Work to be Done

You were mid-pour when it hit you.
I mean, for chrissakes, strong arm didn't prepare you for shit like this.
That head warlock with his sword stuck in that religious nut.
The boss sprouting wings for some fucked-up reason;
that's gonna make business a hell of a lot harder
and then there's the kid. Everybody's gonna be looking for him
and you owe him a shitload of money
but it'll all be fine
if it wasn't for the kid.
The warlock has no eyes.

Bit of a pity that she burned up.
She was pretty in her own way.
Completely wrong, of course.
There's no salvation after death for the likes of us.
There's just this.
We were made in the image of our Maker.
You've never showed any mercy before.
Why should he?

You're glad that she couldn't see.
Might get some ideas in her head.
Something you can't give her.
She'll settle for dogs and the occasional friend.
But that's a vice you can't indulge.
That primal, reproductive urge -
but you feel it too, don't you?
Everything that lives strives to make more of itself.
Even in unlife.
Procreate.

Your Maker won't allow it.
She's not right.
She's too right.
She's too used to you.
It wouldn't be a curse.
And anyway, Paul wouldn't approve.
She doesn't deserve -
she hasn't earned -
she's not right.

You come out of it.
You've poured elder's heartblood all over the counter.
Better go fetch a rag.
There's work to be done.