As Yet Unnamed

[Zarni]

here it is, everyone, a brand spanking new story! and it's a long'un.
so, i present, after over one and a half years in the making, 'As Yet Unnamed'...

Amongst the angels of heaven a story is told. Several are told, in fact, as there is very little else for a self-respecting angel to do up there but sing God’s praises and be nice to humans. And, let’s face it, even angels need a tea break every so often. However, this particular story is about a very special human being who, upon meeting with God, thought for himself for a change and argued with Him. He argued so successfully that God destroyed the world and started again. Heaven, of course, only suffered minor political and economic setbacks as a result.

This story is far too strange to be true, obviously, and few really believe it. The story does, though, have one thing which singles it out from the other similar stories told by angels around their pseudo-campfires: it is completely, utterly, one hundred percent accurate. Well, maybe parts of it have been exaggerated a tiny bit, but immortal hyper-intelligent beings get bored very easily. The human’s name was Stan Bigmore. This, however, is not his story. During his short stay in heaven before he was exiled back to the newly remade Earth as punishment for being a smartass, Stan met and befriended an angel of a somewhat nervous disposition by the name of Eric. This is, in fact, his story…


The group of four angels were sitting on a grassy knoll on a cliff top overlooking a very angry looking expanse of darkened water. Beneath them rocks trembled under the power of the waves which came shooting towards them out of, as it were, the blue. The sound of the waves was soothing, gentle, lulling and, above all, peaceful. The angels themselves would have constituted a sight to write home about for any passing human, had there been any around at this late hour. As the gently glowing figures sat, quietly contemplating, the crescent moon slowly but proudly sailed the seven seas of the star-studded skies, and nocturnal creatures big and small basked in its cold, second-hand light. Jealously it guarded this, its realm of the night, from its arch-nemesis, the sun, soon again to rise and become once more, if temporarily, lord of the sky. It looked, in fact, like a big fat banana-shaped cheese wedge.

One of the angels commented on this.

“The moon looks like a big, fat banana-shaped cheese wedge,” it said.

“Shut up,” said another.

“I was just saying, that’s all,” complained the first.

“Well don’t,” said the second. “You always get too philosophical. It’s not good for our kind.”

“But there’s nothing else to do,” the first pointed out.

There was an uneasy silence.

“So,” said Eric, the average sort of one with the remarkably large nose. There didn’t really seem to be much else to say.

“So,” agreed Andy, the tall one who any passing human would have immediately recognised as being a rugby player. Or possibly an American football player, if one happened to be of that disposition.

“What d’you want to do?” asked Eric of the group in general.

“We could watch the Battle of Hastings I suppose,” suggested Anthony, casually.

“The Battle of Hastings? But that’s your answer to everything!”

“I like it!”

“Well, the rest of us are fed up of it,” pointed out Eric.

“But we’ve only seen it a few hundred times.”

“Today,” put in Paul, sarcastically, his spiky hair quivering and his Australian accent ringing as something tangible through the clean night air.

“Always with the sarcasm,” complained Anthony. “Always quick to criticise, never to complement. No respect for my thoughtfulness. I'm very sensitive, you know!”

“Yes,” said Andy, absently. “Shut up.”

The four of them gazed out across the sea, except of course for Anthony, who gazed down across his toes. There was very little to do; all of time and space was theirs’ to command and could be called upon to do their bidding whenever they wished, but this had become boring, not to mention disorientating, after every possible scenario which had ever been and ever would be had been seen, analysed, viewed, criticised and finally Observed several times over. The group had even tried their metaphorical hands at creating their own scenarios and timelines from alternative realities, but this too had grown tiresome after a timeless while.

“What we really need,” said Eric, “is something creative and challenging. And new. That would keep us occupied.”

“But what is there? We’ve done everything there is to do and some things there aren’t,” said Paul.

“I have an idea,” said Andy. Everyone was quiet, listening. “Wouldn’t it be challenging to be humans? I mean, to actually live as they do.”

There was a shocked silence at this.

“Are you suggesting we become humans?” inquired Anthony, doubtfully. ‘Really become humans?”

“It’s a possibility to be considered.”

“I'm not sure I agree with your-”

Paul was cut off in mid-sentence by a beeping noise.

“Oh, it's our shift up at Pearly,” noticed Eric, “we’d better be going. We’ll discuss this later.”

With this the four angels rose off into the night and disappeared with pops of nothing, leaving behind only an early riser out walking his dog, who was startled to see four bright lights suddenly begin to shine from behind a grassy hillock, float gently up into the sky, and then wink out of existence. He put it down to sleep deprivation and too much cheese, but his dog, who, of course had a better understanding of all things celestial than his dumb human master, now had ‘Something To Write Home About’.


* * *


“S’about time you lot got here,” said the angel on gate duty, lighting up a cigarette.

“Sorry, mate, we got a bit caught up,” apologised Paul, looking meaningfully at Anthony.

“Are you implying something?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

The angel they were relieving walked off, caught himself just as he entered Heaven, and started to float. As he glided over the border between the no-man’s land separating Hell from Heaven’s anteroom, he turned, and said,

“Which of you four’s got harp duty, then?”

Eric motioned to himself and Anthony.

“You poor sods,” commented the angel, and left, drifting away into Heaven proper.

Grudgingly, Eric and Anthony created their harps, sat down on a fake cloud and started to play. Anthony muttered to himself.

“What was that?” asked Eric.

“Oh, nothing. I was just commenting on how demeaning I always find this bit of our duty, and how much more fun it would be to watch the Battle of Hastings.”

For once Eric ignored this reference to his most hated of subjects – it hadn’t even been a particularly interesting battle anyway – and sympathised; they shared the same pain.

“The worst part is that we have to look as if we’re enjoying ourselves,” he commented, idly. “I mean, it might not even be so bad if we could play something decent. These hymns have been outdated since Noah sang God’s praises on Ararat.”

“Yeah. Maybe we could play some rock and roll?” suggested Anthony, helpfully.

“That’s a bit of a silly idea,” commented Paul from the gate, where he was standing in a little booth handing out brightly coloured, laminated brochures to the souls entering Heaven, smiling at regular intervals, and saying: “Have a nice afterlife.”

Andy, standing to attention against the doorpost to stop any lawyers, door-to-door salesmen or such other unworthy creatures from entering said, for the moment, nothing. This was his job, to stand at the back of a crowd and look menacing. Indeed, he liked to think he was very good at it, and often practiced in front of mirrors or his friends; the latter of which always laughed, the former only on a Thursday.

“Hello boys.”

Eric looked up from his incandescent cloudy perch. “Oh, hello Jonah. Come to try a spell of gate duty?”

“Good Heavens, no. I was just having a wander around, prophesising, as one does, and I couldn’t help but overhear your comment about playing some ‘Rock and Roll’.”

“Hmm.”

“You know, I used to be a bit of a rebel in my day. A very righteous rebel, mind, none of this disrespect towards elders, or anti-social behaviour.”

“Of course not.”

Eric played his harp a little louder in an attempt to show that, on his side at least, the dialogue was over. But Jonah was not a man known for his ability to take subtle hints, such as the voice of God, for example. And so it continued.

“You’re quite good on that harp, aren’t you, my lad?”

“Thank you.”

“Are you any good with any other type of instrument?”

“I don’t know, I've never tried.”

“What about you, son?”

“Huh?” Anthony looked up.

“Do you play any instruments?”

“Nah, but I've always fancied myself as a drummer...”

“Hmm, yes, I could just see that,” said Jonah, lightly, meaning of course that the only way Anthony could find himself in a band was tucked away at the back out of sight.

“Really?”

“Really,” replied Jonah with a reassuring smile.

“That’s a thought, guys,’ mused Anthony, “we haven’t been a rock band yet…”

[Zarni]

* * *

“Whose stupid idea was this anyway?” asked Andy, having trouble fitting into the tight leather trousers.

“Jonah’s,” replied Paul, “and you can’t get annoyed with him because he’s a voice of God kinda person, prophet and all that.”

Andy humphed and continued to fight his trousers. The problem, he eventually decided, was the belt. He glared at it and it shrivelled, abashed.

“Still looks silly.”

He eyed himself up in the mirror; from his scruffy trainers to his leather trousers to his ripped black t-shirt with a burning skull emblazoned across the front, he just felt like a Hell’s Outcast. Still, if it made him look like a good bass player, that was what mattered, he decided.

“How do I look?”

Paul emerged through the wall of a dressing cubicle and twirled. Attired in grimy looking torn jeans, a Hawaiian shirt and a white suit jacket, he held an electric guitar in one hand and a large amp in the other.

“Like a twit,” commented Anthony from the far corner of the room.

“Come on guys,” said Eric, resplendent in his smart trousers, hand knitted polka-dot sweater and white tie. “We need to dress up like this so the record company will like us. They have to think we’re something new and different, something cool but yet not cool; something popular enough to be liked, yet not too popular as to be un-likeable. We must be suave, sophisticated and talented, and yet try our hardest not to look it whilst not looking like we’re trying not to look it. We must-“

“Shut up,” said Andy, tightening his belt and wishing he could allow his knees to bend both ways. Now he knew how sausages felt.

Eric looked down. “Right. Seriously, are we ready to go? We have to go see the manager of this record label.”

“Is he expecting us?”

“He will be.”

“Oh,” said Anthony. “One more question, though.”

“What’s that?” asked Eric.

“Why do I have to be the one wearing a kilt?”


“We’d like to see Mr. Deathreap, please.”

If the black-haired secretary with the nose ring and the eyebrow stud was surprised to see this odd troupe invading her office, ten years of encounters with some of the oddest humans in the rock world ensured that she didn’t show it now. She coolly looked the speaker up and down, and then in the eye. As she did so, though, she couldn’t help but feel that there was something missing from this man. Something that should be there, in his eyes, but wasn’t. Still, questioning such things was not her job. Questioning such intrusions, however, was.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, umm, no, we thought it wouldn’t, you know, be very cool if we asked for, like, an official appointment,” said Eric, a little uncertainly.

“Yeah, down with the system,” voiced Andy, half-heartedly raising a fist in the air.

The secretary smiled patiently, the kind of smile that is already reaching for the security button, and said, “Well, I’m afraid you will need an appointment if you want to see Mr. Deathreap. He’s a busy man.” With a stupid name, she thought.

“Hang on,” said Anthony, “I just need to… go to the….toilet, yeah, that’s it, the toilet. I’ll be back in a minute.”

A minute later he was, indeed, back.

“I think we do actually have an appointment,” he said to the secretary, “if you’d like to check your database.” He smiled.

“‘As Yet Unnamed?’,” asked the secretary, a little confused.

“That’s us,” grinned Anthony.

“Well, err, go right in, I suppose…” the secretary shook her head and fiddled with her stud as the four oddities thanked her most politely in turn and walked through the door connecting her office to Mr. Deathreap’s anteroom.


“Anthony!” hissed Eric, “I thought we had agreed that we weren’t going to tamper with space or time now! We’re supposed to be humans!”

“Sorry, but she wouldn’t have let us in otherwise…”

Eric calmed down a bit: “Yeah, I suppose so,” he relented.

“Shall we stand here bickering or shall we go and see this Deathreap fellow?” put in Andy, exasperated.

Paul made the decision for all of them, and pushed open the door separating the anteroom from Mr. Deathreap’s office proper. Beyond was a spacious, uncomfortable looking room containing strangely curved and pointy bits of furniture, and a strangely curved, pointy bit of man, who, upon closer inspection, turned out to be Mr. Deathreap. According to the folded bit of card sitting on his desk, at least. He motioned them forward and bade them occupy some of the particularly painful looking seats placed strategically around his large red desk. Eric noticed how the chairs had been designed to be quite low, so as to give whoever was sitting behind the desk the edge of an extra few inches over whoever it was he was talking to. The effect seemed somewhat lost, though, as Deathreap still appeared to be little more than five feet tall. His silly goatee didn’t help, either.

“Hey. You must be-” he consulted his computer screen- “‘As Yet Unnamed’. Is that what you call yourselves or just what you happen to be right now?”

“Errr,” said Eric, “we haven’t decided yet...” He shot a glare towards Anthony.

“Oh. Fair enough then,” said Mr. Deathreap, reaching over to shake hands with each of the bemused angels in turn.

“So,” he started, sitting back down again, his desk like a shield from behind which he was safe to poke fun at the rest of the world, “I take it your manager couldn’t be here today?”

“Well, actually, we don’t actually, well, err…” Eric petered out.

“We don’t have a manager,” stated Andy quite bluntly. “Is that a problem?”

Mr. Deathreap stroked his chin. “Possibly not…it doesn’t have to be. You got a demo?”

“Demo?” Four blank faces stared back at Deathreap.

“Yeah! You know, so I can hear the sort of stuff you’re making, decide whether you’ve got enough talent for me to want to sign you up and make us all some big bucks.”

“Ah… You see, the thing is, we haven’t got that either….” admitted Eric.

“I see… So, what do you have?”

The four looked at each other, pretended they hadn’t, and looked at their feet again.

“I, err, need the toilet…?” suggested Anthony, timidly.

“Not now, Anthony!” Eric put his foot down.

“Why is he wearing a kilt?” Deathreap asked quietly of Eric.

“He’s a drummer,” explained Eric apologetically.

“Aah. So, let me get this straight: you’ve come to me with no name, no manager, no demo recordings of your work, and a drummer who wears a kilt. What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Ummm, sign us up?” suggested Paul.

Deathreap began to laugh. It was a long, slow sort of laugh that found itself building up slowly over the course of several minutes. It ended when Mr. Deathreap asked them most courteously if they would like to leave his office and, indeed, the building, and go to look for work elsewhere. A fast food restaurant, perhaps.

Dispirited, the foursome trudged off back to heaven.


“Personally I blame Anthony.”

“Come on Eric,” reasoned Paul, “at least we got to see Deathreap.”

“Stupid name,” put in Andy.

“We wont get another chance to impress him now,” grumbled Eric, bitterly. “And to think we didn’t even have a demo…”

“Well, what kind of music are we going to do, anyway?” asked Anthony struggling out of his kilt and throwing it in a corner, where it was eaten by Andy’s trousers.

There was a thoughtful silence of the type very symbolic of deep contemplation. The four looked at the walls, their feet, and the backs of each other’s heads for inspiration, but to no avail. None came. Angels just didn’t have the capacity for artistic leaps of faith that this question of creativity required. After a while, Paul broke the silence as the American army break the rules, saying:

“Seems to me that what we need is a manager, like Deathreap said. Someone who can help us out and know what to do. Someone with experience in this kind of business. Someone who knows what humans want, understands rock music?”

“Where are we going to find one of those?” inquired Andy sceptically.

To this Paul had no answer; Eric however, looked up suddenly and smiled.

“I think I know who could help us out,” he said, slowly. “And I think I know where we can find him…”

[Zarni]

* * *

As the speaker stepped down from the podium, the tall, gaunt figure with the dark hair and overly pale complexion applauded enthusiastically; he loved such political rallies. This one had been particularly good, full of rousing pomp and nationalism, and promising great entertainment. He turned to leave, but found his way blocked by four figures. That was odd. No-one ever blocked his way. He looked at them. They didn’t move. He gave them The Look. Still nothing. One of them, possessing an impressively large nose, spoke:

“Hi; we’d like to talk with you for a moment, please, if that’s all right with you.”

“Well, err,” said the man, a little taken aback. Very few people ever requested an audience with him, and these figures didn’t look as if they fitted into such a category as that… He decided he would accept this request, if only out of sheer curiosity.

“Certainly gentlemen. Somewhere quieter?”

The cheering and baying of the crowd of thousands had reached fever pitch when the speaker had finished his speech with the time honoured line ‘God bless America’, and even now showed no sign of abating. As the five figures left, another man ascended the mount and personally thanked the President for his patriotic offering, and a helicopter rose up from beyond the stadium.

“Now,” said the man, when they were out of earshot of the pack, “about what did you wish to talk?”

“We were wondering if you would be our manager,” said Eric, tentatively.

“Now that is an interesting proposal,” said Lucifer, Lord of the Underworld.


“Well, of course it was obvious you were angels; you have that terrible aura of cleanliness which is inescapable, even down here,” said Lucifer as they sat in a coffee shop over looking the Washington Monument. “What isn’t obvious is what you want me to manage, and indeed why you have come to me to manage it. Whatever it is.”

“Umm,” started Eric, a little abashed, “we want to start a rock group.”

A small grin appeared on Lucifer’s chiselled features; starting life as a slight curvature of the lips, it proceeded to travel from either direction up his face, as if each side of his mouth held the intention of reaching its respective ear first. His chest convulsed a few times, a few elegantly maintained dentures slid into view, and his black eyes sparkled with barely concealed glee. Finally, the lacquer split, and laughter burst forth through the hole like water through the spider-web crack in a dam. He threw back his head, he banged his fist on the table; he rocked backwards and forwards and held his sides with mirth. Eventually the tide subsided, and the dark lord, taking a minute to regain his breath, an illusion he like to maintain whilst on Earth, sat forward in his chair, and spoke as if confiding a secret with co-conspirators:

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you irony is dead.”

He shook his head and took a sip of his mocha. “I haven’t laughed like that since the Crusades.”

“The Crusades weren’t very funny,” asserted Paul, frowning slightly over his cream bun.

“I thought they were,” said Lucifer, idly stirring up his froth. He went on. “Humans are so stupid,” he reasoned, ‘they do such silly things to each other, follow a leader like little lemmings, or their alpha male like the primates they believe themselves so superior to.”

“Indeed,” agreed Andy, allowing just the slightest hint of irritation to creep into his voice, “but how does this help us?”

“That’s quite simple. Successful humans build on the stupidity of their brethren. Be it consciously or unwittingly, all humans leach from the weaknesses of others. That’s why I like them so much.”

He smiled and slurped the last of his mocha through a straw before using a spoon to scoop the dregs from the bottom of the glass.

“I do enjoy the dregs.” Another smile. “Now, gentlemen, I must be getting along. Lots of paperwork to do, you know. Running the universe’s largest, most successful prison is no easy business.”

“Hang on, hang on,” cut in Eric, “I thought you said you could help us?”

“Yeah,” agreed Paul, “can’t you leave the paperwork to the accountants? God knows you’ve got enough of them down there.”

Lucifer stopped in mid-action as he rose from the table, and looked at each of the angles in turn.

“I never actually agreed to you proposal,” he said, simply, smiling slyly.

“Well we’ll make it again,” said Eric, patiently. “Would you be the manager of our rock group? Please?”

“There,” said Lucifer, “is your first lesson in fitting in to human society: perseverance. Come, let us discuss this in the privacy of my private recording studio…”


* * *


“‘Yeah, prattling on about, nothing at all, my friends have all left coz, I just won’t play ball,’” Eric bellowed emphatically into his microphone. “‘My future’s bleak, the road is long, I’ve got a way to roam, fed up with life and casualties, I'm hungry, take me back to my house.’”

“Erm,” put in Anthony, from his drum kit, “something doesn’t sound right about that last line.”

“Like what?” asked Eric. “Something wrong with the pentameter? Was it my voice? Pitch? Did I go up when I should have gone down? Am I singing flat?”

“Nah, it’s just that it doesn’t sound right. ‘I’m hungry, take me back to my house.’ Doesn’t fit the verse structure. Doesn’t rhyme either.”

“You got any better suggestions, maybe?” Eric’s tone was almost confrontational.

“Well-” Anthony was about to counter.

“‘Home!’” shouted Paul, “what about ‘home’? ‘I’m hungry, take me home’!”

“‘My future’s bleak, the road is long, I’ve got a way to roam, fed up with life and casualties, I'm hungry, take me home.’” sang Eric. “That’s great! You can really feel the angst.”

“Indeed,” said Lucifer, sitting with a can of beer in the recording booth, “the humans will love it. They do enjoy being told their lives are terrible. It’s an ego thing, you know; they think that if they believe they are the ones to be felt sorry for, they must be the most important people. Helps them to forget about the people with real problems and thus makes them feel better inside.”

“Oh,” said Paul.

“Great,” said Eric.

Anthony just nodded, and Andy grunted his acknowledgement.

“So how many of these songs have you got?” inquired Lucifer.

“Umm, just the one so far…” admitted Eric, “but me and Paul are working on more.”

“Excellent. When you have a few good sample tracks on a CD, we’ll take them over to Deathreap again, play them to him as a demo, and see if we can’t…persuade…him to sign you up to his record label. Then you can produce an album, do tours, the works.” The Devil smiled contentedly and took another sip of his cool beer.

“Great!” expounded Eric. “We’d better get some more material written, then.”

The others nodded, and they got to work.


“Yes, indeed, it should be interesting. Yes, yes, they are. No, don’t be silly, we’ll have to work up to that. But yes, I agree, it is what we’ve been looking for, and it shouldn’t be long now before-”

“Lucifer, how do you spell marijuana?”

“-Sorry, just a minute, look, hang on, sorry mate - m-a-r-i-j-u-a-n-a, ok? Why do you want to mention marijuana anyway?”

“We just felt it was one of those things our target audience was interested in. Would make us cool,” explained Anthony.

“Right. Great, look, I’ll be with you in a minute.” Lucifer returned his attention to his phone and Anthony returned to the rest of the band. “Yes, sorry, that was Anthony. Yeah, the drummer. No! Look, you know I can’t discuss that now- no, one of them might hear, they’re not idiots, you know. We’ll meet this evening- Dinner? Yeah, sounds good. I’ll see you there then. Bye for now.” He hung up, and went to join the band.


Lucifer’s dinner guest put down his fork and looked to the ceiling of the restaurant, as if for inspiration.

“Exquisite,” he finally said. “Human free choice never ceases to please me.”

“And surprise me,” said Lucifer, swilling his wine lightly in the elegant crystal vessel, “always experimenting with things I would never have thought tasted so good together.” He took a sip. “Complements the beef extraordinarily well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed. Although I’m not sure surprise is the right word,” his acquaintance smiled at him across the table, whose litter of empty plates and dirtied cutlery told its own story of a meal well appreciated by both parties.

“Well. One can’t have everything, I suppose,” remarked Lucifer lightly, leaning back with a satisfied sigh, and placing his hands on his stomach.

“Can’t one?” inquired Lucifer’s colleague, a mischievous smirk flitting across his lips as he poured them both more wine and took in the colourful array of patrons dining at the surrounding tables.

“Everyone knows there are one or two who can have everything…who might they be, I wonder?”

The associate chuckled heartily, but then began to speak in a voice which, although lacking nothing in volume relative to what had been said before, Lucifer knew only he could hear.

“We do want this to be getting on quite quickly now, though, don’t we? There are those who have everything, those who want it, and those-“ he paused for emphasis- “who demand it.” He tapped his nose knowingly.

“Indeed,” replied Lucifer. “Tomorrow we will pay a visit to this Deathreap chap – stupid name – see if we can’t possibly…persuade him to be a little more lenient this time. They’ll get their record deal, don’t you worry.”

This prompted a nod of approval from his companion. “My dear fellow, I don’t need to worry.” A smile. “Now, how about a game of chess?”

[K Man]

Still reading by the way, but I wanted to put this in. First off, it has angels which I like as evident from my pieces...but I also like that it references the previous stories of Zarni!!

Good job man, I'll post more as I read...

[Zarni]

* * *

“Obviously we’re sorry to bother you again, but I believe this time you may wish to hear what my clients have to say. Or at least sing. Or bellow, possibly. Either way, what do you say?”

Deathreap eyed Lucifer suspiciously through beady little eyes from across the wasteland of his marble desktop. From this vantage point and position of safety, he considered the situation, remembering Eric, Paul, Andy and Anthony from last time. His deep-set ball bearings moved from one to the other, noting their eager expressions and open faces. They were also smiling more than this sort usually did. He conceded.

“Oh, alright. What have you got to show me?”

This was greeted by wide grins from the band members, and a smug half smile from Lucifer; humans were so easy to manipulate, and they never really realised anything that didn’t fit within the parameters defined, no, dictated, by their narrow range of experiences.

“Well,” started Eric, “we brought along a demo tape for you to have a listen to.” At this juncture he produced the aforementioned cassette, and waved it in Deathreap’s face, or at least, as close as he could get when they were separated by the several feet of marble expanse that constituted Deathreap’s desk.

Deathreap motioned that Eric should slide the tape over the desk to him, where he would place it in a player he kept next to him for just such an occasion as this. Eric did so, and Deathreap was rewarded by Eric’s voice, accompanied by Paul’s guitar, Andy’s bass and Anthony’s percussion, bellowing song lyrics of his own devising.

‘“The skies are grey, the rest is black, the earth’s a ball of dust; and while the coffee maker breaks, I’ll sit and wait to rust. My future’s bleak, the road is long, I’ve got a way to roam, fed up with life and casualties, I'm hungry, take me home…”’

After another 15 minutes of this, consisting of five songs in all, Deathreap looked up, a surprised look adorning his stolid features.

“This is quite good stuff,” he mused.

The band could hardly contain their excitement. All except Anthony, who couldn’t contain his at all.

“So you’ll sign us up then?”

“Hmmm… we’d have to do a few things to your image. You’d need to dress better, for a start.” Deathreap eyed Anthony’s kilt, not for the first time, with a sense of distaste, much as a father surveys his young daughter’s newly pierced nose or belly button.

“Secondly,” he continued, still looking at Anthony, “we’ll have to change your name. Anthony is no good as a drummer’s name.”

Anthony looked a little hurt.

“How about Ant? Or Tony? No; Tone? Maybe…” Deathreap rested his chin in his hand, stroked his goatee and stared at Anthony.

“Err,” said the accused, “if it has to be something like that, I’d probably resent ‘Ant’ the least.”

“Right. Now I’m, not too sure about Eric, either…”

“Eric Morecombe managed to be famous enough,” muttered Eric, indignantly.

“But Eric Morecombe wasn’t trying to become the lead singer of a heavy metal band. Although, now I come to think of it, what do you people call yourselves?”

The group looked at each other, their vacant expressions acting as an inspirational vacuum, sucking all good ideas out of the room. Even Lucifer seemed to be at a loss for words.

It was Andy who finally broke the silence.

“We’re ‘As Yet Unnamed’.”

“Really. Well, that’ll be a challenge for our publicity experts… Should make for interesting merchandise, though; imagine the hoodies.” Deathreap smiled to himself. “Gentlemen, you have yourself a deal. I’d like to see an album from you. We’ll arrange a little tour, a few dates, small gigs, as promotion, and see how it goes. If you’re successful, we’ll extend the agreement and give you a permanent contract to produce more albums. I’ve been impressed with what I’ve heard here today, I have to admit; you could be quite big. We’ll get some publicity going immediately, interviews and such. Is that ok?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Eric, at last, speaking for the group, a little flabbergasted. “That’s great!”

“A pleasure doing business with you all,” said Deathreap, standing up and shaking hands with each of the immortals in turn, and carefully scrutinising the back of Lucifer’s head as the five left. There was something funny about that manager of theirs. But he was damned if he could put his finger on it…


At a very posh restaurant somewhere in the south of France, the five celebrated their success in the time-honoured fashion: by drinking.

“This is great!” exclaimed Paul, raising his umpteenth beer aloft.

“Yep,” agreed Eric, inspecting his shoes for stick insects; he was sure he’d seen one there a second ago. Although it could just have been his shoelace.

“We can’t take it easy yet, though, fellas,” said the Devil, in a chummy kind of way, “loadsa work ahead of us, you know.”

The Ant formerly known as Anthony nodded, and suggested that they start recording material for their new album right now. Then he slowly, calmly, toppled from his stool and collapsed in an inert heap on the floor.

After carrying him home and putting him to bed, the rest decided that maybe they would start recording tomorrow, instead, when their drummer was able to hit something other than his head against the floor.


Thus was the saga of ‘As Yet Unnamed’ born.

[Zarni]

*Cheers, k-man, appreciate the input! *

* * *

“How about ‘Our First Album?’”

Andy looked at Anthony.

“Why do you always come up with the silly ideas?”

“Think of something that annoys you, maybe,” suggested Lucifer, “then make fun of it. Or just think of a word that just sounds good.”

“We could call it ‘Smash the Phone’,” suggested Eric.

“Or ‘Space to Let’, and the picture on the front cover could be a cross section of someone’s head, and it’s all empty, and there’s this sign leaning at an angle that says ‘For rent.’”

The rest of them turned and looked at Paul.

“I like it!” said Lucifer. “It’s political, cultural, and sociological! The cynics will love it!”

“They will?” asked a somewhat bemused Paul.

“Of course! The head could either belong to a an ordinary person, a voter, signifying that they know nothing and are just waiting for politicians to fill the space up with their propaganda, or it could be the head of one of those politicians, implying that the world’s leaders are stupid. It’s a great idea!” he smiled widely.

“Yeah, ok,” agreed Eric. “Let’s go with that.”

“Eric, can you write a song based on that?”

“Yeah, sure, I can try. That would give us ten songs, eleven if we write ‘Smash the Phone’ too. Sounds like a good title. Should we have one more?”

“Yes, twelve songs is a good length for an album,” nodded Lucifer, sagely.

“What about a happy song?” suggested Anthony from the corner of the room where he sat randomly banging on his drum kit. Then tentatively, “or one about the Battle of Hastings?”

“We are not singing about the Battle of Hastings,” intoned Andy, firmly.

“Something happy might not go amiss, though…” mused Paul.

“Yes,” affirmed Eric. “How about one simply called ‘Upbeat’? it might start like this.” He started to sing: “‘I always seem to write sad songs, depressive and tiresome, wanted this one to be upbeat, not to write something irksome.’”

Lucifer nodded.

“Go for it. I’ll let Deathreap know we’ll be ready to start publicity within the next fortnight. I expect he’ll want interviews with magazines and radio stations, and then we can work on organising some gigs.”


“‘Assimilation, isolation, opposite ends, of the spectrum; oscillation, in our favour, strong the views, that never waver, pendulum, swings to the other, time to duck, and run for cover, politicians, always changing, never safe, always space to let.’”

Deathreap tapped his foot to the beat. “Good. I like it. That’s your album’s title song, right?”

“Yes.” Eric stepped away from the microphone and had a sip of water, for show of course, as angels need neither to eat, nor to drink. Or to sleep, as it happened, but the group were beginning to understand more and more the need for an excuse to lie back and do nothing these days. Confining yourself to the realms of humanity really took it out of you.

“And how many songs have you in all?”

“Twelve. We thought it a reasonable number; we still have some material we haven’t included,” Eric bluffed, “so we’ve already got stuff for another album.”
Deathreap nodded and beckoned for a colleague to come forward. He introduced her.

“This is Mary. She’s head of publicity for Deathreap records. She’ll talk you through a few essentials, and I’m sure you can sort out some things regarding hair styling, appearance, clothing, names, etc. Where’s the toilet?”

He was pointed in the correct direction, and Mary, a forty-something year old peroxide blonde desperately trying to look twenty-five, looked over each of the four band members in turn.

“How do you like the idea of being a death metal gothic group?” she asked?

“Umm,” said Paul, doubtfully, “isn’t our music kind of wrong to be classed as something like that?”

“Yeah, sure, but it doesn’t matter if that’s how you want to be portrayed. Or is it more punk you want?”

“Possibly…” deliberated Eric. “How about both?”

“Death metal and punk?”

“Err, yeah.”

“Hmmm, a sort of death-punk. That’s interesting…. We could market you as something completely new, but we should start by putting you in the underground. If there’s one way to make a band popular, it’s by telling everyone that no-one else knows who you are. Or likes you.”

Andy scratched his neck as he tried to get his head around this conundrum. “How does that work? Is it something to do with being cool?”

“Well, the kind of people who will like you like to think that they’re in the minority, that they like things no-one else likes, and that they’re individual, different. Down with populist stuff, anti-commercialisation and the rest. Thus, a band no-one else knows is good, but when they become popular and everyone knows who they are, they’re not cool anymore. That’s what we’ll have to try to avoid with you,” Mary explained.

“So we have to be popular, but not too popular? Sounds like there’s a very thin line we have to tread,” Paul speculated.

“Indeed. But don’t worry, I can help. You’ll want colourful hair and black clothes. Maybe each of you could have a very different, distinctive hair colour as your trademark.”

“Right.”

“And tattoos. You’ll need those too.” Mary looked over at Anthony, almost cowering behind his drum kit. “We have a lot of work ahead of us…”


“So it’s all going quite well, is it?”

“Yes, yes indeed it is.” Lucifer took another puff of his cigar and looked across to where his friend occupied the next bar stool along. “And how are things going at your end?

“Can’t complain, can’t complain. Everyone who should be is happily oblivious, and everyone else has only the slightest of small inklings.” He smiled and looked deep into his pint glass, as if seeing some hidden meaning in its creation that others could not fathom.

“Good, good, we should be ready quite soon. Tomorrow the band start rehearsing all the stuff they need to know in advance for their first gig.”

“Mmm. What’s the reception been like for the album?”

“Better than we’d hoped for, actually. Evidently death-punk is quite popular. Until it gets popular, of course. At which point it will stop being popular due to its popularity. Sort of like a dying star imploding under its own weight.”

“Right. So, interviews, another single or two, and we’re home free.”

“Indeed.” Lucifer threw back a shot and banged his glass down on the bar.

“Connect 4?”

[K Man]

Zarni,

I'm floored... This kicks, what we American like to call, ass! Angels, forming a rock band managed by Lucifer himself.

I'm quite impressed and I have to add, this paragraph:

A small grin appeared on Lucifer’s chiselled features; starting life as a slight curvature of the lips, it proceeded to travel from either direction up his face, as if each side of his mouth held the intention of reaching its respective ear first. His chest convulsed a few times, a few elegantly maintained dentures slid into view, and his black eyes sparkled with barely concealed glee. Finally, the lacquer split, and laughter burst forth through the hole like water through the spider-web crack in a dam. He threw back his head, he banged his fist on the table; he rocked backwards and forwards and held his sides with mirth. Eventually the tide subsided, and the dark lord, taking a minute to regain his breath, an illusion he like to maintain whilst on Earth, sat forward in his chair, and spoke as if confiding a secret with co-conspirators:

Impressive...very nice use of metaphors and just...general use of the English Language. I humbly bow to your superior skills.

[Zarni]

* * *

“No, because there’ll be a big crowd of people below us.”

“But what if they don’t catch me?” Anthony looked petrified.

“They will,” Paul assured him. “They’ll get the idea and most of these guys will be big, strong hard-core blokes who could easily support your weight on their own, let alone in a large group. Besides, crowd mentality is very different to individuality anyway; you can make crowds do all sorts of things you could never get the components to do in similar situations.”

Bill, the stunt co-ordinator, approached the two of them from stage left with a clipboard and a patient expression.

“We ready for the run through of your entrance?”

“Yeah, sure Bill, we’ll be right with you.”

The two angels stood on the stage on which they would soon be performing to a crowd of hundreds and looked out into the auditorium. There would be no seats; they didn’t want to impede the good fans’ head banging. Neither quite understanding humans and their habits, they walked to the helicopter, an old decommissioned Chinook that Deathreap had commandeered from a source he preferred not to reveal.

“Ok,” said Bill, sitting now next to the pilot, “the chopper’s gonna fly in low above the crowd and drop a ladder down so it’s just above the reach of the crowd. Each of you will climb down the ladder in turn, starting with Eric, then Paul, then Andy, then-” he squinted at his clipboard- “Ant. All except Ant will have your instruments with you, and will drop down onto the stage. Whilst Andy’s climbing down, though, the ‘copter’s gonna lurch, and Ant will fall down into the crowd, who’ll catch him after a moment of heart-stopping suspense. He can then surf onto the stage.”

“Great,” said Anthony, a little white.

“We’ve got some of the guys from admin below us where you’ll fall just to see if it works well,” said Bill.

The helicopter took off and flew low over the arena. Above the stage, it dropped its rope ladder and Eric shakily climbed down, dropping from the bottom to land slightly heavily on the stage. Paul followed, rolling when he hit the stage, and then Andy, landing quite lightly for his size. Anthony, though, found himself swinging as if at the bottom of a pendulum, and judged when to let go to allow himself to land in the correct position in the ‘crowd’.

The boys from admin managed to catch his head and left leg, and he sustained only minor sprain injuries.

“I think that went quite well, don’t you?” remarked Eric.


“Hey y’all, it’s just gone 7, and we’re all really excited to have ‘As Yet Unnamed’ here in the studio with us. Hey guys. How’s it going?”

“Hey Dan, we’re good. You?”

“Err, yeah, I’m cool, thanks. So, you’ve got your new album out, ‘Space to Let’, and you’re starting the first leg of an international tour in two days time?”

“Yeah, that’s right, we’re going round America, the UK, mainland Europe, Asia and Australia,” said Paul trying to sound nonchalant and laid back.

“Sounds like a tall order for a first tour?”

“Yeah, Deathreap Records wanted to introduce us to a more mainstream market, so we’re going very wide on this,” explained Eric.

“You’re relative newcomers to the mainstream market, then? We haven’t heard anything from you before.”

“Yeah, we’ve been underground for the past year or so,” Andy lied, recounting the story they had concocted with Lucifer for just such an occasion as this. “We found a new manager recently, though, Yetze Hora, and he thought we should try and get ourselves signed.” Andy used Lucifer’s alias rather than admitting to the devil’s part in their success.

“Cool. Well, your first single, ‘Space to Let’, was quite popular, as was the second track you released from the album, ‘Pikey Bashing with My Gran.’ What do you plan to do to follow up those successes?” asked Dan.

“Well, we’ve got one or two more tracks we’re keen to release from the album, like ‘Smash the Phone,’ which is all about commercialism and globalisation and, and, and that sort of thing…” Paul petered out in mind sentence, and Andy took up the thread.

“And then we’ll obviously see how we’re received; if people like it, you’ll hear more of us. If they don’t, hell, we’ll do it anyway.”

“That’s fair comment,” Dan smiled, revealing teeth artificially whitened to such a degree that they blinded casual onlookers. Then, leaning in as if the listeners could see, he stage whispered, in a manner intended to sound confidential, “So, for a new, band that’s having to cope with all this new pressure, how are your individual friendships holding up to the stress? Ay?”

“Oh, we’re fine,” answered Anthony, immediately. “Except for Eric and Paul, of course, we’ve always had tension between them.” He grinned moronically.

Eric and Paul looked at each other, and then Anthony, in surprise.

“What?” they chorused.


“You idiot!” exclaimed Eric.

“You complete and utter moron.” proclaimed Paul.

“Fool.” said Andy, simply.

Anthony just grinned.

“Well?” asked Paul, “we’re waiting for an explanation. Why did you say there was tension between me and Eric?”

“Well, errr, I just thought we should have some tension somewhere,” Anthony grinned. “All good bands have tension.”

Eric glared, but restrained himself.

In a tone saturated with irony, Andy voiced what was clear to all: “I think we have found our tension, don’t you, Anthony?”

[Zarni]

* thanks! i was particularly pleased with that particular paragraph, and so i'm overjoyed that the first person (apart from my mum ) to have read it has immediately picked up on it. i hope you enjoy the ending just as much...*

* * *

“Hey people, we’re gonna be a little late starting up tonight.”

The man’s announcement was greeted with a chorus of boos, a few bottles and a chair or two from the frustrated crowd of hundreds, all gathered to this area to stand in front of this stage and watch As Yet Unnamed perform.

“Sorry, but the guys have run into a few technical difficulties, but they will be out just as soon as we get the stuff sorted out, you know?”

The man disappeared backstage to avoid the hail of objects from the crowd and wished the copter would hurry up. Sure enough, though, he heard the low hum of its rotors rising above the taunts of the crowd, right on schedule. The collective beast outside quietened, looking up in surprise and awe as the Chinook flew in low over their heads and dropped a rope ladder over the stage.

One by one, clutching their instruments in one hand, the band members climbed down and dropped onto the stage. Finally came Ant, the drummer, but something seemed wrong as he began his descent down the perilously swinging ladder. Suddenly, as the ladder swung out far over the crowd, he lost his already tenuous hold, and gravity took control. With a roar the crowd surged forward, and a sea of hands was thrust skywards to impede the fall of the plummeting drummer. They caught him, and once he was in their grasp, the calm sea became a tidal wave, carrying Ant at a startling speed towards the stage, where his three band mates stood looking on in feigned horror. After successfully riding the wave out, Ant was deposited lightly onto the stage, where he took a minute to recover, then ran to the back to take his place behind his drum kit.

“Hello New York!” Eric shouted into his microphone.

The reply from the crowd, now fuelled up on their own adrenaline already, was deafening.

“What’re we gonna play first?” Eric asked of the beast, but received as an answer only a tangled mish-mash of noise.

“Alright!” was the acceptable response, and the band launched into their recent single, ‘Blindfold.’

“‘Why do we have to learn all this? Why do we have to know? We don’t care about our past, it was all so long ago… So long ago…’” sang Eric.

The crowd jumped.


“Suspicion is mounting in the music world that new death-punk group As Yet Unnamed may already be suffering from internal squabbles. Rumours from sources close to the band say that the drummer, Ant Doe, has been getting into arguments with the other members, especially lead singer Eric Smith. In other news, the-“

Paul angrily switched of the radio. That is to say, he threw it at the opposite wall, which had the same effect.

“Great! So now we’re getting a reputation as an aggressive group?” he huffed.

Eric put his feet up on the desk of the recording studio and took a puff of his cigarette.

“Where did it go, guys?” he asked. “It used to be about the music!”

“Oh, shut up,” said Andy, the only one who appeared to have maintained any semblance of sanity. “Just because everyone thinks we hate Ant, I mean Anthony, doesn’t mean we’ve gone wrong. It just means people are more willing to accept us.”

Realisation dawned slowly across his face, and for the first time he could remember, he suddenly smiled.

“We’ve done it,” he said, excitedly. “We’ve fooled people into thinking we’re a rock group.”

There was a stunned silence as this sank in.

“You’re right,” breathed Paul. “We have done it. We’ve released an album, singles, done a tour, and now everyone thinks we hate each other!”

And, with this in mind, the four angels who comprised As Yet Unnamed threw down their alcohol and cigarettes and celebrated.


“So, how did they think their tour went?”

“They were quite pleased, I believe,” answered Lucifer, idly kicking a can along the pavement. “The reception to their work was warm.”

His friend smiled. “Excellent. Then it is done?”

“Well,” mused Lucifer, his hands in his pockets as he slouched down the street, “consider this; they’ve released songs into the music market, they’ve been popular with everyone they conceivably could have been, they’ve down sufficient touring to promote their music still further, and now they’ve acquired the correct reputation for what they do. Whether or not that represents who they actually are is against the point; as you an I both know, it is not the truth that is important to humans, but what they perceive to be the truth.”

Lucifer’s colleague nodded. “And we both know that not all of them perceive reality the same way,” he added.

“So,” said Lucifer, looking up to meet his companion’s deep, wise stare with his own cold, calculating one, “now that they are a proper group, we can finish our plan?”

His counterpart nodded sagely.

“But first, how about a game of Snakes and Ladders? Winner gets France.”


* * *


Lucifer admired his own creativeness for his part in this venture as he sat behind his desk in Hell, sorting out the paperwork. All these damned souls that needed tending to, so many people to possess, so many evil deeds to be done by his minions. And all to balance out the sublime perfection of Heaven. He sighed.

In the background he heard the music of As Yet Unnamed sounding out loud and clear from hidden speakers across the plains of Hell. He had steered this, and felt a twinge of pride for ‘his’ band. He smiled, and looked towards Heaven.


Sitting behind a metaphorical desk in a metaphorical office of light, the Lord of all Creation metaphorically sat, thinking. Running existence was a tough job, mused God, but a little music always helped one think. Over the sound system of Heaven, rock music blared. But it was not just any old rock music. No, this was ‘death-punk’, music steered by the very hand of God Himself. God nodded His metaphorical head and tapped his metaphorical foot as he worked.

He was fed up with Heaven and Hell being separate, and longed for the day when they would be joined once more. And, as the music broke down boundaries, demon and angel alike came to enjoy the sounds of As Yet Unnamed, and, in the great metaphorical celestial rock concert, they mingled, and the links between the two planes of Heaven and Hell, once thought to be irreparably severed, began to grow strong once more.

But God knew that, even in this age of rejoining, sacrifices would have to be made. Still, He’d just have to do without France...


*final verdict everybody? ( would apprecitae comments from the poets too )*

[K Man]

Har Har...France...I love it.

I like the idea of music brining Heaven and Hell together. As a matter of fact, the idea of music as a Universal Solvent, (That is solving all the world problems) was covered in the greatest duo of movies ever....

Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure
and Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey

It's about a musical group, started by slackers that eventually brings the world, and the very universe into harmony. You took it a step further with Angels and Demons...very well done Zarni, very well done.

As always, for your age, you continually impress me provactive ideas that spark the imagination.

As a side note,

Paul angrily switched of the radio.

I assume you mean 'off', but hey, we cover each other's backs.

[Zarni]

thanks for the back watching, appreciated! i'll change that on the actual version on my computer. i've never seen the bill and ted films, though, so i can't admit to having been influenced by them. the idea was actually something that came up righht at the last minute as i was ending it, 'why don't i do this?'

i'm sure it needs some editing, typos here and there, but i can't think of anything i could add as such. can you?

now that's finished for now, i'm going to work on some extra chapters for 'what you see is what you get.' also have a new idea for a story called 'stomata'....


(p.s. what do you mean 'for my age'? )

[K Man]

i've never seen the bill and ted

Honestly, you're not missing much. They are kind dumb, not many people liked them. Don't waste your time tracking them down.

also have a new idea for a story called 'stomata'....

Anxiously waiting for certain...

(p.s. what do you mean 'for my age'? )

It's just that, on average, the 17 year olds I met lack the ability to relay such depth and intrigue in their writings...

It was a compliment.

[Medesha]

I read this all in one sitting, Zarni. This is one of the best things I've ever read by an amateur writer, and that's saying a lot. Your humorous touches are exquisite. You remind me a great deal of the zany, irreverent humor of Piers Anthony, Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett, but with your own unique slant. The story just glides along without a hitch; no bumps or jarring moments anywhere. It's lovely!

Where are you sending this? I think you should definitely shoot for publication.

A few minor typos I spotted, I think both in the first section:

“Always with the sarcasm,” complained Anthony. “Always quick to criticise, never to complement. No respect for my thoughtfulness. I'm very sensitive, you know!”

I think you mean "never to compliment".


"all of time and space was theirs’ to command "

Should just be "theirs", you don't need an apostrophe.

Brilliantly well done!

[Zarni]

thanks! that's really mind boggling complimentary!
( Thanks for that; spelling mistakes are like little creases in shirts. You can never get all of them out. I've read decent novels with spelling mistakes A good point on the apostrophe; cheers for that! )

did you find the conclusion satisfactory or did it feel a little rushed to you? was the character development adequate? what were your favourite passages? did you (and this is the important question, coz i've being worrying about the clarity of this point) understand the references to satan's 'friend' etc.? using different words to describe him didn't seem too laboured did it? did it make sense?

thanks a lot for boosting my spirits right now!
(i'm reading your second piece in installments; it's quite meaty and kinda dark. i'm enjoying it!)

[Medesha]

I liked all parts of the story. I guess my favourite bits would be the description of Lucifer laughing, the continual snipes and jabs between the angels, Anthony being renamed "Ant" (I don't know why that totally tickled my funnybone), the repeated harping on Deathreap being a "stupid name" and your song lyrics being so exquisitely like real song lyrics and yet almost parodying them too.

The ending did not seem rushed and I did catch on to the references to Lucifer's "friend". It wasn't too labored or confusing.

Great job!

[Zarni]

ta again!

can i ask everyone who reads this story to answer this question?

before you got to the end and all was revealed in the last sentence, did you guess who lucifer's friend actually was?

[Medesha]

Yes. But to be fair, there weren't a lot of people he could have been.