Prose from the journal of The Guardian Fog.
After the Flood
In keeping with the terms of our agreement, I arranged for there to be a little accident. I slid out of your recommendations, into the purgatory of the after, a quaking reminiscence of previous pain and punishment, until the gods no longer allowed my name to be written in the same blood as your esteemed moniker. The angels all said it was never to be, and the angels were right, but so were the demons. So I wandered the world seeking a place where a Nephilim might escape the oppressive word of Enoch, that Glorified Finger Puppet. In terms of sheer volume, my voice is louder than The Metatron. In keeping with the terms, I remain.
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