Angel - Tapioca of the gods Part One

Piety.

Zeal.

Tapioca Pudding.

These are the ways of the Universe.

Zeak gritted his teeth and made a desperate attempt to ignore the
nine-foot angel glowing in a fire of holy brilliance before him. He
groaned deeply. By all accounts this was a bad acid trip. It was
certainly not out of the ordinary to have members of society in his
caravan that most sane people would view as, if not particularly
dangerous, certainly worthy of a brief moment of pity. For the most
part, these sorts of people didn't bother him because, for the most
part, he was one of them. Just a few days before he had had the
questionable privilege of entertaining a young lady whom he had
believed to be named 'Lusty Linda'. He had given her a great deal of
money (something which he had relatively very little of), so much in
fact that he could no longer afford to buy any food for a good month -
there was probably an overwhelmingly good reason at the time for
thinking that he could survive entirely on air and rain water, but it
had gotten lost amongst the millions of other important thoughts
disintegrated by substance abuse. He was therefore obviously more than
a little disappointed when instead of the 'good time' promised, she had
spent the majority of the afternoon in a drunken, dribbling stupor and
the rest of it talking to her own shoes. This, however, was a different
matter entirely. He tended to draw the line at the forced intrusion of
theistically significant figures (aside from, obviously, his uncle
Jack) and made a mental note that as soon as the angel had returned
heavenward, he would write in his notebook that any further drink and
drugs binges were out of the question. That is, he would if he had a
notebook. Or a pen. Or could remember how to write.
There was however something rather more disturbing about this apparent
messenger from God than the figures that could usually be expected to
originate from his more violent of hallucinatory fits. Perhaps there
was still some deep-seated semblance of morality within him that
triggered his conscience into postulating whether it was entirely
acceptable to be in the presence of a figure with apparently divine
connections whilst wearing only a pair of four-week old boxer shorts
and stained yellow sun-hat, or maybe he was simply concerned that the
gentle flapping of its wings would dislodge his prized collection of
mould-infested commemorative mugs from their lofty position atop the
mantle piece. Zeak referred to it as a "mantle-piece", but "old bit of
wood nailed above a radiator" was probably more accurate.

Half a cup of Tapioca Pearls!

One and a half Cups of Milk!

One Fresh Vanilla Pod!

"Please be quiet" said Zeak. Again.

HALF A CUP OF SUGAR!

Zeak turned his deck chair towards the television in the somewhat
optimistic hope that a controlled dose of Wheel Of Fortune might
distract his attention from the presence of the angel. He considered
for a moment that this may appear as a sign of disrespect towards the
angel, but as the Angel hadn't even so much as knocked when it appeared
and was now apparently talking complete and utter gibberish, it was
only a very fleeting moment.
R-BBIT
CH-S -ND D-VE
(Song/Singers)

The Wheel Of Fortune was by no means renowned for its ability to
challenge mental acuity in even so much as a vague 'prevention of
vegetation' sort of way, but this was almost too easy&;#8230;which
was by no means a bad thing. Zeak had for a while now been of the
opinion that things that appeared too easy should by most certainly be
made full advantage of. In morally dubious situations, such as when he
had stolen the socks off of the feet of his best friend whilst he was
in the process of having an epileptic fit, this was true to an even
greater degree. Months later, this act had twinged his conscience
somewhat, but he consoled himself with the fact that his original
intention in taking the socks off was to stuff them into his friends
mouth to prevent him from biting his own tongue off. It was only half
way through the procedure that he had realised that they were 100\\\%
cotton and really didn't need to go to waste. Anyway, his friend was
absolutely fine now and Zeak was sure that he would thank him himself
if he hadn't have bitten his own tongue off.
A horrible thought suddenly dawned on Zeak. Perhaps that was why the
Angel was here. It had come to judge Zeak on his misguided life and set
of morals that any sane member of society would hold to be deeply
unnatural, and any insane member of society would hold to be jolly good
fun. Zeak liked to class himself among the numbers of the latter
division as it left far more room for excuse in the event of an
arrest.
"Rabbit by Chas and Dave"
The Angel fell silent, which startled Zeak somewhat as it hadn't so
much as paused for breath in the last two and a half hours. There was a
moment of awkward silence. The kind that you get on a first date when
you both want to say something intelligent but know full well that if
the tongue starts wagging, the brain has no chance of catching up and
before you know it you've made a confession that you had sexual
leanings towards pigeons as a child. The feeling of unease was
compounded even further by the increasingly apparent fact that the
individual with whom Zeak was sharing this moment was not this time a
spotty 14-year-old called Carol, but a figure of biblical proportions.
He considered that there was only a couple of possibilities as to why
it had chosen this moment to halt its torrent of heaven-sent verbal
diarrhoea - either it was angry and consequently about to cast his soul
into the dark, dank, flaming, putrid pits of hell in retaliation for
this apparently deeply sacrilegious act&;#8230;or it was simply
bored of being ignored and had taken to watching Wheel of Fortune. For
several very good reasons, Zeak hoped that it was the second of the two
but was unsure whether or not angels watched quiz shows. And if so,
wouldn't they choose one of rather more intellectual stimulation,
possibly involving Richard Whitely? It was one of those eternal
philosophical dilemmas that made his brain protest at having to wake
itself up to think about it rather than being pleasantly swamped in a
lazy mush of alcohol and illegal substances. Whatever the answer, this
particular angel did indeed appear to be watching the television. Zeak
decided to join him as he had nothing better to do. This was a position
very familiar to him as it was one in which he had been for several
months now. However, what was certainly not so familiar to him as being
related to his usual lengthy time-wasting exploits was the exact nature
of his current company. He prided himself in his ability to socialise
with almost anybody and anything, but was rather thrown if they had
wings, a halo and glowed in the dark. One of these traits could perhaps
be overlooked as idiosyncratic, but even Zeak couldn't handle all
three.

T-PIOC- P-DDING
(Food)

Zeak looked over at the angel and realised that he was regarding him
with what seemed to be a form of apologetic smile. It was difficult to
discern exactly how he was able to make this out through a haze of gin
and the fact that the angel didn't seem to have any recognisable
features in the usual eye/nose/mouth configuration, but for some reason
its expression seemed quite apparent. It was the kind of smile that a
four year old gives when he's knocked over a bucket of contaminated
chemicals and any person with something at least approaching a heart
knows that, although it's almost certain to cause biological fallout
over an area the size of Bolivia, they just could not bring themselves
to be angry and would instead pat the child affectionately on the head
as the noxious gasses started to strip away their respiratory system.
Zeak, not having anything even remotely approaching a heart was,
however, more than a bit miffed. He was well aware there was logically
only one reason for the smile.
"Did you do that?"
No answer.
"Did you influence the wheel of fortune?"
Apologetic smile.
Zeak couldn't take any more and felt the anger rising in him like a
rabid badger filled with helium. He could forgive the uninvited
appearance of a seraph in his caravan, an unwelcome intrusion into his
subconscious could even be blamed on a lack of social awareness due to
the obvious difference in climate between heaven and Bognor Regis. Even
that earthly figure of impassable religious connections - Cliff Richard
- was known to make the odd faux pas, but an intrusion onto another
man's television time was downright inexcusable. Zeak didn't care whose
sodding messenger the thing was.
"Right - that's it. What do you want?"
Zeak noticed the angel's featureless expression turn into one of
gentle bemusement.
"Half a cup of sugar" it said enthusiastically
"You want sugar?"
(more bemusement)
"DO-YOU-WANT-SUGAR?" asked Zeak, thinking that the angel may either be
hard of hearing or simply slow on the uptake, "if so, I have none. Look
at me -I live in a caravan, my furniture is comprised of a deckchair,
an oil drum and a shelf and I haven't had a new pair of pants in what
is now close to seven years. Do I really look like someone who has in
his possession an extensive range of condiments?"
He was pretty sure that that was what he had just said, but reality
and sobriety were such distant memories now that what he said and what
he thought did not necessarily bear any sort of resemblance to each
other. Simply articulating his ideas was like trying to fight his way
through dense, glue-coated foliage using only a blunt toothpick.
The Angel retook its perplexed expression - this time with a
noticeable streak of frustration. Sacred beings were obviously not
accustomed to being heckled - God-fearing numinous was a more common
reaction. Heck, it was a perk of the job, along with good hours and tax
exemption. The last thing any potential angel wants or expects is an
argument on their hands. In a sudden moment of pity for the angel, Zeak
had a thought. A thought very different to those that he could remember
to have previously ventured through his clogged up synaptic pathways in
the respect that it actually seemed quite a good idea. It was simple in
premise, yet devastatingly effective in its potential appeasement of
the angel and the subsequent way out of the current, increasingly
bizarre situation that it offered.
"I think I may have some marmalade left if you want
it&;#8230;."
Something quite apparent to every sane person, and consequently
something to which Zeak was completely oblivious is the fact that one
of the less than desirable things about being in a state of constant
alcohol or drug induced mental incompetence is that it seriously
compromises your ability to distinguish the difference between a
worthwhile, productive thought and one that could quite accurately be
termed as complete and utter balls. The sober person, upon realising a
particular thought falls into the second category, consigns it to the
deep, dark rubbish bin of the subconscious whilst the drunk and/or
stoned man adopts it as a perfectly viable addition to his principles
and a good starting point for a public conversation. Zeak, as a man who
listed inebriation as a major hobby and past time, fell firmly into the
latter of the two categories. He would not, however, realise until much
later how deeply and profoundly insulting to the angel his suggestion
was. The angel, knowing full well that Zeak was mortal and therefore
both flawed and sinful in nature, excused his error as that's the sort
of thing angels do. They are some of the most genuinely nice beings in
the universe - a bit like Blue Peter presenters, but with more style
and less drug addictions.
Contrary to what Zeak believed, the angel before him was not another
illusion sprung forth from his diseased, narcotic-riddled mind. It was
entirely real. Not "real" in the traditionally held corporeal meaning
of the word, but certainly "real" in the more spiritual sense about
which, incidentally, not many human beings either know or care much at
all.
"One fresh vanilla pod" said the angel, choosing to ignore what Zeak
still saw as a thoughtful offering
"I don't even know what that is&;#8230;" said Zeak wearily. He was
just about to switch over to see if Ricki Lake was on yet when he
suddenly realised how truly beautiful the world was and how only the
repentant sinner could possibly know the glory and heavenly majesty of
the divine kingdom. Zeak would have contemplated the possibility that
this spontaneous epiphany had apparently come out of the blue due to an
intervention on the angels part, if it wasn't for the fact that he had
blacked out and hit the floor in a vague mist of LSD, alcohol and piety
before the thought could toothpick its way through the overgrown jungle
of his neural pathways.