Both the Ludlows and the Trents were very careful about the news their little ones were exposed to, both to keep from scarring their young minds and also because of where they went with even the little bit they did get.
“But why would you hire the Merchant of Death when the Angel of Death exists?” nine-year-old Milton Trent said to nine-year-old George and ten-year-old Andrew Ludlow.
“Different jobs for different folks,” Andrew said.
“See, merchants merch and angels do angelic things,” George said. “Cousin Harry doesn't really do brand names or the whole consumer bit, so, he's not going to kill you by spamming you with the latest e-mail offer until you just have a stroke for being sick of it.”
“Oh,” Milton said. “Professional marketer gone wild versus Green Beret/Special Forces type of vibe.”
“That's not quite it,” Andrew said as he did his best not to shake his head at his younger brother George, “but merchants are into money and can be paid to do stuff. Cousin Harry isn't for hire, and if he can't go to Heaven and make his report with the other angels and feel good about it, he's not doing it.”
“Oh yeah, the angels have to do a report every so often – we heard that Sunday from the book of Job,” Milton said.
“Yeah, because spammers can't go to Heaven!” George said.
“Well, Satan was there making a report, so maybe they can tip in with him,” Milton said.
“Well, yeah,” George said.
“Well, no,” Andrew said, “because that's the other thing: spirit beings do spirit being things while human beings do human being things. The Merchant of Death is just not at Cousin Harry's level, just like Cousin Harry is not at the level of a anointed cherub fallen from grace.”
George and Milton considered this.
“Angels doing report card presentations,” Milton said. “It just makes you think about that whole thing differently.”
“That's also why it is nice to be homeschooled right now,” George said. “My grandparents already know what I'm having trouble with, so I don't have to have an anxiety attack worrying about them finding out.”
“That is sort of one good thing about Covid,” Milton said. “We get to get stuff done, work on the things we need to, and then get back to our real lives out here in our shared Covid bubble.”
“And, there's enough of us in it that we don't really miss anybody,” Andrew said.
“Yeah, because Vertran tells me a lot of kids are home and lonely,” Milton said. “He says his content is a lifeline for a lot of them.”
“Vertran is kinda an Angel of Life, and we appreciate that about him although as our fellow nine-year-old, he really needs to get out here more,” George said.
“Yeah, but, being an angel is a high responsibility thing,” Andrew said, “and remember: report day is coming, and you don't want to be standing there with Satan with nothing good to report except pacing around on Earth killing time and filling space.”
George and Milton considered this.
“It's probably good that most people in Lofton County are human beings, because report day would be a mess for a bunch of people otherwise,” Milton said.
“Yeah – how are you just putting 90-foot-pylons down where 200-foot pylons are needed when my great-grandfather already warned you about it?” George said.
“And then there's the cotton candy and asbestos build at the high school,” Milton said.
“Oh, there's a report day for human beings too,” Andrew said, “but we just gotta die and go back to being spirit beings for a bit first.”
“Yeah, the Bible does say that,” George said, “but doesn't that mean that people are really worried about the wrong thing? Dying is bad. Having a bad eternal report card has gotta be worse.”
“Which is why your Cousin Harry isn't out here doing everything that merchants and their deadly merch spamming are doing,” Milton said.
“Exactly,” Andrew said. “Exactly.”
This conversation was taking place in the living room of Andrew and George's cousin Mrs. Maggie Lee, and was duly reported to Col. H.F. Lee, also known as Cousin Harry, when he came home from his work as a police captain in (semi-) retirement from the Army.
“Well,” he said, “those merchants of spam are kinda bad.”
Mrs. Lee fell out laughing, thereby doing for that conversation what the man nicknamed the Angel of Death also would have done for any conversation of that type with Andrew, George, and Milton: pleasantly but firmly nipped it in the bud.