Hell. Publishing office of the Infernal Times. Beelzebub, engaging in Management By Walking Around, approaches the glassed-in cubicle of the Editor in Chief. The pressroom falls silent. Beelzebub gazes around the room.
Carry on.
Demons leap to pretend to continue working, typing madly away with heads down at terminals, shuffling piles of papers, bustling off to shelves and cabinets. A few Disposable Demons creep closer to the Editor's cubicle, languidly sweeping and emptying wastebaskets. One of the DeeDees has earbuds and seems to be distractedly listening to tunes as she polishes the floor on her hands and knees. She slowly moves to pick up some paper shreddings accidentally dropped near the editor's door by a passing Eric with an overstuffed trash bag. Carefully picks up the tiny pieces of confetti one by one, carefully placing them in the ragged burlap pouch she's dragging along.
The Editor bows low as Beelzebub enters, but does not speak first.
About today's headline story.
Lord Beelzebub! Thrilling, isn't it? Who would have thought Demon Crowley capable of such an exploit, eh? Do you think Heaven will pay the ransom?
You have not forgotten the "Holy Water" incident?
No, Lord. That is why I sent you a proof before publishing anything about Demon Crowley. We have held the presses.
The editor bows low again.
Remove Demon Crowley's name from the article. I will not have a traitor and fugitive given publicity. I await your corrected proof.
A shimmering heat haze fills the room. Beelzebub turns, leaves. The Editor does not consider freedom of the press for so much as a nanosecond. Pokes intercom buttons.
Thompson. Malacoda. Get in here. We need to make some changes.
Two demons rise from their desks and slouch into the editor's cubicle.
Thompson, take that fag out of your mouth.
Thompson removes his cigarette holder from his mouth, but does not extinguish the cigarette. The editor glares at him. The demon shrugs, takes one final drag, removes the cigarette from its holder, opens the glass door, tosses the half-burned butt to the floor. Doesn't notice the disposable demon carefully poking a finger to keep the door from closing completely. She slowly and meticulously begins to gather up the scattered ash and shreds, piece by tiny piece.
Remove Crowley's name. Change that "Their system was a fucking sieve" quote from him to the usual anonymous source blahblahblah. So get busy and rub all the fingerprints off this one. Unless you want another trip to the sulfur spa.
The editor jerks his head toward the door. The two demons exit the cubicle. Malacoda kicks the disposable demon as they pass. The pair saunter over to the canteen, where they each pour themselves a cup of tea from the carafe. The mugs are cracked and chipped, the tea is dark as boiled shoe leather and tastes about the same.
Satan's Sins. We never learn, do we.
Well, one of us doesn't. Told ya we shouldn't have featured Crowley.
You were the one who interviewed that slippery motherfucker, for Hell's sake.
And I'll do it again, if I get the chance. He's gold. Besides, everyone knows it's him, anyways.
I suppose so. We didn't even need to publish anything on that escape over the red cliffs. It was all over like wildfire.
Disposable demons and their fucking little phones.
You've actually used one?
Thompson mutters between sips:
Oh no. They guard them like death. Say they only share with Beelzebub. I discorporated one awhile back. Tried to see what was on its phone. Had some sort of password. I couldn't get past the first screen. Beelzebub found out. Called me in. Demanded I hand it over. Gave me one of her incentive awards.
Ow. So that's what happened that afternoon you went missing.
Yep. Had to make a prolonged recovery at a pub earthside. Took me awhile to crawl back to the office.
You use a mobile phone when you're on Earth, right?
Yep. What they call a "burner." Crowley always has some available.
Thompson looks off in the direction of Beelzebub's office. Malacoda turns and follows his gaze. Raises his eyebrows.
Yeah. She let him escape.
You haven't shared that little insight with anyone else, have you?
Satan's sins. Fuck no. Not keen on keeping Hastur company.
The two demons bump fists.
Thompson taps out a cigarette, refills his holder, leaves a trail of smoke as the two return to their desks.