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I BREAK HIS wrists so I don’t have to break his neck.

He falls to his knees, but I don’t think it’s the pain, though I make sure there’s plenty of that. It’s the sound. The crack of bonesx as they shatter. A sound that lets you know they’re never going to heal quite right and you’re going to spend the rest of eternity drinking your ambrosia slushies with two hands.

I’m surprised to see an angel down here right now, considering all the cleanup going on in Heaven after the recent unpleasantness. Still, there are sore losers and bad winners in every bunch. I don’t know which one this guy is, but I caught him spray-­painting GODKILLER on the front of Maximum Overdrive, the video store where I live. I might have let him off easy if all he wanted to do was kill me. I’m used to that by now. But this fucker was ruining my windows. Do these winged pricks think I’m made of money? I’m about broke, and here’s this high-­and-­mighty halo polisher setting me up for a trip to the hardware store to buy paint remover. I give his wrists an extra twist for that. He gulps in air and makes a gagging sound like he might throw up. I take a ­couple of steps back and look around. No one on the street. It’s just after New Year’s, the floods have receded, and ­people are just beginning to drift back into L.A.

“What exactly is your problem?” I ask the angel. “Why come down here and fuck with me?”

He rests his crippled hands on his thighs and shifts around on his knees until he’s facing me.

“You had no right. You killed him.”

“I didn’t kill God and you know it. He’s Uptown right now putting out new lace doilies in Heaven.”

What really happened is a long story. Truth is, I did fuck over Chaya, a weasely fragment of God who, if he’d lived, would have ruined the universe. But I also left one good God part, Mr. Muninn, fat and happy and back in Heaven. But that’s the problem with angels. They’re absolutists. I clipped a tiny bit off their boss and now I’m the bad guy. Once angels get an idea in their head, there’s no arguing with them.

Like cops and ­people who listen to reggae.

The angel narrows his eyes at me.

“Yes, a part of the father yet remains. But you didn’t have the right to kill any of him, Abomination.”

Damn. This old song.

“See, when you start calling me names, it really undercuts your argument. You’re not mad because I got rid of Chaya. You’re mad because you know you should have done it, but you didn’t. And what happened was a mangy nephilim had to step up and do the deed for you.”

The angel staggers to his feet and sticks his hands out in front of him, pressing his mangled wrists together.

“You must pay for what you’ve done, unclean thing.”

“Go home, angel. My store is a mess, and looking at the big picture, I’m more afraid of Netflix than I am of you.”

To my surprise, the crippled creep is able to manifest his Gladius, an angelic sword of fire. He has to hold it with both hands, but he can move it around by swinging his shoulders back and forth. Maybe this guy is more trouble than I gave him credit for. A badass will try to break your bones, but someone crazy, who knows what they’ll do? Mostly, though, I’m glad the neighbors aren’t around so I have to explain the gimp with the lightsaber in my driveway.

The angel comes at me hard and fast, all Seven Samurai, ready to send me to asshole Heaven. In his present condition, he’s still quick, but far off his game. I sidestep the Gladius and punch him in the throat. He falls. The Gladius turns the pavement molten where it touches. As the angel goes down, I snap up a knee and break his nose. He falls over backward and the Gladius goes out.

I walk around behind him and push him upright. His eyes have rolled back in his head. He’s completely out. I take out a flask full of Aqua Regia, everyone’s favorite drink in Hell, and pour some down his throat. The angel gasps and his eyes snap open. He looks up at me and sputters.

“You’re trying to poison me.”

“You were unconscious. If I wanted you dead, I could have drilled a hole in your skull and tea-­bagged your brain. Now shut up and go home.”

The angel crawls away and lurches to his feet. He’s covered in blood and booze and his hands are sticking out at funny angles, like he just fell out of a Picasso. He takes a breath and hauls himself upright, trying for a last little bit of dignity. I walk away.

“This isn’t over,” he yells.

I open the door to Max Overdrive.

“Yeah it is. See? I’m going inside. Bye.”

I close the door and wait a second. When I open it again, the angel is gone. But he left blood and mucus all over the front steps. Something else to clean up.

Inside, Kasabian is behind the counter. He looks at me as I come in.

“What was that? I heard shouting.”

I wave it away with my hand.

“Nothing. Some idiot rented Bio-­Dome and wanted his money back.”

Kasabian shakes his head.

“Fuck him. We’re not paying for some schmuck’s bad taste.”

“That’s pretty much what I said.”

“Did you say it with your knees? You’ve got blood on them.”

I look down. He’s right. I’m hard on clothes.

“I’m going upstairs to change.”

Here’s the thing. Most angels aren’t like the idiot outside. They’re annoying, but a necessary evil, like black holes or vegans. Most angels are gray-­suit-­yes-­sir-­no-­sir-­fill-­it-­out-­in-­triplicate company men. Someone you wouldn’t remember if they shot themselves out of a cannon dressed like Glinda, the good witch. A few angels, not many, go rogue and have to be put down like dogs. No tears shed for them. Still, as annoying as angels are, they keep air in the tires and gas in the tank so the universe can go on dumbly spinning. The only angels anyone is happy to see take a powder are Death and the Devil, one of whom is currently asleep in the storage room at Max Overdrive.

But I’ll get to that later.

So, the angels are fucking off and God’s away on business. What do the mice do when the cat’s not looking? They drink. And if they’re smart they do it at Bamboo House of Dolls. Candy and me, we’re mice with PhDs. I’ll meet up with her at the bar.

Chihiro, I mean. Not Candy. I have to remember that. Chihiro. Candy is dead. So to speak. Dead enough that the feds and the cops aren’t looking for her, and that’s all that counts. Now she’s Chihiro, with a different face and name and, well, everything. Everything we can think of. I ju