As night fell, Father Timothy Flynn found himself in what could only be described as a “distressed” neighborhood. Fatigue and naiveté ensured he never saw the small man with the large gun until it was too late.
The man’s hands shook but his voice was firm, demanding the priest’s money and valise. Overcome with fear, the cleric resorted to his only defense. He prayed. Time seemed to stop and the outside world was distant as he whispered the words.
Timothy’s eyes shot wide as the whir of wings broke the silence. The man, if man he were, was tall and well-muscled and exuded an air of confidence and supreme power. His powerful black wings were spread wide seeming to make him blend into the night. The smile on his face seemed more predatory than reassuring.
His voice was calm, “Your prayers have been heard.” He turned toward the would-be thief and, without ado; the immense silver sword in his hands dispensed final, terminal justice.
He turned back to the priest who had fallen to his knees, retching. Father Timothy looked up, his face red with sorrow and righteous indignation. “How dare you? He is a God of love and compassion and forgiveness. How DARE you?!”
The angel replied, with a snort, “The name’s Abbadon, padre. My job description’s a bit different than yours is, y’know? Look it up some time. Have a blessed day, now.”
Father Timothy continued looking to the heavens long after the angel was gone from sight.