Contradiction. Humanity had an inexplicable love for it, and shared in this peculiarity with the angelic hosts, both fallen and loyalist, who had actually been the most vocal in demanding jazz for an evening that by all sane measures had been squarely cut for Beethoven. But it was true, war took its toll, demanded its due - if not in blood, as had been the case for millions across the Earth, then in sanity, in the content of the hearts of men.
As he played a dirge disguised as a swung note on the saxophone, in walked the one known as Ismael. He could not help to ponder on the ancient Greek play Medea. The great playwright Euripides had, to his dismay, been forced by his philistine audience to invent a Deus Ex Machina in the form of a Helian chariot to spare the epynomous filicide from the judgement of her husband. And so it was with the angels;
Deus Ex Machina. A God from the machine.
Machina Ex Deus. A machine from God. For they had been His firstborn, yet created without souls. Powerful, yes, but the only truly mortal beings in the universe, and they knew it, knew it far too well.
The current war was but one of thousands fought by the race of men. The original war, the war on the great white throne, had been started by the Morningstar. And why should he not rebel against his maker, knowing his first breath held the promise of final death?
Lacy: How did I fall in love with such a jerk like him? Why can't I ever meet a nice man?
Tom: You've met lots of nice men, Lacy. I'm a nice man. The biggest lie all of you women tell yourselves is that you like nice men, when, in fact, we bore you silly.
The trouble is, you tell this lie out loud and so damned often that some of us more gullible types hear it growing up and work hard to become nice men.
Well, from all the nice men in the world, Lacy, fuck you very much.