Chapter 17, Hell is Other Demons
Sometimes, people actually have to go to work. Those "people" are occasionally demons named Crowley, who was required to pop down to Hell in person once every couple of decades in order to deal with various, tedious duties like paperwork and supporting his lies to Accounting with carefully crafted expense records. Crowley hated these mandatory visits. Not because he didn't like Hell (though really, who did?)—it was pleasantly warm, a plus for someone who sometimes spent time as a cold-blooded creature. Not even because he continuously attempted to scam Accounting for all he was worth (though really, who didn't?)—they presented a hassle, but he wasn't very worried about them catching on, because he had computers to do his accounts, and computers didn't hold up in Hell very well.* No, what made Crowley truly loathe these visits was his coworkers.
He was standing by the water-cooler** desperately trying to ignore the inane chatter going on around him.
"So you're in your office, when knock-knock, who's there? It's Triskele looking for a little inter-office romance, know what I'm saying?"
Crowley rolled his eyes and began to wish again that Hell wasn't a no-smoking area.
"But wait, knock-knock, who's there? It's Chantinelle just returned from Earth and looking to reconnect. What do you do? Go."
It was always like this. Eventually, he wouldn't be able to stand it anymore and would wander back to his office and pretend to do centuries old paperwork and accounts using his abacus,*** but for now, he had to at least pretend to care. Otherwise, no one would answer his letters and he'd be on Earth and out of the loop (something more than a little dangerous for a demon as…negligibly demonic as Crowley). The "conversation" between his demonic coworkers continued gratingly on.
Eventually, one of them decided he wasn't contributing enough, and posed the stunningly well crafted scenario, "So, you're in your office, on Earth, right, when, knock-knock, who's there? It's Michael and his sword is flaming, if you know what I mean. But wait, back door, knock-knock, who's there? It's Raphael…wait…in a wheelchair. What do you do? Go."
It was angels every blessed time, Crowley thought, absolutely furious. And always male-shaped ones.
He really hated these mandatory visits.
*Because of the aforementioned heat, and the well-known feud between computers and heat in general.
**That is what you do in an office. It should perhaps be mentioned that this was not, strictly speaking a water cooler, but rather a "blood of the innocent warmer." Nevertheless, you get the general idea.
***As we earlier discussed, computers, and technology in general, have not made big in Hell.
Crowley was in his office in Hell, staring at the corner office on the top floor of the atrociously gothic office building across the road through a pair of binoculars. He was engaged in this particular activity because he was taking part in a long standing feud with Murmur* and was awaiting the satisfying visual evidence of his latest prank…er, demonic retribution on the other demon.
Murmur's shriek of rage and disgust could be heard even in Crowley's office. He smiled like a snake** and most certainly did not giggle.
Later, after "finishing" some of the paper work he had to do before he could leave, Crowley decided he deserved a treat and ordered one of the high-functioning office imps to pick him up a coffee from the Starbucks*** downstairs. He was halfway through it when a carrier-imp**** flew through his window and dropped a hastily done woodcut on his head. Once Crowley had recovered from his mild concussion and was able to take a look at it, his shriek of rage and disgust echoed through the building and across the gap between him and his nemesis. He flung the coffee onto the floor and wiped at his tongue frantically, as if that would reverse the fact of what he had actually ingested. He needed a plan to truly pay Murmur back for this. It needed to be devious. He sat down, narrowed his eyes, and turned on all his wiles.
Crowley entered his office later carrying a large cardboard box, and a smaller, much more secure looking box from which a low buzzing sound could be heard. He smirked to himself—his plan was perfect. He had managed to obtain a box full of the worst kind of imps, which, when released, would fly around Murmur's office being generally annoying and take a literal eternity to remove. He had come up with a careful and well-thought out plan for getting the imps from the very suspicious box into the harmless looking cardboard box, which he would then have delivered to Murmur's office, where it would be opened, releasing the plague of pests on the unsuspecting demon. Crowley was nearly vibrating with delight at his own cleverness.
His plan to get the imps into the cardboard box was a success. His plan to get the cardboard box to Murmur's office before the imps chewed their way out and spread all over Crowley's office was not.
He really, truly loathed these mandatory visits.
*The Demon of Music. It was actually because of him that the Bentley would play nothing but Queen. Unfortunately for Murmur, Crowley was adaptable and honestly, who can resist the dulcet tones of Freddy Mercury in the long run?
**Not that he could really smile any other way.
***Some might think, "Oh, so they've expanded even to Hell, then? What a terribly old joke." But no. Hell is, in fact, where they set up their first shop.
****Perhaps now is when the entities known as "imps" should be explained. Imps are physical manifestations of all of the bad feelings in the world. Some are higher functioning and can be used for menial labor. Some can fly, and are smart enough to be trained and have been turned into Hell's equivalent of carrier-pigeons, which is also Hell's equivalent of email. Some are small and annoying and fly around annoying the damned and the demons alike, and these are Hell's equivalent of children.
