Biggersons, Needles California

Crowley was in a good mood. The NSA spy satellites had revealed the location of two more survivors in California. Gleefully anticipating making a deal or two, he promptly teleported to their location. Once he got there he surveyed his surroundings with disgust. Another loathsome American chain restaurant.

He watched the pair for a while, eavesdropping on their inane conversation, scrutinizing them carefully, assessing their flaws. After a several hours he felt that he had a good read on both of them. The man appeared to be a bitter self-pitying douchebag, or in other words, the perfect mark. The woman, on the other hand, seemed a bit of a whackadoodle. Crowley decided to hold off on tempting her. He was in no hurry. There was all the time in the world to rebuild hell.

Now for the big reveal. He strolled into the restaurant, noting with distaste the piles of empty cans of pie filling, beer bottles and soiled underwear.

"Hello, boy and girl. I'm Crowley," he said, bracing himself for the inevitable round of hugs. Ye gods, what was it with these bloody yanks and hugging? What ever happened to a firm handshake? he thought, nostalgic for the chilly manners of the British Iles.

Finally the excruciating formalities were concluded. He tuned out their life stories, and turned the conversation to a far more interesting topic: himself. It was a tragic tale of sorrow and loss, culminating in his cruel treatment and exile at the hands of the Tucsonites. As expected, Phil or Tandy or whatever he called himself, responded with a few bitter tales of his own whilst Carol muttered darkly about hussies trying to steal her man. Crowley wasn't quite sure to whom she was referring, but let it pass.

Carol then launched into a tedious spiel about something or other. An excruciatingly boring hour later Crowley had had enough. Giving her an insincere smile, he said, "Carol my darling, why don't you run along and let Phil and myself have a good talk."

Carol's response to that was an outraged squeal. Crowley ignored her outburst, while Phil looked oddly pleased.

"Are you going to let him talk to me like that, Phil?" the harpy squawked.

"Now Care Bear, I think Crowley just wants some 'guy time' with me," the moron replied.

"Fine," she said, stomping off in a huff. Crowley allowed himself a tiny smirk. Time to get to work, he thought.

He first turned the conversation to Phil's long list of grievances. The idiot was even pettier than Zachariah, Crowley thought. Cutting Phil's rant about being forced to clean his feces out of the swimming pool short, Crowley then turned to the subject of revenge.

Phil responded as Crowley had hoped. He was eager to avenge his banishment from Tucson, although after spending time with this cretin, Crowley's sympathies were with the Tucsonites. It also seemed that Phil thought that he'd had a real chance with the lovely Melissa until "Friggin Todd" showed up. Again, Crowley thought the others had had a point. However, it was time to get down to business.

"Are you interested in a deal, pet," Crowley said smoothly. "I can help you get your heart's desire, and all it will cost you is your soul."

Phil stared at Crowley in amazement. "Are you Lucifer?" Phil said, trembling slightly.

Lucifer! This fool thinks I'm Lucifer! "No, I'm not bloody Lucifer, I'm Crowley, King of Hell," he said proudly, adding a little red eye flash for effect.

Phil was suitably cowed. Crowley, not wishing to scare him off, turned on the charm. It didn't take long before Phil agreed to trade his immortal soul in exchange for revenge against that fat fool Todd and the promise of Melissa's love. Crowley quickly produced the contract and a pen. Phil signed on the dotted line. Crowley barely had time to gloat before Carol returned.

"Wait a minute, Mister, just what the heckinski do you think you're doing?" the harridan screeched.

Crowley winced. Really, he was doing the man a favor by separating him from this obnoxious scold. The tortures of hell would probably come as a relief.

"Sorry love, you're too late. Your inamorata bartered his soul to me. He said something about Melissa," Crowley said, a malicious glint in his eye.

"Phil, is this true? Did you sell your soul to get Melissa?" Carol said.

"Uh honey buns; it's not what it looks like. I did it for us. Honestly I did, Snookums" Phil said.

Carol folded her arms, and glared at him. Phil seemed to shrink in on himself.

Crowley shook his head. He'd really hoped for a better class of victim, someone he could mold into a fine demon, not this loser. Ah well, needs must and all that.

Carol turned to Crowley and said, "You better cancel that deal, Mister, or you'll be sorry."

Crowley indulged in a sardonic laugh. "Too late darling, he signed a contract," he said, waiving it at her.

Carol grabbed the paper out of his hand and carefully scrutinized it. She handed it back to Crowley, gave him a smug smile and said, "It's not a legal contract."

"What do you mean it's not a legal contract?" Crowley said.

"It isn't notarized," Carol said.

"I don't care," Crowley said. "In all the years I've been in hell, I've never had a notarized contract, and they've all been valid. Your boyfriend is going to hell."

"Okay then, if you won't release Phil from his contract, then I'll just have to join him in hell. I'll commit every sin I can think of to get there. It'll be just me and Phil and you together, forever," Carol said in her 'nails on chalkboard' voice.

Crowley winced again. This wouldn't do. The very idea of sharing hell for eternity with this dimwitted choad and this irritating nag was unbearable. Even the prospect of torturing them didn't appeal.

"Bloody hell. You can have your soul back, you putrescent meat sack. I hope you and your harpy live a long, miserable life together," Crowley snapped as he ripped up Phil's (nonnotarized) contract.

He stormed out of the restaurant more disgruntled than ever. Bloody hell, could nothing go right for him? he thought. Whatever happened to finding a suitable mark, exploiting his or her weaknesses, and sealing the deal with a kiss? Nothing in this new world made sense. He decided to return to Tucson. Perhaps Bill and Stan, or whatever their names were, had returned and were ripe for the plucking.