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(one) prophet the lord didn't choose to deliver his people out of egypt

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"So you're saying that I am going to be the savior of the entire human race," Gabe said. "Fucking rad, man. Man-bush. Bushman."

The Bush puked out a few sparks. "Just the Jewish people. But it is still a respectable position, I assure you."

"Hey, man, no problem. I got this." Gabe pulled down his shades. "So here's the plan, I march up to the palace and say, Yo, listen up Pharaoh you slave-driving inbred cocksucker, you had better let my fucking people go right the fuck now or my Bush god will rain fucking fire on your ass with the rage of a thousand motherfucking cats in heat and also give you fucking lice. How's that sound?"

The Bush hesitated.


"And then he said that I'd have to meet someone who would speak for me, like a man of words or something, the fuck?"

"Ooh, him him him!" someone said excitedly. "He's a man of words!"

Gabe narrowed his eyes at the very tiny guy trying his best to bounce while sitting on the ground, who was pointing emphatically at an equally tiny, spindly-limbed kid. "Who are you, little man?"

The boy drew himself up, utterly failing to stop being tiny, and beamed even harder. "I'm Brendon Urie. He's Ryan Ross."

If Ryan Ross was carefully containing his excitement at being introduced to Gabe, he was doing it perfectly, because his expression remained thoroughly unimpressed.

Gabe leaned closer to Ryland. "Does he always come with the paint on his face?"

"As far as I know," Ryland said.

They looked again. Somehow, even through the swooping birds and the romantic skyline decorating his cheek, it was possible to tell that Ross was silently judging them.

"I'll take it!" Gabe declared.

Urie beamed, but Ryland rolled his eyes. "You can't just choose him, asshole. Isn't there supposed to be a sign?"

"Fuck, right." Gabe tossed his staff on the ground, where it immediately turned into a huge fang-baring cobra that hissed and wrapped itself around Ross's legs.

"Pernicious vertebrate!" Ross yelped with panic, flailing his arms and desperately trying not to die.

Gabe smirked, beckoning the cobra till it purred at his feet and reverted back into a staff. "The cobra has spoken. You'll do just fine."


God wasn't very gentle when he broke it to Gabe. "Listen, this isn't going to work out."

"Was it the tambourines?" Gabe asked sadly, because even Smith hated them and Smith liked to hit anything if it was to a rhythm, but Ross had insisted they were necessary to bring the point of his message across.

"Not quite," God said, and then explained that the sonnet about the shy date falling in love with a sandstorm in the wispy tendrils of harmonic metal breezes was very nice and all, but ultimately didn't help deliver the Jews out of Egypt if neither Pharaoh nor the people had any idea what the fuck Ross was talking about.

Later, Gabe turned accusing eyes to Walker and said, "You let him write when he was high again, didn't you, you fucker." Walker had the grace to shift his gaze guiltily, but Ross just looked affronted and crossed his arms and said, "If they can't handle a metaphor they don't deserve to be delivered."

And so Gabe was fired. But at least he got to keep the cobra staff.