Anger of the Angels

by Thomas Duder

  The Generalist

  Taboo 4: Anger of the Angels

  (Part 2 of The Angel Arc)

  by Thomas Duder

  This is a work of fiction, despite what Thomas Duder claims. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. This is a work of fiction based on events true or real, but only with express permission from those individuals. All others named are purely coincidental. All well-known pop culture references, memes, lyrics and song titles are used only as either a homage or gentle parody.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please head to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ASIN: B07PWWB9TD

  Published by: Amazon Digital Publishing, Inc.

  Acknowledgements

  To my followers, fans, friends, stalkers and supporters. Y’all have put up with a metric crapton from me as I progress in this field, and even when the road is loneliest you’ve reminded me that I’m never truly alone.

  Especially when I’ve got a full-blown head of mad.

  Big ups to Jade, Ace, Emperor Karsa, Adele, and Vorel. Y'all have been involved with The Generalist since the inception of "The Battle at Brownstone," and I've never forgotten that. Yes, there's many others since y'all who have jumped on and helped out, but you? You guys rocked first.

  To the new crew (Mallory Crowe, Elizabeth Robbins, and more), HAIL!

  Find Emperor Karsa at -

  http://emperorkarsa.blogspot.com or http://www.facebook.com/emperorkarsasart

  Cover by Mallory Crowe

  The Generalist – Taboo 4: Anger of the Angels is hereby dedicated to my fists.

  Beatin’ the street or beatin’ the keyboard, y’all have carried me through rough times and smooth, good times and bad.

  I dunno how to explain how I feel about you when it’s 1 a.m. in polite company, but at least you’re there for me.

  WARNING!

  The Generalist novella series contains the following – serious violence, religious issues, some scenes of a sensual nature, and “alternative lifestyle arrangements.” If you aren't into that, this probably isn't the kind of series for you. If it is, then enjoy! If it ain't, you may kindly stop readin' here and de-ass the situation.

  CHOOSE YOUR DESTINY

  Acknowledgements

  Round 1

  Round 2

  Round 3

  Round 4

  Round 5

  Final Round

  Sample The Future

  From The Author

  About The Author

  More From Thomas Duder

  ****

  Agent Ronald Mesmer glanced at his paperwork, ignoring the raging mass of spiritual faith and physical threat that glared at him from across his clean, well-organized desk. A special agent of the Spook Squad, the sector of the FBI who dealt with paranormal activities (and held more secret contracts with deities and secret societies than even Mesmer cared to admit), the Spook Squad were the ipso-facto guardians of Amerifed freedom in the face of interdimensional, supernatural coups and attempted takeovers of their sector of Earth.

  Every third Monday, their chosen and appointed champions faced down interdimensional villainous overlords of exceptional quality and strength. It was stated point-blank that should these champions be defeated, the American Federation government would immediately hand over the reigns of power and control to the vanquisher.

  That is, if proof was given.

  "If you've defeated The Shop, where are the bodies?" Mesmer set his paperwork down, notably parallel to the edge of his mahogany desk, and leaned back in his comfortable office chair. His office was one of many in the Brick House, an unmarked building most notable for its absolute lack of appeal. Unlike the many skyscrapers that dotted the business sector of Neo-Los Angeles, the Brick House very nearly and neatly faded from view despite the solid brick-red coloration.

  Truth be told, Mesmer liked it that way. He liked the stability and transparency of The Shop, the paranormal goods and supernatural services store set in the heart of Neo-L.A. The Shopkeepers were a mean couple of bastards, but the so-called "Sultans of Swing" ruled in a consistent and fair manner, at least by Mesmer’s sights. Though they had "ruled" for a mere two years, they had done so in a way that made Mesmer’s job easier, and the lives of many a bit more livable in the face of demanding gods, interdimensional warlords hellbent on conquering the world, and far more destructive entities.

  Destructive entities such as the maddened Angel who sat across from him. Though Karsiel the Revenant was of the Second Sphere, the rank and file of Angeldom second only to the Archangels, he had chosen to wear the face and body of Howard Montenegro, the accountant who had secretly been an Angel-gene. Like other monster-gened templates, the Angel-gened bore the DNA of their monstrous template, causing them to undergo metamorphosis to assume the physical characteristics of their progenitor, undiluted even with thousands of years of interbreeding with normal humans.

  Usually this resulted in a "Nephilim," a true Angel-gened monstrous humanoid. When the soul of that Angel awakened within such a body, they took a new level of power and strength, their very voice the soul of compulsion to normal human beings. These were known as Nephlites.

  "It was only a week ago when you supposedly defeated the Shop," Mesmer continued on, far from a normal human being himself, glaring at the Angel-gene, "Yet there are no bodies. There is also the proclamation made by The Shop itself. By the Pact of Pantheons, as stated within the Thirteenth Clause, I could possibly be punished for even talking to you."

  Paralyzed within his own body, Howard Montenegro watched helplessly within the dark confines of his own mind as Karsiel glared through Howard’s hijacked eyes, the Angel-gene speaking in his even, controlled tones, "I have defeated The Shop. Babel is mine-"

  Mesmer laughed, running a dark-fleshed hand over his short-cut hair, the iron gray follicles the only physical evidence of his age. Over the years of supernatural exposure, he had taken on more than his fair share of the paranormal, the very magic of his survived experiences having melded to his once-pale flesh. He regarded the backs of his gloved hands for a moment, feeling his shadow quiver in the face of the Angel-gene’s aura.

  The creature was mad, that was fairly certain.

  Mesmer frowned, resting his elbows on his desk and loosely lacing his fingers together as he spoke, "Your compulsion was broken that night. Even I was under your spell, Karsiel the Revenant, Angel of the Warning Shot, Left Hand of Gabriel. The American Federation government does not recognize your illegal and, frankly, rude takeover of Babel. Currently the agents of the IRS are researching the validity of your claims, thanks to an anonymous tip-off, and I give you this warning: your compulsion will never get through THEIR training."

  Karsiel hissed. Howard Montenegro had been a milquetoast, lukewarm man of middling years. An accountant whose greatest joy came from painting and putting together puzzles, he had gone from a slightly portly man of forgettable looks into a suave, strong young man of heroic proportions. Though he was once of middling height, he now stood well around six feet tall, his shoulders broadening as the Angel's soul sought to mold him into something stronger, something far more dangerous than he had been in his normal life. His black hair had grown long in the week since he had defeated the Shop only for their declaration of war to be projected upon the full moon later on that night, the magic of their Ritual illusion
spell having broken through the Angel’s well-placed ensorcellments, the very compulsion of his voice having aided him in the takeover of the Business sector of Neo-L.A. only for it to be broken in one swift, blindingly over-the-top move. Karsiel glared at Mesmer, the threat within his visible aura affecting Mesmer not a whit. Mesmer noted the minute changes that transformed Howard from a mild-mannered accountant to a walking Greco-Roman sculpture, his sideburns shaved off completely, even his dark eyes changing color to an Angel's violet coloration.

  That he had once been locked in a wheelchair due to a childhood incident had also been set by the wayside due to the maddened Angel’s presence.

  Despite the dramatic changes, Mesmer had read a full accounting of what had happened that night, complete with Frank's death, as well as the declaration of the Thirteenth Clause, a direct challenge of combat that placed the entirety of Neo-L.A. under martial law, the Pantheons and those connected to the Pact unable to get involved on either side.

  Mesmer grinned wickedly, his eyes hidden underneath his department-issued sunglasses, perched on the bridge of his nose, "You haven't a prayer, Nephlite."

  Uncle Chao, the neighbor across the street from The Shop itself, laughed hard and long, either ignoring or simply not caring about the Angel-gene’s raw power and physical threat. Though locked in the body of a Nephilim, the Angel-gene’s presence gave him more than enough power to tear apart a normal human with his bare hands, even in human form.

  Uncle Chao, the head priest of Tordek, God of Battle, Brew, and Bitches was hardly a normal human himself, though. The tiny Asian man got on his hands and knees, his ornate staff of office forgotten on the sidewalk in front of his opium-smoke hazed shop. Much like the strange nature of The Shop itself (three buildings that were actually one massive combined space inside), Chao's shop was more or less composed of three pocket dimensions combined into one - a special, secret closet where only his finest customers ever had access, his secret living and communal quarters, and The Back Room, an interdimensional gateway that connected him to other Chao shops on other worlds, the entirety of it one massive stockroom for his somewhat illegal goods.

  The staff itself curved in on itself at the top, spirals within spirals, ending in the center where a small candle usually lay, his connection to the divine frat boy who had picked him up at his lowest and gave him a new life to live.

  Laughing uproariously, the old man hugged himself, "OH! OH! OW! CHAO'S STOMACH! MY TUMMY! YOU'RE MAKING ME LAUGH UNTIL MY TUMMY HURTS!"

  "You..." the Angel hissed, ignoring his well-dressed manservant as he tugged on his beefy arm, "You mongrel! You graymeat template monkey! I have slain The Shop in the name of God himself!"

  "OH, OH WOW," Uncle Chao began to hiccup, tears streaming out of his eyes. Dark-eyed and given to evil leering, Uncle Chao was a small man who wore a pair of button-up overalls and not much else, his chest and shoulders belying a musculature that was lithe but evidently strong, flip-flops emphasizing his hairy feet. The bald patch atop his head shone brightly, almost an olive color, the rest of him a pale, dusty yellow.

  Hiccuping, Uncle Chao sat on his haunches and grinned wickedly at the Angel, "You show up on Chao's porch while Chao having break and you deliver this stupid shit? Fucking bird-boned jackass, get out of here before Chao turn you into fresh bitchmeat."

  Neville Davis, Karsiel's chosen manservant, tugged at the Angel harder as he began to rage. Green eyes hidden behind a pair of specially-crafted shades, the tuxedoed butler hissed slightly, his hair beginning to shake loose from his ponytail, "Karsiel, Karsiel, please! Not here!"

  Karsiel shrugged off the human and pointed at The Shop across the way: gated and locked up, the whole affair remained dormant and quiet, police cruisers blocking the path. Snarling, he challenged Chao, "Do you see that, old one? The Shop has been defeated, their power off, their power gone! There is nothing there now, NOTHING!"

  "Ahhhhhh, but you don't see like one should," Chao remarked cryptically, "You see only what you want, overt show of power with no strength. All bark and no bite."

  Karsiel hissed, "And you, you! You owe us over five million, American, due to unpaid debts! How are you still even operating?!"

  Chao cackled, "All bark and no bite, all bark and no bite! Get off my land, bitch, before Chao eat you up all in one bite. Not even good enough to notch my belt, you jumped up chicken."

  Karsiel raged wordlessly as Neville called on two equally well-dressed bodyguards from their perfectly white limo to help drag the Angel-gene back into the vehicle, away from the cackling, evil old priest.

  Inside of the limousine, Karsiel ignored the three mortals and waxed wroth obscenely, breaking one of the windows as he violently transformed into its Angel form. Its wings sprouted forth from its back, wrapping about itself like a cloak as its body grew further in musculature, its face even more benign despite the wrath that darkened its features, shivering in rage.

  Neville, waggling his shades back onto his face with a hand, murmured uncertainly, "Karsiel, please. You're making a scene-"

  "THIS IS NOT HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE!" The Angel, far more beautiful in this form, yelled point-blank at Neville's face, misting his shades up, "God himself has brought me to this world to correct it, to prepare it, yet, yet! Heathens all, heathens everywhere! The goyem pile up sin upon sin, ignoring the Word of God!"

  Neville coughed lightly, one of the first Karsiel had ensnared with its voice after the declaration of war, "I'm sorry, my lord, but-"

  "Don't call me that," Karsiel settled on one side of the limousine's comfortable leather seats, the bodyguards on either side of Neville across from it, "There is but one Lord, praised be His name, amen."

  Neville nodded, glad that its mercurial emotions hadn't moved it to violence this time, "Indeed, Karsiel, indeed. All I'm saying is that this is unbecoming of the true ruler of Babel."

  Karsiel sighed, the week's excruciations taking a toll on its beautiful form, "Yes, yes, true. I am only ruler in the name of the Lord, know ye that. But this week...I defeated The Shop. I, Karsiel, had lain their bodies as tropheaum to the Lord, yet now...

  No one believes me. I haven't their bodies as proof, they have declared war upon me, why this week was exactly as they had said! They popped the tires of several of my vehicles, bore holes in Howard's roof, why - they even lit a bag of feces on fire before my porch step! I still don't know what happened to Howard's lunch money, and I still can't find the whereabouts of their allies. It is as if Neo-Los Angeles has turned against me. Me! The Word of the Lord."

  Neville coughed discreetly into a white-gloved hand, "Don't forget Bubbles, m'lord."

  Ignoring the appellation, Karsiel sighed and leaned back against the seat, eyes closed as the stress of the memory alone getting to it even more, "Indeed, poor, poor Bubbles. They bought me a puppy then kicked it in front of me yesterday.

  How...what kind of monster buys you a puppy dog, ephemeral that it is, so full of love and caring, then kicks it in front of you?"

  Neville frowned, agreeing with the Angel on the last part, "Monsters!"

  "Yes, yes, monsters," Karsiel nearly began crying, sniffling slightly, "Cruel ones at that. What did that puppy dog do to them? I believe it to be my fault, though. God created we Angelkin to be lovely and loving, even as we wield wicked weapons in the halls of Heaven. It isn't my fault that Bubbles is so loyal and so cute.

  What hideous monsters the Shop are, to make me fall in love with such a creature only to kick it in front of me and run off into the distance, cackling those despicable hyena sounds!"

  The Generalist

  Taboo 4: Anger of the Angels

  by Thomas Duder

  Round 1

  "So, you conjured up an illusory tulpa of a puppy dog, attached it to Howard's heart chakra without Karsiel knowing, then pretended like you kicked it and ran away?" Gervais Saint Germain lifted a silver-haired eyebrow, his gray eyes twinkling with mirth as he regarded the bandaged forms of the Shopkeepers, his chosen champ
ions.

  You kicked an imaginary dog simply to unsettle the creature?"

  Tall, green and scaled, the UnGrimm Troll gave him a wicked, jagged-toothed grin that would cause heart attacks in lesser creatures. Gervais, having long since considered the Shopkeepers friends, had spied the truth in that garbage-disposal like maw the very first time he had met Daniel "Dash" Hopkins, endearing him further to the Shopkeeper.

  "Yeah! Some of the other stuff we've done to him this week was even more fun, but that last one was genius!"

  He chuckled and nudged his smaller companion with a spiked elbow, the tip and edge blunted currently, "Eh, eh Frank?!"

  "It, don't call it a him," Frank frowned, "It's quad-gonadal in it's true form."

  “Yeah, but unless it has transmogrified into Angel Form, it’s still in Howard’s body, right? Him.”

  Frank "The Generalist" Todd winced as he took in his bound arm, bandages about his face and neck proof of his recent misadventures. Biting back a groan, Frank moved stiffly on the leather couch he took up with his companion and battle buddy, his own noticeably large form, full of fat and muscle alike, healing up far slower than Dash did. The UnGrimm Troll's main ability was in his freakishly fast regenerative capability. Frank, being a human with no known mutations or monster templates hidden within his DNA, had various options for healing yet had used most of them up simply to survive the battles a week prior.

  He hissed lightly, thankful he had taken up the extreme strike training with Dash for the past month. Were it not for that, he wouldn't have survived the freefall from the top of the tallest skyscraper known to humanity with only a strange bruise along his spine to show for it. Using up the last of the Troll Potion he had imbibed shortly after facing Karsiel at the top of Babel, the headquarters for Gervais Saint Germain's financial megagroup "The Brownstone Group," the last banking firm known, Frank had had just enough time outside of Karsiel's precognitive ability to heal up the jagged gash in his stomach before going completely limp.