Mon Oct 13 19:33:23 UTC 2025
It's a busy workday morning in London. Life goes on as usual
for the unsuspecting souls. In a house with an entrance that isn't
there, three men huddle around a desk in a large otherwise empty
room. A set of enormous wooden doors with pagan carvings separates
them from the rest of the house.
The ornate chair once occupied by the buttocks of a now dead deity
now hosts Bolton's. Belial is there and so is Muriel. The
two stand around Bolton's desk, shuffling papers around, pointing
at maps and photographs of faces.
Belial: "And here.. this is a forest in Belgium."
Bolton: "Who was that?"
Belial: "Don't know the name, but -"
Muriel: "Zadkiel."
Belial: "Right. Him and twelve others got picked off in the night."
Bolton: "How many have we lost since the hit?"
Muriel: "Three hundred and twenty seven. Plus all the
operatives who got potentially made."
Bolton: "No word at all? Not even from Raphael?"
Muriel: "Nothing. It's a complete information embargo."
A single light tap on the door, preceeded by clicks of shoe
needles.
Bolton: "Eva? What is it?"
The handle shifts and a half of the entrance silently rotates a
few degrees, creating a passage just narrow enough for the
receptionist to slip inside the room.
Eva: "Mister Bolton, Mister Azrael is here."
Bolton: "Thank you, Eva. Please, ask him in."
She slips back out and the door closes.
Belial: "You're starting to sound like him, you know."
A muted snap of the fingers later, Azrael, the angel of
Death stands in the room, opposite of Bolton behind the
desk. He scans his two companions.
Azrael: "Mister Bolton. Muriel."
He pauses for a moment.
Azrael: "Belial."
The demon sniffs.
Belial: "What's up, Az?"
Azrael: "Gabriel knows you're in command now, Mister Bolton."
Bolton: "So ends our advantage of disorganized chaos."
Azrael: "He knew you two were close, but didn't think that Belethor
would pass the mantle onto a human. I hope you put that time to good use."
Belial: "A former spook who captured and tortured the last memory of god
now runs the show. A hard pill to swallow for Gabe, I'm sure."
Bolton: "Bought us time, that's what matters. I'm pretty sure that was Belethor's
plan since the beginning. He did know how everything ends."
Belial: "Do you?"
Bolton: "What? No. It didn't come with any powers, B."
Belial: "Like the pope then."
Azrael: "Eventually Gabriel put two and two
together after your little resistance didn't cease with
Belethor's death."
Muriel: "Resistance? It's the Apocalypse!"
Azrael: "Yeah, well, the book kind of stopped being relevant after
you popped Michael's head like a watermelon halfway through
chapter 6."
Bolton: "That was Abbadon's boys and a 50 cal. Been a while
since I read the book, but I'm pretty sure it got a bunch of
things wrong, if that's the case."
Belial: "Do I have to bring up the fact that the so-called
apocalypse already happened in 66?"
Muriel: "Nero was not the anti-christ, for fuck's sake."
Belial: "Tell that to the Judeans."
Bolton: "Jesus fucking christ. Can we stop with this bullshit
and get back to the topic at hand? Azrael?"
Azrael: "Gabriel is the last hairband holding the remnants together.
Remove him and you will get the support of all the remaining
archangels, ending this war."
Belial: "That's a great fucking idea. Definitely didn't occur to
any of us."
...
archive rss_en
Mon Sep 29 10:46:18 UTC 2025
originally posted on 2023-02-03 on gopher
Another sweaty morning. Must be the caffeine. Your pores have been
working overtime and the mattress smells like burnt caramel. No
matter. You put the kettle on boil and suddenly it hits you. The
loose cupboard door you've been meaning to fix for the past 17
months finally gives out and goes into the much anticipated free-fall.
Yes, your head is indeed in the way. You'd think you'd be used to
pain by now, alas, the door knocks you out cold, breaks the glass
coffee jar and scratches the kitchen counter. You lie there on the
cold tile floor, covered in instant coffee. The door merrily rests
nearby. In your defeated state a vision appears!
The darkness behind your eyes forms a familiar face. You can't quite
place it, but you know it's one of the good daemons. It speaks in
a calm, but pedantic tone. You are told that you've wasted your
time long enough. Desktop environments have been dominating the
land for far too long. The daemon crowns you the new prophet of
window managers, after telling you the sad fate that has befallen
the previous one. (He died when parachuting. Turns out he was quite
the adrenaline freak and didn't take his quest for window manager
supremacy seriously.) The face tells you it is now your time to go
out into the world and preach the good word of digital minimalism
and efficient workflow. You feel like asking for some notes on where
to start, but you can't speak, you remember you're knocked out.
And then, just like that, the face disappears and the all too
familiar shabby kitchen comes into view.
There is no time to investigate the damages the cupboard door caused.
You can always blame it on the previous tenant. It worked out for
the broken sink. You check the clock, turns out you've been out for
several hours. Good thing you don't have to go to work, you were
fired 3 months ago. But it is apparent this newly found purpose in
your life requires all your attention. Where to start?
You remember a girl with a computer at the bar you frequent every
other day. Mostly because you don't want to appear like an alcoholic.
But you know she won't get it. She likes her google docs, x's,
squares and _'s at the top of her windows as she furiosly clicks
on the panel at the bottom, going from one proprietary software to
another. Nothing to do. Maybe the younger generation will be a
better start to your mission. You try the immigrants' kid from
downstairs, playing soccer with your window. You begin your initial
inqueries. Turns out he doesn't know what windows are. He knows
what Windows is, but his question on whether he could play some
shitty slot machine disguised as a shooter game makes you question
your decision. You leave the kid on a mission of his own to annoy
most people in the building and head out into the city. You do not
despair. There is a two day Linux convention happening at the
university. You had no reason to go before, but now you understand
the turn of events. No such thing as chance. Perhaps you've taken
your new role too inconsiderately. You remember every good prophet
needs his apostles. What better place than a Linux convention could
there be to find your followers before converting the blasphemous
desktop-manager-heretics!
There, a feller on his vintage thinkpad, surely he will be the one.
Looking over his shoulder you can see he's running i3 and 7 alacritty
terminal emulators with htop and netstat, playing minetest in a
tiny window in the lower right corner. Finally! Now is your time
to shine!
...
Exhausted, you return home. Wash the smut off your face and get
your bearings back. Who would've thought the youngling hacker would
have no interest in your quest. Frankly, you're surprised you even
got to say a few sentences. The rest of the conversation, which
lasted for 4 hours, was about his stupid 12 year old computer,
custom built from imported parts from Japan, with a liberated BIOS
and a matte screen. Cool, but that didn't interest you in the
slightest. It may have the day before, but you were no common
retro-machine enthusiast. Of course when you mentioned your mission,
he laughed you off. He already belonged to a different kind of a
cult which takes pride in being different. "What good would it do
to us, if everyone ran a window manager?!" What good, the fool.
You think on the daemon and wonder, if there's a special room in
hell for failed prophets. Maybe you'll try again tomorrow, but
probably not, you feel like you gave it your best. Tomorrow is your
bar-night anyway and the girl just might be there again.
gopher
archive rss_en
![[img]](http://triapul.cz/img/swap.png)