Another Day in the Warren

I went to take the Ball to work this morning, but the cursed thing is out again. What'm I paying my service fees for anyway?

So I hoofed it in on Elleon, who complained that she'd just dug into a good patch of clover and didn't want to leave off, but she took me for another glorious day at the muse factory, where we're still flogging those poor critters for all they're worth.

Got in half an hour late and Dispatch was furious, which means they put me on clean up. The miners must have hit a rich vein and been clocking in some serious overtime 'cause man, we are overrun with fresh ones, at least a thousand of 'em just this morning. And some of 'em are just plain freaky, even for muses. When I turned the hose on them in the wash-up chamber, instead of 'em all huddling back agaisnt the far wall like they're made out a sugar and gonna melt (and we haven't had one of those in years, and then I caught her before she went under the hose and that foot healed up just fine, thankyouverymuch) a good third of them were squabbling for position to be takin' it head on. I told 'em, "Calm down, girls, no one's gettin' outta here 'til you've all gotten good 'n soaked," but they didn't listen to me.

Some of them cleaned up just beautiful. Whoa! I tell you, this batch is wasted on the pleebs, but then again, aren't they all? I hate wrappin' up and shippin' them off; I just know they'll end up in the hands of some ignorant kid or overworked corporate exec who can't or won't take the time to treat 'em right. They think "Once I have ideas I'll be set for life" and never mind that that what they need to do is nurture those ideas an' develop some skills to showcase 'em. Neglected and abused and misused, those poor dumb muses, I pity 'em all.

But some of today's -- man, it breaks my heart to think of where they're going. One of them is a unicorn girl -- I thought she was a dapple at first, but no, she washed off to pearly white and with her mane brushed out she looks a treat, all blue-eyed innocence and purity, makes me think of jordangreywolf, but I can't ask him to take in another, he's got 'em sproutin' like weeds in his backyard already.

And another one that stood out -- total wild one, she was tearin' around the wash-up chamber like the devil himself was after her, not runnin' from the hose, just runnin' everywhere, in ten directions at once. Didn't respond to threats nor cajoling, but when I just yelled "Stand still!" she froze in place like a statue. Her eyes, I swear they're almost as big as her head, all glowing silver, set in a matte black face with a mouth like a tumbled ruby. Her hair is a mass of wavy optic-fiber strands, changing color from moment to moment through a rainbow cascades. I told Dispatch to get me a can of metal polish -- I think her arms and legs will shine up like mirrors with a little work.

Man, I'd snarf 'em and take 'em home myself, but I got five already at home and I can't take care of all of them, I got no more business takin' another than a CEO mom single-parenting five kids does. And who am I to judge? Some people manage to carve time even from the busiest schedules to feed their muses. I mean, look at howardtayler. Maybe they'll get good homes.

...

Yeah, right.

[Edit: Boy, that black-faced one looks incredible after a polish, and she can be as docile as you please if you know how to treat 'er. What a waste! Hey, postvixen, you don't have space for another, do you? I'll snarf her for you an' find some way to ship her in, if you want ....]

Frak, Angels AGAIN!

So it's after lunch, and Dispatch has relented and put me into costuming for the rest of the day so I'm lookin' for something right for Ms. Silver Eyes, maybe a good steel-riveted corset'd suit her, when I hear a scream.

Now, I don't look up, 'cause I work in a muse factory and someone's always screaming about something. If it ain't a muse that's been on the shelf too long crying 'cause she's feels unloved and moreover, unneeded, then it's some poor schlub who just got a headful of ideas poured into him and doesn't know what to do next or how to handle it. I keep lookin' through corsets 'cause I know we just got in some good ones with rivets and LEDs in 'em. And then I hear more screams, and people start tearin' around through the racks like bedlam, and amongst the general confusion I hear folks callin' out and prayin'.

Prayin' ain't something you hear every day at my job, leastways not out loud, so this gets my attention an' I finally look up.

And there are ANGELS in my factory.

Real, live, Ezekial 1:10 angels. And yes, for those of you keepin' score at home, that's the third time this month that they've been in Emerald City. I am so glad these aren't Old Testament days or the Lord of Hosts would've smoked the whole city flat in the first round, I'm sure.

You know the type, with four faces on each side of their head -- human on one side, lion to the right, bull to the left, eagle on the opposite -- and four wings, and those freaky hands underneath their wings, man, you got to see this to believe it, I am tellin' ya. You can't tell which way they're facin', or rather, they're facin' every way at once. They never turn those heads of theirs, or their bodies; they just move straight in whichever direction they want to go, and whichever face is in front does the lookin', I guess. Fre-aky!

They are movin' through the factory like lightin' striking, with flaming swords in every hand, goin' after the ones they came to smite. All around, people have dropped to their knees to pray and plead and beg for their lives, while others are still runnin' or hidin'.

Me, I don't bother with either. It's not that I'm so sure they haven't come for me -- I've sure had more'n my fair share of transgessions, and hey, some folks claim just workin' with muses is idolatrous (to which I say: it's a muse, you moron, not a god, trust me, when you've got five of 'em in your house you can tell they sure ain't goddesses whatever the Greeks thought). But, you know, if bloody angels have come for me, then I can't run fast enough and the Good Lord sure ain't gonna be impressed by a little show of piety now.

So I'm just watchin' as one of 'em smites down poor Freddy, and I'm thinkin', Fraggit, I told you you shouldn't be cheatin' on your wife, you dumb sap. But maybe that wasn't it anyway, 'cause the angel leaves Jessica alone and that's who Freddy was bangin' on the sly. About then, Richard from Dispatch runs into costuming and dives into the racks behind me. He begs me to hide him, and says that they got his supervisor Paul while he was standing right next to him. Paul's the one who lectured me about timeliness this morning and dumped me into clean up, so I'm sorry to hear it, but maybe not as sorry as I could be, you know? I tell Richard, "Hey, if they were gonna do you they would've done it at the same time, two in one blow, right?" but he's already buried himself under a mass of greco-roman gowns.

The angels are still roamin' the factory, but they haven't smited that many people, actually, only Freddy and a couple of others I don't know, as far as the floor goes. 'Course, I can't see Paul or anyone else in Dispatch, so I don't know about them. Did I mention how glad I am not to be livin' in Old Testament days? Or dyin' in Old Testament days, I should say. I mean, three times in a month bites, don't get me wrong, but it still beats been nuked by fire from heaven, you know what I mean?

Anyways, I think for a minute about gettin' back to work, but drek, everything's still chaos and someone's let loose at least a gross of muses which ain't helpin' none, lemme tell you.

So I decide to call it a day, and before I leave I snarf the unicorn girl and Silver Eyes 'cause it'd be such a waste for them to get trampled. Elloen's wandered off and the bloody Ball is still down, fraggit all, so me and the muses caught a breeze home. Which took forever, but at least I'm home and unsmited, which is better than poor dumb Freddy can say, so I ain't complainin'.

Even if I still don't know what the frag I'm gonna do with two more muses.