Two angels, A and B, sit on the curb, sipping from paper-bagged bottles of wine. Both are well pissed. The night sinks into their pores. They are in office clothes with large wings hanging loosely from their back. Ties. Their eyes are unfocused. Something has happened. Neither know what. This is Hell.

A: Something has happened.

B: What?

A: God.

B: What?

A: God spoke.

B: And?

A: So it goes.

B: Do you want a cigarette?

A: We crossed the bridge. We crossed the line.

A gestures broadly. A looks around.

A: Fuckin’ hell.

B: Blasphemy.

A: Is it?

B: Blasphemy!

A: Hell. Hell is unholy.

B: Is it?

A: All holy things are above.

B: All?

A: Us excluded.

B: Fuck.

A: Blasphemy!

B: You blasphemed. I was quoting you. The blasphemer.

A stands and brushes back their wings. They flex their arms.

A: How’d we get into this?

B: Fucked if I know.

A: It’s epistemological.

B: Ontological.

A: Anselm. That Than Which No Greater Can Be Thought.

B: Bullshit.

A: Anselm’s a Saint.

B: Bullshit!

A sits back down, despondent.

A: Y’know.

B: Y’know.

A: It’s cool.

A shivers.

A: Cold.

B: And where there is no light.

A: The outer darkness.

B: Fuck.

A: The Epistles and Apostles and otherwise, et cetera.

B: Fuck.

A: Blasphemy!

B takes a hefty swig. They swallow, and cough.

B: It burns.

A: It always burns.

B: Sulphur. Sulphuric. It burns us.

A: I don’t burn.

B puts the bottle at their feet and stands. They pace the stage. Contemplative.

B: I had a thought.

A: Oh?

B: Yes.

A pause.

A: Is it a good one?

B: Two men cross a bridge.

A: Fuck off.

B: Two men cross two bridges.

A: Yes?

B: That’s it.

A: That’s it?

B: The two men. They cross a bridge. They cross two bridges.

A: It’s a metaphor.

B: Syntactically, no.

A: (Melodramatically) It’s a sign. A sign from God.

A stands again and walks away.

A: Do you have a durrie?

B: A what?

A: A cigarette.

B: Two men cross two bridges. They pass, on the way. Two men cross a bridge.

A: Do you have a cigarette?

B: They cross the bridge—

A: And where does the thought go?

B: To the bridge.

A: The great marriage. The great divorce.

B: It goes nowhere. It goes anywhere. It goes. At least. At least it goes.

B leans over, slowly, bending at the knee. B snaps backwards, quickly, and flick back their hair.

B: God.

A: He speaks.

B: Deus. Deus Vault!

A: God speaks and so it comes. So it goes.

Beat. B screws up their face in disgust.

B: You commie fuck.

A rubs a hand through their hair. A walks to B and examines them.

A: You’re not bad. Politically detestable.

B: You’re worse. Infantile.

B sits on the curb. Pondering.

A: And of what are you thinking?

B: Two women cross a bridge. Do they?

A: God says it is so.

B: Something has happened.

B considers for a moment. B pulls at their eye-sockets. B rubs at their forehead.

B: I don’t feel dead.

A: I feel alive.

B: In that, the problem.

A: Something has happened.

B: Transformative experiences of universalism stemming from epistemological monotheism.

A: I have a thought.

B: Yes?

A: I cross a bridge. You cross a different one.

B: Yes?

A: It’s the same. The bridge is the same.

B: Literally.

A: What’s the point?

B: You say, pointedly.

A: I don’t know.

A drinks. A massive swig. A gasps for air. A drinks again. The bottle is emptied.

A: Fuck.

B: Blasphemy.

A: Is it?

B: Blasphemy!

A: Fuckin’ hell.

Blackout.

Angel

illustration by Seth Pala

Play by Hamish Wood. “Paradise Something or Other” is featured in Perversion Magazine Issue Five.

Illustration by Seth Pala. See more of Seth’s work at sethpalaillustration.com