Author's Note: This was written hastily, and is incomplete. More coming! Er, pretend you didn't already guess that.
Crowley paced anxiously around his flat.
He hadn't threatened the plants in ages.
His hair stuck up at curious angles. He'd stopped bothering to put on clothes, and stood in only his boxers.
There were dark, purple shadows beneath his yellow eyes. The sunglasses that had covered them lay cracked by the window.
They'd come soon.
The telephone rang. He gulped.
"Hello?" he said after picking it up. "Yeah. No . . . That's not necessary, is it? Really, boys, do you--"
Click.
Hell finally gets around to using technology, and the first thing they do is call to tell him they'll be by soon. No good could possibly come of this. Good for Crowley, anyway.
"Hello Crawly."
Crowley jumped. A dark suit materialized over his now-very-pale body. He gulped. "Hastur. Ligur. Good to see you again."
"Not for you, it isn't," said Hastur.
Crowley laughed nervously. "Still . . .haven't forgiven me, have you? Um."
"No," said the Duke of Hell coldly.
Ligur advanced.
"Come on, guys! We're all friends here, right?" Crowley edged away.
"Of course we aren't, Crawly," said Ligur. "You must be punished!" There was an evil gleam in his eyes.
"Aha . . . It was all just a misunderstanding, really!"
"Wasn't," Hastur corrected him.
"Shut up, both of you. I'm trying to decide which part of him to hurt first."
Crowley swallowed. Hard. His heart (or whatever served as his heart) had risen into his throat.
"Maybe," Hastur said, after a moment of what looked like very painful thought, "we should take him to his home. Do it properly."
Crowley's eyes were shut tight. Can't be happening, he thought. No, I will wake up. Yeah.
He opened his eyes.
"Shit," he muttered.
Hastur and Ligur seized him. Within seconds, they were staring at the lovely decor of Hell.
"Come on, please," Crowley pleaded. "I'll do anything!"
Hastur chuckled to himself. "No you won't."
"Would," said Crowley defiantly.
He was thrown bodily to the floor.
Droplets of sweat ran into his eyes. His clothes and human body vanished. His obsidian wings unfurled, but none too majestically, as they would have under different circumstances. He took his true form.
Now he was slightly humanoid. The eyes had not changed, anyway, and he still had two arms and legs. His body was scaly and greenish-yellow. He still had his dark hair, but now it was long and wild-looking.
He sighed. "All right. Go ahead."
There was no arguing with the forces of Hell.
They attacked.
Claws tore at his skin. Teeth sank deep and hard into his neck. He writhed, yelling out in his pain. "STOP!" he cried, "IT HURTS, PLEASE STOP!"
It didn't. Not that he had expected it to.
His own blood ran into his eyes, blinding him.
Finally, they stopped. There was silence.
He lay back, panting, unable to do any more.
Someone's foot kicked him roughly onto his stomach. "No," he said, knowing what was next. "Please . . ."
Strong hands seized his wings. They were ripped from his back, and the agony that filled him at that moment carried across the universe. A terrible scream pierced the silence. It spoke of pain and loss and horror.
His blood pooled around him in a gruesome puddle. He was still.