My God, John, you're totally right! Nicholas Cage says. He sits in the corner of the dark room, beneath a bright morning sun that leaves a scar of light across the empty, wooden floorboards of the apartment. Mr. Cage sucks in his cigarette, his eyebrows cocking, and the feathers of his wings shudder. A few stray feathers slip into the air, floating down to lay on the wood like children dying. The brilliant white of the feathers smiles for one moment, and in the next the feathers shift to black, like opium.
John Travolta and his ever present smirk lean against the wall. He has that look, as if he was about to snap his fingers, but doesn't. The city, he says, shaking his head from side to side, is against us Nick. Don't you see it?
Ah man, I totally do. That's so righteous, Nick replies. He chuckles.
No, John retorts, Its the righteous who are to blame, little buddy. They smile at our falls, work with our enemies, and Jesus, who do they think they are?! He kicks off from the wall, his wings following him into the kitchen, as he snaps open a beer. The sound of hissing air is caught by his fat lips.
The city is coming awake now. The freeways are growing older, wiser; smoke hovers over the cement. The sky is a plaster wall, a Hollywood stage lit by lights behind paper angels. The clouds are heavy, undead, calculating in their movement, in where they place their shadows and where they allow the sun.
There are shrieks above the clouds, a beating of wings, battle-cries, flashing swords. The two angels in the apartment laugh about this. They remark how strange it is that they alone, should be chosen to guide a city like this. The morning turns to afternoon, and they still stand there, Nick smoking his cigar and John drinking his beer. They speak of philosophy, of things deep and dark and mysterious, and then relapse into a reminiscence of older, more grim times.
It matters not, my friend, Nick says, adopting an air of nobility in his voice, for we have been chosen to guide this fair city into its jeweled future.
What the freak are you talking about, huh? John asks, fluttering open his eyes in disgust. I've got a plan, so just sit back.
You've got a plan! Yeah, and my aunt is Jackie Onasis! Nick stands up, animated, cigarette ashes dropping from his fingertips, feathers turning to black as they rest on the floorboard. Man, when you've got a plan, bad stuff tends to happen. Yeah! I'm not liking this one bit, man. Not one freaking bit!
Sit down and shut your crack, you dumb, stupid loser! John yells back. We've been stuck in this valley for a hell of a lot of time, and I'm gonna get us out.
Out? Where, man? Nick looks angry. For the moment, he is still, his head cocked, ears open to any suggestions that might be his salvation.
You know dude, to that place, John says, trying to imply what he means by slamming his beer can onto the table and pointing a finger to the sky.
F-, Nick retorts, unable to speak for a moment. I don't even remember why we left, do you?
John chuckles. The babes, man, the babes.
Ahh, yeah, Nick says, sitting back down in his corner, taking a long smoke. Dude, remember the time when we
The conversation continues into the morning. The beating of wings continue.
John Travolta and his ever present smirk lean against the wall. He has that look, as if he was about to snap his fingers, but doesn't. The city, he says, shaking his head from side to side, is against us Nick. Don't you see it?
Ah man, I totally do. That's so righteous, Nick replies. He chuckles.
No, John retorts, Its the righteous who are to blame, little buddy. They smile at our falls, work with our enemies, and Jesus, who do they think they are?! He kicks off from the wall, his wings following him into the kitchen, as he snaps open a beer. The sound of hissing air is caught by his fat lips.
The city is coming awake now. The freeways are growing older, wiser; smoke hovers over the cement. The sky is a plaster wall, a Hollywood stage lit by lights behind paper angels. The clouds are heavy, undead, calculating in their movement, in where they place their shadows and where they allow the sun.
There are shrieks above the clouds, a beating of wings, battle-cries, flashing swords. The two angels in the apartment laugh about this. They remark how strange it is that they alone, should be chosen to guide a city like this. The morning turns to afternoon, and they still stand there, Nick smoking his cigar and John drinking his beer. They speak of philosophy, of things deep and dark and mysterious, and then relapse into a reminiscence of older, more grim times.
It matters not, my friend, Nick says, adopting an air of nobility in his voice, for we have been chosen to guide this fair city into its jeweled future.
What the freak are you talking about, huh? John asks, fluttering open his eyes in disgust. I've got a plan, so just sit back.
You've got a plan! Yeah, and my aunt is Jackie Onasis! Nick stands up, animated, cigarette ashes dropping from his fingertips, feathers turning to black as they rest on the floorboard. Man, when you've got a plan, bad stuff tends to happen. Yeah! I'm not liking this one bit, man. Not one freaking bit!
Sit down and shut your crack, you dumb, stupid loser! John yells back. We've been stuck in this valley for a hell of a lot of time, and I'm gonna get us out.
Out? Where, man? Nick looks angry. For the moment, he is still, his head cocked, ears open to any suggestions that might be his salvation.
You know dude, to that place, John says, trying to imply what he means by slamming his beer can onto the table and pointing a finger to the sky.
F-, Nick retorts, unable to speak for a moment. I don't even remember why we left, do you?
John chuckles. The babes, man, the babes.
Ahh, yeah, Nick says, sitting back down in his corner, taking a long smoke. Dude, remember the time when we
The conversation continues into the morning. The beating of wings continue.
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