The Everything Box

To S. J. Perlman, early Woody Allen (not creepy recent Woody), Douglas Adams, and every heist and caper author and filmmaker ever. You made me want to write one of these stories and so I did. Now, though, I need a drink, so this is also for all the bartenders who got me off the cheap stuff, and especially that guy in Arizona (yes, Arizona) who made a mean Sazerac. You convinced me that whiskey didn't have to be downed neat and that absinthe was fit for human consumption. Like it or not, this one is for all of you.

“DON'T JUDGE A TACO BY ITS PRICE.”

—Hunter S. Thompson,

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Earth. Four thousand years ago. Give or take.

THE ANGEL, MAJESTIC IN GOSSAMER ROBES, STOOD ON
a mountaintop, taking it all in. The sky was clear and a few minutes earlier he'd been poking the carcass of a dead whale with a stick. The way he understood things, whales didn't normally spend a lot of time five thousand feet up the side of a mountain, which was probably why this one was so dead. It was the angel's first trip to Earth and everything was so exciting and new. Especially the destruction. A whole planet drowned. A damned clever way to clean up the whole “humanity mess.” Of course, the flood made a different kind of mess, what with cities, people, and animals smashed willy-nilly across the land. And now that the rains had stopped, it was all getting a bit, well, ripe. But none of that was his problem. God got things rolling, and now he'd take care of the rest.

The angel raised his arms and unfurled his wings. They were large. Very large. Like a condor with a pituitary problem. The angel cleared his throat and spoke.

“Oh, humanity, heed the sound of destruction for your sins!”

“You don't have to shout. I'm right here.”

The angel whirled around. The creature behind him was human.
A man. His hair was wild, like he hadn't combed or washed it in weeks. His face was streaked with mud and his filthy clothes were little more than damp rags.

“Sorry. I didn't see you there.”

“Are you the one who's been fluttering around here the last few days?”

The angel smiled, standing a little straighter. Puffing his wings out even wider.

“Ah, you saw? Yes, that was me. I wasn't sure anyone had noticed. I was hoping someone might send an emissary. Is that what you are?”

“Sort of. People asked me to come up. I'm Tiras.”

“Hello, Tiras. Very nice to meet you.”

Tiras took a step closer. Having just crawled out of the mess of the semi-destroyed world below, he smelled like one of Lucifer's more pungent farts. The angel didn't say anything, partly because he was too polite and partly because he was holding his breath.

“Sounds like you're here to wipe out what's left of us,” Tiras said.

“That's it in a nutshell. I wanted to speak to a representative who could pass the word along that—let me get this right—you're all awful, God is sick of you, and you should—what was it?—say your last prayers, beg for forgiveness, and all prepare to die horribly.” The angel smiled at Tiras, proud of himself for remembering everything.

“The truth is,” he said, “I wish we'd met a couple of days ago. Now I'm behind schedule.”

Tiras nodded, glanced down the mountain and back at the angel.

“So, you're the angel of Death?”

The angel shook his head, a little embarrassed.

“I don't have that honor. In Heaven, I'm the celestial who bears the great golden quills, the silver Chroma, the holy vellums upon which the Lord God inscribes the fate of the universe.”

Tiras's eyes narrowed.

“You're in charge of office supplies. You're the angel of office supplies.”

The angel looked at him.

“That's a little reductionist, don't you think? Disrespectful, too, when you get down to it. You do understand that I'm a living representative of God on Earth, right?”

“What's your name?” said Tiras.

“I'm called Qaphsiel.”

“And you're here to finish the rest of us off.”

“Hopefully by tonight. As I mentioned, I'm a little behind schedule,” said Qaphsiel brightly.

“Then let me give you a kiss from all of us left slogging around in the mud and dead things.”

Tiras balled up his hand. Qaphsiel watched, fascinated. He'd read about this kind of thing. There was a word for it.

Tiras pulled his hand back and punched Qaphsiel in the nose. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

Fist. Yes, that was the word.

“What's wrong with you?” shouted Qaphsiel. “Hitting a celestial who sits at God's right hand?”

“Guarding the cabinet where they keep the quill sharpeners hardly makes you God's right-hand man.”

“Well, it's a pretty big cabinet. And who are you to judge one of the holies?”

Qaphsiel took a step back when Tiras balled up his fist again.

The man said, “I should wholly kick your ass all the way back to Heaven for what you did.”

Even though Qaphsiel's nose still hurt, he squared his shoulders and spoke in the loftiest tone he could muster.

“The flood wasn't my or any other angel's doing. It was God's. At the time, a lot of us didn't understand, but now, having met a human, I'm getting a pretty good idea why he did it.”

The man stuck a finger in Qaphsiel's chest. That hurt, too. Were all humans this pointy and painful?

“You don't like me?” said the man. “What are you going to do about it? Take away my house and sandals? Oh wait, I don't have any because they all got washed away!”

Qaphsiel's eyes flashed with anger.

“Though I'm not the angel of Death, I've been charged by the Lord with finishing his work. The great flood was supposed to purge humanity from the Earth. Yet, some of you remain.”

The man shook his head.

“Not that many. There wasn't much room in the boat.”

“There are others, scattered around the world, on islands and high peaks like this. Enough to repopulate the world. That is why I'm here. I'm the Lord's hand in this matter. The wrath of God on Earth.”

“You said you were in charge of paper clips.”

Quietly, Qaphsiel said, “This is my chance for a promotion. Really. So yes, this isn't at all what I usually do, but destroying you people is getting more appealing by the minute.”

The man smiled and backed away, holding up his hands in mock fright.

“What's your plan? Murder us with an inkwell? Stab us with a stylus?”

“No,” said Qaphsiel. Storm clouds gathered overhead and the mountain turned dark. Lightning spiked across the heavens and crashed to the ground, exploding the rotting whale, sending a great blubbery rain down around them.

“Behold! The Apocalypse is nigh!” Qaphsiel shouted.

Tiras looked around, his eyes darting back and forth in their sockets like they were trying to figure out how to get away from the rest of him.

“Listen, Qaphsiel. I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot. No one's been sleeping or eating much, and I have this low-blood-sugar problem.”

“Too late, wretched mortal!” thundered Qaphsiel, and the Earth rumbled beneath them. Tiras backed down the mountain away from the angel. Qaphsiel felt good. He felt powerful. Yes, he was going to enjoy obliterating these people and finally leaving office supplies behind.

He looked down upon Tiras and said in a voice that made the sky tremble, “Behold the instrument of thy destruction!”

Qaphsiel plunged his hand into the pocket of his gossamer robe . . .

. . . then his other hand into the other pocket. He patted himself down and looked in the silk bag he kept tied to his belt. It was empty. He turned in a circle, scanning the ground.

“Hmmm.”

The object was gone. Qaphsiel looked down the mountain.

Humanity continued to crawl across the face of the Earth.

“Oh, crap.”