Hell. Demon Thompson enters the Earth Transport Center. Presents his passport at the security station. Follows the corridor to the Europe departure gates, checking the board to see that the England gate is still the same as it has been since the 18th century. Exits the corridor into a room with a ceiling resembling a section of enormous glass globe as seen from below the surface. Floats up and flicks his fingers out close to Falmouth, expanding the globe to a local map. Considers the map for a moment, decides that he'll be least likely to be spotted if he arises through the wooded area of the Pendennis Castle grounds. Taps the spot with his index finger, and seconds later is rising from the leafy mold. Removes his hat and dusts it off, brushes debris from his shoulders. Gets out his phone, decides that if that flash bastard Crowley is actually in Falmouth, he'll most likely be at one of the swank hotels. Takes off walking along Castle Drive and then Cliff Road. Knows better than to inquire at hotel desks, instead slips into the parking garages in search of a vintage Bentley. Gets lucky on his second try.

Disposable Demon Jin recognizes Thompson's distinctive appearance as he attempts to slip unseen from the parking garage to a place where he can surveille the hotel grounds and street. Gets out her phone and taps in a call.

Too late. Thompson spots Eric and Hekla standing on the walkway overlooking the shoreline vista. The stormy weather has passed, it's a bright and sunny spring day. He gets his phone out and taps to start the video camera. Again he gets lucky – Eric and Hekla turn to regard one another, then Eric gives Hekla a kiss. Thompson zooms. Money shot! Quickly he emails the video to Malacoda. Trots across the roadway to confront the couple.

Well, well, well. What have we here? Lovers enjoying their honeymoon?

Thompson!

Who is this, Eric?

Demon Thompson. Reporter for the Infernal Times.

Thompson holds up his phone.

Smile now, for the camera.

And then his luck runs out. He's made the mistake of equating Hekla to a disposable demon, forgetting how even a low-ranking angel is a formidable entity. Hekla takes one stride forward, drawing her flaming blue machete as she moves. Cleaves Thompson from collarbone to pelvis with one chop. He discorporates into a cloud of soot before she can land a second blow.

Jin comes running up.

Eric! I called Demon Crowley! He says we are to leave immediately. Manny's bring the car around. We're to drop you two off at Tadfield Manor, then follow Crowley and Aziraphale to London.


Inside the demons' Ford Fiesta. Eric's driving, careening along at speed as he tries to keep up with the Bentley ahead. Manny, Jin, and London DeeDee are in the back seat. Jin, in the middle, is looking unhappy.

Eric, do we have to go so fast? I'm feeling sick with all the tossing around we're getting back here.

She leans forward and retches. Manny growls,

Well at least demons don't puke.

DeeDee nods in agreement.

Yes. Not like those drunk humans.

Fucking animals! I'm always torn between using power to clean up their mess or to smite them.

Shut up, you two. You're not helping any.

I could punch you in the stomach, Jin. That would really give you something to moan about.

Just try it, Manny.

She flicks her hand to give his crotch a brief zap.

OW! Shit! You didn't have to do that! I was just kidding!

Shut up.

They sit in scowling silence until finally arriving at Tadfield Manor. Eric and Hekla depart, Jin takes over as driver, DeeDee claiming shotgun. Manny reclines on the back seat and lights a joint with his fingertip.

Anyone else want a drag?

Nah. 'S all yours, Manny.

Catching up with Crowley now being impossible, Jin drives leisurely along. She likes the countryside. Relaxing. Most of her Earth assignments have been as an Asian peasant farmer. She feels right at home on the small lanes and agricultural land, and is in no hurry to get to the M40. DeeDee comments:

Do you think Crowley and his angel will go out for Sunday dinner?

Hope so. I enjoy that particular Earth food.

'S bout the only thing I've ever seen Crowley really tuck into.

He does pretty well with a full fry up.

Manny has finished his joint.

I don't suppose we have any crisps or anything in the car?

As a matter of fact, Manny . . .

DeeDee opens the glove compartment an extracts a small bag of cheese puffs. Tosses it back to Manny. A moment later, crunching noises from the back seat.

Crowley and Aziraphale do indeed decide to go to the club for Sunday dinner. Their favorite corner banquette is miraculously available, as well as one a bit further away for their three bodyguards. Crowley has ordered the disposable demons to not draw attention by drinking alcohol, given their borderline underage appearance. Manny looks longingly for a moment as a waiter swoops by to deliver yet another glass of porter to Crowley, then shrugs his shoulders and takes a large forkful of Yorkshire pudding.


Hell. The front desk at the Reincorporation Ward. Thompson blinks into existence. He is translucent, tinted overall a light orangey red. The iguana-headed ward demon leans forward over his ledger.

What happened this time, Thompson?

Angel attack.

No shit? Second one this year already. What's going on up there?

You can read all about it in the next edition of the Times.

Yeah, well, fuck you, Thompson. Let's get her nibs on the line.

The demon receptionist picks up the bakelite receiver from the forked cradle of the 1930s rotary phone on his desk, dials an extension. Waves to a disposable demon.

Tell those two slackers in the canteen to pull up their fucking taproots and come back to their post.

The disposable demon scuttles away, yells, "Front Desk!" through the canteen doorway as she runs past it to avoid getting discorporated by the two cranky security guards inside.

The guards saunter out and stand alongside Thompson. The ward demon hangs up the phone.

Lucky you. She's just one floor down, with Dagon. You'll not wait long for your trip to the sulfur spa.

He jerks his head at the two guards.

Take him to an interview room.

Beelzebub arrives on wings, her Praetorian Guard flying behind her over the bodies lying flattened in the corridor by the roasting shockwave preceding her approach. Alights and strides into the interview room. Exits a short while later. Snarls to the receptionist:

Tell Dagon there's no rush on the reincorporation paperwork.

Two guards escort Thompson off to the boiling sulfur pools for the usual torment for being careless enough to get discorporated.

Beelzebub strides through the dim and dirty corridors until reaching the portal to the Infernal Times. Slams open the doors, stalks over to the editor's glass cubicle and enters. The editor leaps to his feet from his chair behind his desk, bows until he's nearly parallel to the desktop. Says nothing, for Beelzebub must speak first.

Thompson and Malacoda's report was too late for today's edition of the Times?

Yes, lord. Shall we run a special evening edition?

No. Next Sunday is fine. Put it in Society. Not on the front page.

Lord, I heed your command.

Beelzebub turns and exits. The editor takes a deep breath. Holds it awhile before a lengthy sighing exhale. After a minute of intense thought, he goes to the door and motions to summon Malacoda out of the pool. The demon rises from his desk, slopes across the room and enters the cubicle. Unnoticed by either the editor or Malacoda, the door doesn't quite close tightly behind him, prevented by a quick finger flick from a disposable demon stooping to pick a cigarette butt off the filthy floor. Another disposable demon dragging a sack joins her. They stoop unseen below the wainscoting to use hand brooms and dust pans to carefully clean the area surrounding the front of the cubicle.

So, boss, was she thrilled by our scoop? Are we firing up the press for an evening edition?

Not exactly. Thompson got himself discorporated. She's letting him stew awhile in the sulfur spa. We'll be running your article in next week's Society section.

Next week? Society? Thompson gets fried in the line of duty, catching a fucking angel kissing a demon, and that's all the space it gets?

Wheels within wheels, Malacoda. The Heavenly Host reads the Times.

Malacoda stands awhile trying to work through his chagrin. Then the light dawns.

Ah. Aha. Giving 'em a bit of a poke, is she?

He switches to a languid voice:

"Ho hum, yet another angel seduced by a handsome demon, enjoying a lovely holiday tryst at a coastal resort."

You got it. Tell Travel to slap something together about the delights of Falmouth. And get Cuisine to do something about oysters. Or cockles. Or whatever the quaint crap it is that humans consume there.

Dead brilliant, Ed. I hear Gabriel gets bent about celestial bodies consuming gross food matter. You ever eaten an oyster?

The editor just glares at him. Malacoda mock salutes and exits. Thinks it's too damned bad that Thompson couldn't sneak back a bottle of gin.