The Banjo Players Must Die | Page 9

the fact that Brian's first name began with the same letter as Benny was expected to butter the bouncer up considerably[From the strategy brief: "We the Celestial Committee for Drafting a Strategy to Get Backstage Passes Such that Gabriel May Blow His Horn" have assessed alliteration as almost always adding assurances of amorous argument amongst all. Because Brian begins with B like Benny, the best bet becomes betasking Brian.].
The task team - all fourteen of them - had also shed their wings for this task, since mankind seemed to think it made them look like sissies. In a world gone to seed, haloes were not desirable accessories either and the angels were made to hand these over for safe-keeping[Haloes are obviously not mundane items to be left around while one gets sent on a mission to Earth to obtain backstage passes to concerts; the Chinese factory where they were manufactured had diversified out into toilet plungers and sweet cakes, neither of which - after due testing - constituted suitable alternatives to regular angelic haloes.] before setting out.
Task Force Benny was dropped in a small fishing boat just off the shore of Napoli, Italy. In the cargo-hold. Deprived of haloes and wings, their resemblance to angels was palpably diminished. But just for good measure, their form was entirely transmuted into a something which the Celestial Committee for Drafting a Strategy to Get Backstage Passes Such that Gabriel May Blow His Horn thought likely to help them blend in on earth.
"Er. Brian? "
"Yes? "
"You look kind of funny, Brian," said Fritz. Fritz had been Created rather recently, after they had run out of officious-sounding pseudo-Latin names for the angels.
"Is that so? Well, you know, you look a little funny yourself Fritz," replied Brian.
"So I might, but I'm certain I don't look like a goat. I mean, that's what you look like; a goat, Brian."
"I see. Well, you look like a goat too, you know. You actually sound rather like one too."
Brian looked around himself; the cargo-hold was dim, but the outlines of the other twelve angels were also those of goats. Pretty goats, to be sure, but still goats.
"Well, so I do. We all do, actually. See? " Fritz glanced around and nodded. "Rather pretty goats too, I might add," added Brian.
"Well, yes, we're pretty goats to be sure, praise Him, but we're still goats."
"Fritz, either get to the point or cease this idle bleating of yours."
Fritz itched his flank with a horn. "Well. Let's review the mission objectives then, shall we? We have been sent to Earth to approach Benny the Bouncer, conquer him - preferably with love and understanding - and proceed to make the acquaintance of a bunch of musicians going by the collective name of the Interstellar Hamburger Purveyors of Doom. This will yield us a backstage pass for their upcoming concert, which Gabriel needs to blow his horn to end the world."
"No, that's not entirely accurate."
"No? "
"No."
"Well fine then Brian; what did I miss? "
"Nothing really; you didn't miss anything as such. Only they're called The Intergalactic Hamburger Purveyors of Doom. Not Interstellar, Intergalactic. See? "
"Ah. Forgive me."
"That's quite alright, Fritz. Now are you done? I think we had best get on with it," bleated Brian.
"Yes, let's. Let's get on with it, us, fourteen goats. Fourteen goats who must obtain backstage passes to a rock concert."
"The meek shall inherit the Earth, Fritz."
"Yes, but the meek aren't goats I'm sure. Not even pretty goats. Why goats, for Kevin's sake? "
"Well, I don't really know. But come now, it could have been worse. Now enough idle bleating Fritz, please. We have a backstage pass to obtain. Now, according to plan, this boat should be docking in Napoli in..." there was a thud. "Well, there we go. See? No bitches. Er, hitches. We're in Napoli already! "
"Well fine then," bleated Fritz. "Where's the concert then? "
"Malawi."
"Spiffy. And Malawi is where? "
"In Africa."
"Good, good. Now, Napoli is where? "
"Napoli is in southern Europe, Fritz. Your point is? "
Fritz nearly choked on the old newspaper he was munching on. "Southern Europe? Gabriel needs a backstage pass for a rock concert in Africa, so fourteen angels are transformed into goats -"
"Pretty goats." interbleated Brian.
"- fourteen angels are transformed into pretty goats and dumped in the cargo-hold of a rickety piece of crap which is docking in Napoli? Aren't they making it a little too easy for us? I mean, what, they let us do without the wings so we wouldn't look like sissies. And made us GOATS? I tell you, goats with WINGS would have a better chance of a backstage pass for the Intergalactic Sausages of -"
"Hamburger Purveyors."
" - Hamburger RAPISTS of SODOM and GOMORRAH than fourteen goats without wings! "
There was a stunned silence in the cargo-hold of a certain rickety