“Angels!” says Kayne. “Lemme tell you about angels. Gabriel?” He points two thumbs at himself. The rest keep their grip on the whiskey glass. “Yours truly.”
He takes a stiff drink. “I mean. Have you ever read a description of an angel? No no, not those teeth-rottingly cute little fucking cherubs Hallmark built their brand off of. I’m talking old school. First written—well, written in human languages—description of us. ‘Be not afraid,’ we’d go around telling people when we were trying to have an actual conversation without them running screaming. Hell, I still say it. What’d I say to you? That’s right. I said Don’t run! You’re doing good there, buddy, you need anything? Here, have a beer nut. It’s stale.”
He wipes stale beer nut grease off onto his pant leg. “Okay, so where was I? Angels! Why was I talking about angels? Oh, because you started praying to God to save you! Buddy. Pal. My dearest darling friendly acquaintance. I got bad news for you about God. Like, real bad. Honestly, the best advice I can give you is, don’t pray to God. Trust me. You do not want his attention.” He squints into the napkin-lined basket. “Hmmm. Over-seasoned Chex mix? I hate the oval ones. Ovals have such a weird aftertaste. The geometry is just off.”