This account will be tweeting the entire Good Omens book one paragraph and/or line a day. So let’s have some fun with this.
And as a certain demon and angel once said, to the world🥂
HARRIET DOWLING returned home with her baby, which, on the advice of Sister Faith Prolix, who was more persuasive than sister Mary, and with the telephonic agreement of her husband, she had named Warlock.
There was nowhere that he was a stranger, and there was no getting away from him. He was doing what he did best, and what he was doing was what he was.
AND THERE WAS ANOTHER. He was in the square in Kumbolaland. And he was in the restaurants. And he was in the fish, and in the air, and in the barrels of weedkillers. He was on the roads, and in the houses, and in the palaces, and in hovels.
For some reason nobody gave much of a thought to Seaman White, who was already halfway to Indonesia on a tramp steamer piled high with rusting metal barrels of a particularly toxic weed killer.
Afterwards, there was a huge amount of argument as to exactly whose fault it was. In the end it was left unresolved: the blame was apportioned equally. Neither the captain, the first mate, nor the second mate ever worked again.
animals, and humans of the region. Of course, there were dozens of fail-safe interlocks and foolproof safety backups but, What the hell, there always were.
However, if a person just happened to press the EMERGENCY CARGO RELEASE switch on the bridge, the automatic systems will take care of releasing huge quantities of black sludge into the sea, millions of tons of crude oil, with devastating effect on the birds, fish, vegetation,
The captain was drunk in his cabin. The first mate was in the head. The second mate was in the galley. That was pretty much it for the crew: the ship was almost completely automated. There wasn’t much a person could do.
Nobody really noticed him. He was unobtrusive; his presence was cumulative. If you thought about it carefully, you could figure it out he had to have been doing something, had to have been somewhere. Maybe he even spoke to you. But he was easy to forget, was Mr. White.
He had been a minor but valued member of a number of scientific research establishments.
(He had helped to design the petrol engine, and plastics, and the ring-pull can.)
He could turn his hand to anything.
Unlike his two colleagues, he would never settle down in any one job for very long.
He had had all manner of interesting jobs in lots of interesting places.
SOMETIMES HE WAS called White, or Blanc, or Albus, or Chalky, or Weiss, or Snowy, or any one of a hundred other names. His skin was pale, his hair a faded blond, his eyes light gray. He was somewhere in his twenties at a casual glance, and a casual glance
Sable grinned, the honest, open grin that goes with job satisfaction, perfect and pure. He was just killing time until the main event, but he was killing it in such exquisite ways. Time, and sometimes people.
But Sable was no longer listening. He was remembering the exclusive little restaurant. It had occurred to him that he had never seen so many rich people so hungry.
“There’s a European outfit we can buy into for the initial toe-hold — Holdings (Holdings) Incorporated. That’ll give us the Liechtenstein tax base. Now, if we channel funds out through the Caymans, into Luxembourg, and from there to Switzerland,