Crowley's first thought was that the phrase sounded haughtier than his estranged uncle Gabriel, and a good deal less interesting, besides. His second thought came to him unbidden. He knew, suddenly and without a doubt, that if Fell simply wrote the words 'Ineffable Plan' on a piece of parchment and perhaps added a little squiggle for emphasis, it would fetch a most satisfactory price on the auction block.

He shook off the odd premonition with a shrug that managed to appear both careful and careless. He said, "Ineffable."

"Yes," Ezra confirmed.

"Doesn't that mean impossible to explain?"

"Nearly."

"Nearly impossible to explain? Fantastic."

"No," Ezra clarified, almost shyly, "nearly as in that's nearly what it means."

Crowley, sensing the seeds of a long conversation, turned to the nearest mechanical leg—a silver model with three joints and a clawed foot, approx. two foot three in length—and began to adjust its wire ligaments. "I see," he said, "and what is the exact meaning, Fell?"

"I really would prefer you call me by my first name, Mr. Crowley."

"I can't help but notice you're not offering me the same…courtesy."

"Forgive me, er, Anthony. I would prefer it if you called me Ezra."

"I wouldn't," smirked Crowley, "vaguely poufy, isn't it?"

Ezra turned an enchantingly coral pink at the ears. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Crowley?"

"Just Crowley," said Crowley.

He awaited the fury, but Ezra's brain hadn't quite caught up to his mouth, which was hanging slightly open and giving him a singular resemblance to a puzzled wild salmon. Before Ezra had a chance to realize exactly what had happened, Crowley had moved on. "What does it mean, then?"

Ezra started. "What does what mean?"

"Ineffable," said Crowley, very nearly adding 'you dolt.'

"Something is considered ineffable if it is impossible to describe in words."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said 'nearly impossible to explain.' Furthermore, you mentioned nothing about words."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is it impossible to describe in words?"

"Because," Ezra explained, "it is considered sacred."

Crowley found that he was grateful for not having recently ingested any hot beverages. Nevertheless, he was choking.

"Mister, rather, Crowley, is everything alright?"

Ignoring his urge to kick this man and whatever Godly business he had out of his office and straight into the sewer tunnels, Crowley managed to breathe again and to organize his face. "You've been talking to the man upstairs," he said, rather more sullenly than intended.

Ezra bit his lip. "Mr. Ligur? Or perhaps you mean Mr. Hastur? I'm still not really sure—"

"I was using what we in the English-speaking world call an idiom."

"For what purpose?"

"To refer to God, you absolute ass!"

Ezra looked wounded. "Well, I found it rather oblique. And I'm not talking to God. Not directly."

"Right," said Crowley, who was beginning to feel, if possible, even more uneasy with the entire situation.

"Right," echoed Ezra. He crossed his arms and waited for Crowley to speak.

"You still haven't told me exactly what it is you want to do," Crowley sighed.

Ezra opened and closed his mouth several times before any sound decided it was time to come out. "Haven't I? Goodness. Well. The Ineffable Plan is the plan. For the universe, and what is not the universe. It cannot be questioned. This is vital."

Crowley was getting stomach cramps. "And… you want me to…"

Ezra smiled, a simple muscular arrangement that gave him an uncharacteristically distinct look. It was a smile that people would notice. "Just like I said before. I want to register a trademark on the Ineffable Plan. And make it a good one."

"A…good one?" Crowley nearly laughed.

"Yes," said Ezra, "It's one idea I'd prefer not be allowed to float around."

Crowley blinked as Ezra stood up, handed him a calling card, and gracefully took his leave.