St. Peter stood in the doorway of his new office. It was a shithole. Located in the old shipping office of a failed import/export company along the battery of the Savannah River, it had one wall of nothing but old, hazy windows that looked out over an alley that managed to be dark even in broad daylight. The floors were covered in dusty wood that creaked if you even thought of walking on it. Everything in it was left over from the 1950s, when the company had failed. The hat rack in the corner was made of green marbled metal and easily weighed fifty pounds. On one of its rungs hung a rumpled fedora that St. Peter had finally gotten to land by tossing it from the door. He sighed and then sat down at the old cherry wood desk. It was scratched to Hell, had water rings all over, and all its corners were rounded and splintering. The wood slat office chair squeaked as he leaned back in it and put his hands behind his head. He blew a puff of smoke around the large cigar he was smoking, then leaned forward and pulled a bottle of cheap scotch and a highball glass out of one of the drawers. They were the only things in the desk. He poured himself two fingers of scotch, threw it back, and then poured a full glass before putting the bottle away.
He was halfway through the glass of scotch when he heard a knock on the door. He jerked upright and tried to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his shirt. He had been expecting his first assignment, but he was disappointed and not a little pissed off when he saw not God or Satan but a scarred black man wearing a black leather trench coat and an olive skinned man with a hook nose and a long baby blue robe that covered all but the toes of his sandals.
“Mestoph and Leviticus, what a pleasant surprise,” said St. Peter, the sarcasm dripping off his words.
He motioned them to sit down in the two simple wooden chairs that sat opposite his desk. They obligingly took a seat and eyeballed the glass of scotch that sat on an otherwise barren desk.
“Don’t have any more glasses, but help yourself,” said St. Peter as he pulled the bottle back out of the drawer and slammed it down on the desk. Leviticus took the bottle, uncapped it, and took a generous swig. Mestoph took a smaller sip, made a brief grimace at the cheap and rough alcohol, and then lightly set the bottle back down on the table without taking any more.
“So, you’re a private detective now?” asked Leviticus.
“That’s what the sign says,” said St. Peter, pointing to the hazy windows behind him. Painted backwards on the window in big, bold letters was a sign that said “Simon Peter – Private Detective.” Smaller lettering below it said “Rock Solid Investigations.”
“A private dick,” said Mestoph.
“God’s dick,” said Leviticus, and they both burst into laughter.
St. Peter sighed. He glanced off to one side and composed himself before he looked back at them. The urge to pull out the gun mounted to the underside of the desk and shoot both of these assholes in the head was almost too much for him.
“I take it this isn’t a social call, so what do you two chucklenuts want?”
“Well, Mestoph and I, we’ve been talking and… Well, we think we might have a plan where the three of us could get everything we’ve ever wanted,” said Leviticus.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Have you ever heard of the Sons of Light and Dark?” asked Mestoph.
St. Peter thought for a moment and shook his head. “No, what about them?”
“Well, there’s a Prophecy,” said Leviticus.
“There’s always a fucking Prophecy,” sighed St. Peter.