The neon sign’s pale red light distracted Oz. After so many years of enduring the flickering glow, he thought it wouldn’t affect him anymore. But, alas, he was wrong.

Oz reclined back in his chair, enjoying the comfort of lumbar support and the feel of cool leather. He raised the empty revolver to eye-level and continued to clean the chambers of accumulated grit.

Life was rather dull, but Oz was okay with that. He liked this newest persona: being a private eye felt more rewarding than being an assassin, his previous job.

There was a rumbling in the Heavens, one Oz not only heard thru the crack in the windowpane but felt in his gut. When the phone rang, he knew instinctively who it would be and how he should answer it:

He lifted the receiver. “Azrael,” he said.

“Sit rep required,” the voice of Metatron commanded. “Target is Chicago.”

“Force?” Oz asked.

“As required. Collateral damage approved.”

Oz put his revolver down and, from inside a desk drawer, drew forth his sword. It abruptly burst into flame.