probably lacking in fresh fruits and vegetables. He was also a lot slower than the determined mutt. If not for the half-crazed look in his eye, he would have given up a lot sooner. The man came to a stop in front of me and immediately doubled over resting his left hand heavily upon his knee and pointing feebly with the index finger of his right.

“He … He … He …” I couldn’t tell if he was wheezing or actually trying to speak.

“The Dog?” I offered amiably.

“Yes.”

He gulped in air with an exaggerated nod.

I waited patiently, chiding my curiosity, while the man tried vainly to catch his breath. At last, I offered a hand to help him rise. He rewarded my congeniality with a coughing fit. At this moment, I would like to point out the difficulty of wiping stale sweat from my brown and arm while maintaining an air of casualness. This is not an activity that should be taken on by the hangover-challenged.

“Sorry,” he gasped.

“Don’t mention it.”

Again he pointed feebly in the direction the dog ran. “That, that dog …”

He began with a new coughing fit. This time I moved slightly behind him to avoid the worst of the sweat-spray.

“Take your time.” I tried to sound as cheery as my morning would possibly allow.

“I need that … What’s in his mouth.”

“The bone? Why don’t you let him have it. He looks starved half-to-death. A good meal would do him good.”

The man’s face suddenly became extremely pale, not unlike a vampire or a corpse. I couldn’t really decide what was the more appropriate metaphor. He might also have been on the verge of a stroke, but I couldn’t be sure.

“No, my aunt. She died yesterday. That’s her fee, feem, leg bone.”

At times like this it’s difficult to know what to say, but at least I know what it’s like to pull my foot behind my back, over my shoulder, and begin gnawing vigorously on my toes. It is an odd sensation, if nothing else, and not something I’d care to engage in often. It reminded me of the time I had asked the neighbor when her baby was due, and she had given birth six weeks earlier. I’m quite sure my facial expression was much the same both times, and anyone except myself, the man before me, and the starving mongrel with his aunt’s leg bone would have been trying very hard to suppress laughter. They would also probably be failing—miserably.

The exhausted man’s mouth was moving. It resembled a fish out of water. This was in no way deterred by his reddish hue or the droplets sliding off his face and splashing against the hot concrete below. I won’t say that this was the most awkward moment of all time, but it was definitely in my personal top three. Finally, at the risk of personal embarrassment, I spoke.

“Right, I’ll just head over that way.” I pointed in the direction the dog had run and tried to speak as convincingly as possible. “See if I can find that dog.”

As I reached the edge of the grass of the small park at the center of my apartment complex, a gust of wind—a hot wind—carried with it a rather heavy dose of rottenus eggus infernus. (I feel things sound more officious in pseudo-Latin.)

I muttered, “What the hell is that smell?”

It wasn’t the voice that shocked me. It was soft, feminine, ever so slightly husky, and quite alluring. No, that wasn’t the shocking part. OK, it was a little shocking she was talking to me, but what really got to me was her one-word response, “demons.”

Aegis is property of
Walkiria is property of
Soviet-Superwoman is property of
Angelina is property of

This story takes place in