I awoke to the soft shining of first morning sun. Pale it glinted through the haze of an early heat. Shimmered as if in warning of dangerous mirages. Only a hint to come of the parched state of a thirsty soul.
 
   With great trepidation I made my way down stairs to collapse upon the couch. Despite the dread my fingers grasped the television remote. In spite of myself I flicked on the power and changed channels to the news. Why I torment myself like this I'll never know. I think perhaps I pay too much heed to Zophiel and his cryptic mutterings. He would always be a doubting Thomas despite his protestations of loyalty. Heartbreak and betrayal were ever his cause. My guilt for listening to his ramblings is often overwhelming.
 
   Before the harsh reality of mortal stupidity that is a news broadcast could make its way past my blurry , sleep sand filled eyes. The phone rang. I let the machine get it. It was a female voice and she had been crying. "Sand are you there? Sand?". It was God. She always called me Sand instead of Sandalphon. The creator is fond of nicknames. I shifted positions on the couch in order to reach the phone. Normally I would have just hit the speaker button but God hates the sound of her own voice. She believes it to be overly masculine. I would have labeled it throaty, well made for soulful singing of the blues, lustful even. Then again attributing the term lustful to God in anyway was calling for more penitence then even I was willing to pay.
 
"Yeah. I'm here." I said into the receiver. I had to click the channel button a few times. Damned cordless phones were so susceptible to interference. "What's wrong."
 
"It's bad." She said.
  
I knew it was bad. God wept a lot but I could tell this was a special case. "Tell me."
 
"He's dead Sand."
 
"Whose dead?" I was curious. Surely not Sammael. Maybe Michael or Gabriel.
 
"My Prophet!" She blurted out. Followed by a stream of sobs.
 
I was not surprised. It wasn't exactly a new occurrence. Humanity had a way of ferreting out the few precious chances it had for redeeming itself and promptly exterminating them. Especially the peacemakers. I wondered what the instrument of death was this time. A gunshot like Mohandis. A car crash like a certain European Royal. Modern day death seemed so easy to ignore. It was done and over, mechanized and mass produced so that no consciences could possibly be bothered by the untidiness of suffering. No crucifixions or mutilations to be bothered by. The poignancy of Josef and Osiris's sacrifices rendered inert by drab, inconsistent, error riddled texts. Alas I ramble.
  
More loud thunderous sobs spilled forth before God could raise her voice in answer.

"He OD'd." She said. "Black Jack Guillotine."
  
My heart sank. I wanted to laugh but not in joy. Fucking heroin. Heroin had killed the first prophet of the new century. "How did he did he get hooked?" I questioned.
  
"He didn't." She replied. "His mother was on it. She injected a bad batch. The doctors tried to save him but. . . He didn't survive the birth."
  
Didn't survive the birth. I wanted to burst forth in a ruinous cacophony of laughter. Just when I thought I was inured against the madness."I'll be right over." I told her. Maintaining my composure.
  
"Thanks Sand." I heard her say. Then the click as she hung up.

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