katzenstreu (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
katzenstreu) wrote2012-09-08 05:49 pm
katzenstreu) wrote2012-09-08 05:49 pm
In which Katz is actually pretty damn proud of this
Author: Katzenstreu Gesicht
Date Written: September 8th, 2012
Fandom: Crossover, Good Omens/One Man Cleanup Crew
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: I went into some serious debate on the White Horseperson. Most modern media, including Good Omens, say that one is called Pestilence, which is fine, because of all the riders, only one is explicitly named. But this interpretation came, supposedly, from a novel entitled The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, which said that the White Horseperson spread disease from the arrows it shot. And also from a very vague sentence that comes after describing the fourth, which most people take to apply to all of the Horsemen/Person's: They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.
I read an interesting theory theory that said that The White Horseperson could represent false prophets, due to some symbolism present that I shant bore you with. I felt, then, the best one suited for this was Fate, who is indeed something of a false prophet, really. It's a bit complicated, so I won't bore you with the rundown unless you are terribly curious. I could've chosen Evil, but that's too easy, and not very fun.
Anyway, apologies for all this overly long note. I just wanted to show I do my homework, too, when it comes to religion. But like I said, it's all up to interpretation. :)
Also thank you Good Omens Wiki, I could never have wrote this without you since I let my friend borrow my book. ;__; Okay, I am done.
War
"A politician?" Carmine's lips kiss a martini glass and down the whole thing, and even in watching the way she swallows, her male counterpart can see now why there's always a fight going on around her, about her, everywhere. "I thought about doing that once, but offices are so cramped, and I like to stretch my legs." A precious vase flew between where they were seated at the bar, hitting the bartender in the head. His blood splatters all over the bottles behind the bar and at them, and Carmine smiles and jumps over the counter to take his place as he falls over.
"It is a little slow, but effective. Not to say selling weapons isn't a good move, either, but you've got much more to work with. Egos, national secrets to sell, policies and laws that could set off violent protests," War pauses to sip his wine. "The best way to start a fight is to challenge a person's beliefs."
"Oh, but we're not here just to start a fight."
"What do you call this, then?" War gestures at the chaos behind them, of petty fights and screaming and kicking and of one person pulling out a gun to shoot his assailant. They would fall back down, rise and fall again; like dominoes constantly being set up. Carmine shrugs and shakes a martini maker, takes War's glass, pours it out and replaces it with what was in the mixer. It is red and drinking it causes even War to shudder.
"A beginning," says Carmine, leaning over. "Reminds me of the time I worked at a bar."
"For how long?" Asks War, starting to get used to the concoction's flavor.
Carmine thinks. "An hour or so. A fight just like this broke out and someone threw a firecracker at the bar and," she laughs, but it's not that annoying fake laugh like all women in the office have, no, it's reminiscent of a machine gun going off, "well, you can probably figured out what happened next."
"Impressive," says War, in a way that shows he is everything but.
Carmine leans closer to him, so that his blacker than black eyes meet hers that are like old coins from dead cities, and he smells her. Fire's ashes and copper blood; it's intoxicating. "You've been in that office too long, city boy," she drawls, "and you know what they say. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."
"I'd say it's more like I've been spoiled, or perhaps it's I've developed a more refined taste."
"Cities burning doesn't do it for you anymore?" A man comes up, then, and tries to get either of the two involved in the greatly escalated fight. He starts with Carmine, trying to simply punch her, but that is his last mistake. Carmine catches the man's fist and crushes it without a change in her expression. The man screams, but Carmine does not stop there, and next takes one a bottle of tequila and smashes it over his head. She seems to contemplate what to do next when she remembers her guest, and turns back to him while fiddling with with on of the broken shards on the counter. "How about I take you back to your roots?"
War finishes his drink.
By the end of the night, no one is there to remember this meaningless town's name.
Famine
They pass each other by in the street, and Famine is reminded of someone, or perhaps he isn't reminded of anyone at all. But still, there's a flicker of familiarity in this stranger passing by, pale and gaunt and with an almost constant scowl at the world and at himself. Famine turns and remarks to him. "Have we met?"
The pale stranger turns, and his eyes study Famine unlike most do. It's wary and weighing and hateful. "I should hope not," says the stranger, his voice but a weak whisper to the roar of the city's crowd.
"Come now," says Famine, "don't starve me of an answer, man."
"Oh, but wouldn't you want to be starved, body and soul?"
Famine blinks, then smiles in that perfectly practiced business man's way. "People have already starved themselves for years with each phase of development, starts with the mind, then the body. I just monopolized it. But," he says, his faded grey eyes narrowing, "I take it this means we have met after all."
The stranger says nothing, simply turns and leaves, but doesn't blend into the crowd. Rather, he seems to be actively avoiding the crowd, as if fearing their touch, or perhaps his own.
Famine is disappointed.
Pollution
"I don't see the need for all the doom and gloom," says Pollution, scraping the last of the ketchup on the plate onto a fry, and is simply smiling with delight at the crunch of deep fried gnats. "The gloom is rather nice. It adds a nice trim to the sky."
Next to him is a woman, whom stands out more than the man, she dresses in a hooded robe that covers her face, worn and sunken and strained by grief. The milkshake in front of her is covered by grimy finger prints that aren't her own, and there appears to be a wad of gum floating in the strawberry cream. "I have seen more gloom than I ever wished or wanted. It is all I have ever seen, or anyone has ever seen."
"It's romantic, though, isn't it? It's interesting to see the end, right? I hope I'm around for it." He takes the opportunity to steal her milkshake and picks out the gum to chew it thoughtfully. "Apparently, my position has a lot of turn overs, which is a shame."
"Romantic?" parrots Fate, for that is her name, though she has many others she is called by. Once upon another time, she recalls several calling her Skuld, though she never liked the name.
"Well, yes, romantic. My predecessor told me about it before he left, it went something like..." and he pauses in trying to remember the words, and the tone that accompanies them. "'Love is more terrible than the bubonic plague, and as common as a cold in the winter. Truly, the the worst disease.' Something like that," he shrugs. "I don't see why, by that reasoning, Love can't be a Horseman. It sounds wonderful enough, but I suppose Five Horsepersons of the Apocalypse doesn't roll of the tongue that well."
"There is nothing romantic at all about the end, about every end," says Fate, cutting through the ramblings of some boy with grand disillusions.
"There's more than one?" asks Pollution, with poorly hidden joy at the thought.
"Everyone dreams, everyone wonders of their end. And I am forced to view every ending, every wayward thought to the sun blinking out of existence or the world chewed up into a dry, dead husk. I have seen it die in a battle that shook the stars, and I have seen it die from one day to the next. And I have seen your dreams, too," she says, turning to the boy. "You should let go of your twisted idea of romance."
"Really, you sound ungrateful," says Pollution, his eyes wide in wonderment of her words. "What I would give for your Sight!"
Fate stares. "What I would give for your enthusiasm."
Death
YOUR BROTHER HAS A GOOD WORK ETHIC, the grinning skeleton says, though, of course, all it ever does is grin, HOWEVER, RECENTLY HE HAS BEEN A LITTLE OVER-ENTHUSED BY HIS JOB.
"I'll discuss it with him," says Death, trying not to smile despite itself, "or at least, try to."
Death has this talk every six years or so, give or take.
Date Written: September 8th, 2012
Fandom: Crossover, Good Omens/One Man Cleanup Crew
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: I went into some serious debate on the White Horseperson. Most modern media, including Good Omens, say that one is called Pestilence, which is fine, because of all the riders, only one is explicitly named. But this interpretation came, supposedly, from a novel entitled The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, which said that the White Horseperson spread disease from the arrows it shot. And also from a very vague sentence that comes after describing the fourth, which most people take to apply to all of the Horsemen/Person's: They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.
I read an interesting theory theory that said that The White Horseperson could represent false prophets, due to some symbolism present that I shant bore you with. I felt, then, the best one suited for this was Fate, who is indeed something of a false prophet, really. It's a bit complicated, so I won't bore you with the rundown unless you are terribly curious. I could've chosen Evil, but that's too easy, and not very fun.
Anyway, apologies for all this overly long note. I just wanted to show I do my homework, too, when it comes to religion. But like I said, it's all up to interpretation. :)
Also thank you Good Omens Wiki, I could never have wrote this without you since I let my friend borrow my book. ;__; Okay, I am done.
War
"A politician?" Carmine's lips kiss a martini glass and down the whole thing, and even in watching the way she swallows, her male counterpart can see now why there's always a fight going on around her, about her, everywhere. "I thought about doing that once, but offices are so cramped, and I like to stretch my legs." A precious vase flew between where they were seated at the bar, hitting the bartender in the head. His blood splatters all over the bottles behind the bar and at them, and Carmine smiles and jumps over the counter to take his place as he falls over.
"It is a little slow, but effective. Not to say selling weapons isn't a good move, either, but you've got much more to work with. Egos, national secrets to sell, policies and laws that could set off violent protests," War pauses to sip his wine. "The best way to start a fight is to challenge a person's beliefs."
"Oh, but we're not here just to start a fight."
"What do you call this, then?" War gestures at the chaos behind them, of petty fights and screaming and kicking and of one person pulling out a gun to shoot his assailant. They would fall back down, rise and fall again; like dominoes constantly being set up. Carmine shrugs and shakes a martini maker, takes War's glass, pours it out and replaces it with what was in the mixer. It is red and drinking it causes even War to shudder.
"A beginning," says Carmine, leaning over. "Reminds me of the time I worked at a bar."
"For how long?" Asks War, starting to get used to the concoction's flavor.
Carmine thinks. "An hour or so. A fight just like this broke out and someone threw a firecracker at the bar and," she laughs, but it's not that annoying fake laugh like all women in the office have, no, it's reminiscent of a machine gun going off, "well, you can probably figured out what happened next."
"Impressive," says War, in a way that shows he is everything but.
Carmine leans closer to him, so that his blacker than black eyes meet hers that are like old coins from dead cities, and he smells her. Fire's ashes and copper blood; it's intoxicating. "You've been in that office too long, city boy," she drawls, "and you know what they say. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."
"I'd say it's more like I've been spoiled, or perhaps it's I've developed a more refined taste."
"Cities burning doesn't do it for you anymore?" A man comes up, then, and tries to get either of the two involved in the greatly escalated fight. He starts with Carmine, trying to simply punch her, but that is his last mistake. Carmine catches the man's fist and crushes it without a change in her expression. The man screams, but Carmine does not stop there, and next takes one a bottle of tequila and smashes it over his head. She seems to contemplate what to do next when she remembers her guest, and turns back to him while fiddling with with on of the broken shards on the counter. "How about I take you back to your roots?"
War finishes his drink.
By the end of the night, no one is there to remember this meaningless town's name.
Famine
They pass each other by in the street, and Famine is reminded of someone, or perhaps he isn't reminded of anyone at all. But still, there's a flicker of familiarity in this stranger passing by, pale and gaunt and with an almost constant scowl at the world and at himself. Famine turns and remarks to him. "Have we met?"
The pale stranger turns, and his eyes study Famine unlike most do. It's wary and weighing and hateful. "I should hope not," says the stranger, his voice but a weak whisper to the roar of the city's crowd.
"Come now," says Famine, "don't starve me of an answer, man."
"Oh, but wouldn't you want to be starved, body and soul?"
Famine blinks, then smiles in that perfectly practiced business man's way. "People have already starved themselves for years with each phase of development, starts with the mind, then the body. I just monopolized it. But," he says, his faded grey eyes narrowing, "I take it this means we have met after all."
The stranger says nothing, simply turns and leaves, but doesn't blend into the crowd. Rather, he seems to be actively avoiding the crowd, as if fearing their touch, or perhaps his own.
Famine is disappointed.
Pollution
"I don't see the need for all the doom and gloom," says Pollution, scraping the last of the ketchup on the plate onto a fry, and is simply smiling with delight at the crunch of deep fried gnats. "The gloom is rather nice. It adds a nice trim to the sky."
Next to him is a woman, whom stands out more than the man, she dresses in a hooded robe that covers her face, worn and sunken and strained by grief. The milkshake in front of her is covered by grimy finger prints that aren't her own, and there appears to be a wad of gum floating in the strawberry cream. "I have seen more gloom than I ever wished or wanted. It is all I have ever seen, or anyone has ever seen."
"It's romantic, though, isn't it? It's interesting to see the end, right? I hope I'm around for it." He takes the opportunity to steal her milkshake and picks out the gum to chew it thoughtfully. "Apparently, my position has a lot of turn overs, which is a shame."
"Romantic?" parrots Fate, for that is her name, though she has many others she is called by. Once upon another time, she recalls several calling her Skuld, though she never liked the name.
"Well, yes, romantic. My predecessor told me about it before he left, it went something like..." and he pauses in trying to remember the words, and the tone that accompanies them. "'Love is more terrible than the bubonic plague, and as common as a cold in the winter. Truly, the the worst disease.' Something like that," he shrugs. "I don't see why, by that reasoning, Love can't be a Horseman. It sounds wonderful enough, but I suppose Five Horsepersons of the Apocalypse doesn't roll of the tongue that well."
"There is nothing romantic at all about the end, about every end," says Fate, cutting through the ramblings of some boy with grand disillusions.
"There's more than one?" asks Pollution, with poorly hidden joy at the thought.
"Everyone dreams, everyone wonders of their end. And I am forced to view every ending, every wayward thought to the sun blinking out of existence or the world chewed up into a dry, dead husk. I have seen it die in a battle that shook the stars, and I have seen it die from one day to the next. And I have seen your dreams, too," she says, turning to the boy. "You should let go of your twisted idea of romance."
"Really, you sound ungrateful," says Pollution, his eyes wide in wonderment of her words. "What I would give for your Sight!"
Fate stares. "What I would give for your enthusiasm."
Death
YOUR BROTHER HAS A GOOD WORK ETHIC, the grinning skeleton says, though, of course, all it ever does is grin, HOWEVER, RECENTLY HE HAS BEEN A LITTLE OVER-ENTHUSED BY HIS JOB.
"I'll discuss it with him," says Death, trying not to smile despite itself, "or at least, try to."
Death has this talk every six years or so, give or take.