1. Crowley Hears From Hell
When the first message from Hell came through, Crowley was sitting at a traffic light, drumming his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel and wondering if the old bird in the car beside him would notice if her feathered hat suddenly turned into the original owner of the feathers. A wicked grin slithered onto his face, and he twirled his trigger-finger, winding up.
It was a nice day, and "Seven Seas of Rhye" wafted from the Blaupunkt.
...and I'll defy the laws of CROWLEY.
He sat up straight, gripped the wheel at ten and two. "Er, hi," he said, to the stereo.
CROWLEY, THERE IS A SITUATION.
Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw the little old woman peering suspiciously into the Bentley. He reached for the volume and twisted it down. It didn't do any good; Hell had no concept of subtlety.
YOU ARE NEEDED, CROWLEY.
"Eh?"
The woman's eyes were nearly falling out of her head. Crowley would have glared menacingly at her, were it not for Freddie Mercury's next sentence.
IT INVOLVES THE BOY.
Crowley grimaced. "Oh, bugger," he groaned, bumping his forehead against the wheel. "What now?"
No sooner had he spoken, he knew. They dropped the details straight into his brain, and he knew everything they wanted him to know. He pulled a face and stared at the stereo as if he expected a giant tongue to stick out of the cassette deck, and blow a great big Satanic raspberry at him.
"Are you, er..." He paused, searching for a way to put it delicately. "...out of your tree?"
THIS IS NOT A JOKE, CROWLEY. THIS IS YOUR ASSIGNMENT, AND YOU WILL CARRY IT OUT SUCCESSFULLY.
Crowley laughed, weakly. "Or else, right?"
THERE IS NO OR ELSE.
"Of course." Crowley gulped.
WE WILL BE IN TOUCH, CROWLEY, TO CHECK UP ON YOUR PROGRESS out the good leave out the bad evil cries...
It was typical. Typical of Hell to let Crowley get comfortable again, after that near-miss of a few months ago, to let him think that perhaps he'd dropped below Hell's radar and they weren't going to bring up his role in the whole business after all. This was payback, he figured. Punishment. Somewhere down Below they were having a great laugh at his expense.
Crowley gunned the Bentley's motor. The little old woman in the car beside him sniffed disapprovingly.
When the light turned Crowley sped off, careened rather carelessly down the busy London street and narrowly missing a few pedestrians as he half-turned, and made an intricate hand-motion over his shoulder.
He drove toward Soho, leaving the sounds of screams and squawking in his wake.