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Random Nonsensical Works of Fiction the Third!

I lay awake half the night, trying to figure out what to do with the fallen angel in my bedroom. A fallen isn't like a lost dog or cat, that you can put an ad in the paper for. It's not like a child you could put up for adoption. Really, the only place anyone can put them is the homeless shelter—and I didn't want that to happen to this one. There are two ways a fallen can get out of the shelter: a freak show, or a brothel. Fallen angels make good prostitutes for two reasons. They have an unearthly beauty that is rarely seen on a catwalk, let alone in hooker's attire, and they have an uncanny aptitude for S&M. The lucifer-types out there tend to honestly regard humans as the lowest life forms in every sense of the world—they value a worm's life more than they do a human's. But since they're stripped of their powers as soon as they leave Paradise, they can't smite us with unholy wrath or whatever, and have to resort to bloodplay and the S of S&M, which is legal. The rest of the fallens—the quiet, sad ones, like the one I had just picked up, well...if you've any sort of kinky twisty bends to your mind, you'll know how certain people would love to be on top of a creature who radiates that kind of innocence and purity. The same sort of people who'd tag the Parthenon.
Anyways, the homeless shelter was out of the question.
I got up aching that morning, my entire spine feeling like it wanted to throttle me, and found the angel sitting quietly at the kitchen table.
Might as well play the gracious host to the best of my abilities.
“Cereal, yogurt or toast?” I asked over my shoulder, crossing to the fridge and pulling it open. “Oh, I lie. We have eggs too.”
I turned around, holding the two eggs between my index, middle and ring fingers, and found the angel looking at me blankly.
“You know,” I said, “to eat?”
He still looked blank.
I groaned, dropped my shoulders, and kicked the door shut. “Don't tell me. The fallen don't eat?”
“I'm not a fallen,” he said. It was the first time he had said anything since he had stepped into my apartment, and why I have been referring to the fallen as a 'he' for the past couple of lines. He was a very light tenor, but unmistakeably male. I hadn't been sure before--that's how pretty angels are. Really beautiful people always tend toward androgyny.
Anyways, back to the story.
I raised one eyebrow at him, put the eggs down on the counter, and pulled down a frying pan. “Really? Okay, so, as an angel which just temporarily finds itself stranded on earth and unable to return to Paradise, you don't eat?”
“All the energy I need is provided by the light of the heavenly bodies.” he said, looking slightly miffed.
“'Heavenly bodies',” I repeated. “You mean like the sun?”
“Yes,” said the angel which temporarily found itself stranded on earth and unable to return to Paradise.
“So you're like a giant solar panel?”
He didn't respond to this until I had cracked both eggs and had them sizzling in the pan. “What is a solar panel?”
I could tell already this was going to be fun.

You know how sometimes you get into these moods, and your day goes like you're as manic-depressive as Poe? And from hour to hour you're either in the blackest pits of despair and feel about ready to keel over in the middle of the hallway and die, or you're only kept standing by sheer anger and the next person who so much as looks as you wrong you'll hate until the day you really do keel over in the middle of the hallway and die. Imagine a solid month of those days. Imagine a solid year of those days. Imagine your whole life is filled with these days, and there is no middle ground, and there is nowhere to hide from the world and be alone and calm down and stop screaming at yourself.
That was pretty much my last two years of high school.

I skirted the court of whores, their long, lithe forms splayed upon the stairs in the sort of self-luxuriant poses that artists will fall all over themselves to worship. One of them wore heavy gold bangles that went nearly to her knees. They were likely fake, and I thought the whole effect rather tacky. The Gilded Swan was never known for its subtlety, though. I took off my gloves before I knocked, and folded them inside my reticule. Then, Vincent's familiar cat's-purr of a voice. "Come in,"
I stepped inside. He'd been expecting a client, not me, and I had the pleasure of seeing the brief shock in his eyes as he shook his hair back and stood from the chaise lounge.
"Annis," he said. Vincent had always had such lovely control over himself, and I was glad to see it hadn't dissipated over time. There was nothing in his voice; not shock, not happiness, not the slightest tremor of passion.
"Vincent," I replied in return, sweeping aside my skirts and settling into a plush but worn velvet armchair.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I gave him a dazzling smile, and snapped open my reticule.
"A man tried to kill me this morning."
Vincent was watching my hands, not my face. "And?"
"This was on his person. I thought you might know who it belonged to."
Before I could even pull it out, he had stepped away, his hands raised. "And what makes you think that a lowly whore would have any knowledge of such distasteful matters?"
I gave him a look that he had always referred to as my evil eye. "If you're still the man I know, and your intellect has not been reduced as your age has grown--" he winced at this, Vincent was always sensitive about that subject, "--then you will not have dissolved your network without a sufficient reason. Which, since I have heard of none, has not come about."
"'Since you have heard of none'," he parroted. "Well, obviously you have your own resources. Why come to me?"
"The man who attempted to murder me did not look like the type any of my clients would stoop to associating with. I need your help, Vincent."
I leaned back in my seat, satisfied by the deep sigh that came from his lips.
"Alright. Fine. What is it?"
He came close again, and plucked what I held from my fingers.
Then Vincent, the unshakeable, impassionate, beautiful Vincent, went stark white.