"Listen, old chap, it's not that I don't treasure our time together, it's just that I was sort of busy up there."
A fine mist of blood hit Crowley's tailored black suit, and he did his best not to look annoyed. Being annoyed in hell was one thing. Everyone in hell was annoyed. It was looking annoyed that could get you into trouble.
"Perhaps I could just run along now, and we'll do lunch later in the week. Have you ever been to the Ritz?" Crowley suggested hopefully. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the occasional visit, but all the screams of torment and prickly colleagues got a bit tedious. This was probably why he preferred life as a field agent.
Something pea-green and gooey splattered the hellishly-shiny leather of Crowley's obscenely expensive designer shoes. This time, he cringed slightly. He immediately regretted it.
"What's wrong, my dear? Not enjoying the show?" Hastur chanted, his voice brimming with dislike.
The lesser-demon being slowly deconstructed in front of them chose that moment to let out a particularly tortured cry, and Crowley waited for him to quiet down before responding.
"Oh, you know I've never been much for the nitty-gritty. I prefer to leave the dirty bits to you brute-types," Crowley said coolly, relishing the frustration that flooded Hastur's face.
"Doing His work is not shameful! What have you done for Him lately, Crawley?" The demon spat, glaring at Crowley as though he was something distasteful one might find stuck to the bottom of one's hoof.
"It's 'Crowley', thank you. And if He weren't pleased with my work, I'm sure He'd have mentioned it. He's never been shy with the job evaluations," Crowley replied, checking his watch. It never ran properly in Hell1 but it was a habitual gesture, and one that Crowley found comforting.
Hastur let out a laugh that would have been terrifying in any other setting. Crowley started to wonder what he was on about, but decided he didn't much care. It was getting late on Earth and he had reservations (not that he needed them.) Suddenly, the floor opened up, and Beelzebub entered, dramatically2
"Crawley!" He bellowed.
Crowley blanched.
"It's Crowley. It's been Crowley for about four-thousand years now. Who updates the rolodexes around here, because I've a bloody thing or two to say about—"
"You have strayed from The Path!" Beelzebub continued, unperturbed.
"There's a path—ehr, Path, is there? First I've heard of it."
Beelzebub simmered. It was terribly impressive.
Crowley barreled onward. "I thought the whole point of being a demon was to destroy the path, lay waste to it, lead those that walk it astray, and what not. No?" He ventured hesitantly.
"He is not pleased. I am not pleased. We are not pleased," Beelzebub said.
"Yeah! We are not!" Hastur added, far louder and yet far less imposingly.
"Not pleased? Did you miss the bit with the dairy truck yesterday? Milk ran like blood through the streets. Like blood!"
"But it was not blood. There has been very little blood from you, recently. Why is this?" Beelzebub asked. Something maggoty and unpleasant crawled out of his eye and into one ear. He didn't blink.
Crowley felt the space where his organs should have been clench. He broke into a sweat. He probably would have broken into a cold sweat, but this was Hell, after all.
"I've been busy?"
"Busy with what? Your only job is to create pain and suffering," Hastur growled.
"Yes, well, you don't know what it's like up there! I have to do things to – to blend! How would it look if I went around all half-cocked, blowing things to pieces and getting my suit wrinkled?"
"It would look like you were doing your job," Hastur muttered. Beelzebub glared and Hastur shrunk back into his shadow.
"And what of the Principality?" Beelzebub rumbled. A few nearby rocks trembled and slid into the pit.
"The what now?" Crowley replied, his voice a note or two too high.
"Do not play dumb, Crawley. You are dumb enough already," Beelzebub said.
"You mean Aziraphale? He's just a… a field agent from the other side. Been around for ages, no real threat in'im," Crowley said, dusting the brimstone from his sleeves intently. "Bit of a poufter, I think," he added confidentially.
Beelzebub laughed a deep, bubbling laugh, like lava suffocating a remote village. "Yet, you have not Felled him?"
Crowley looked up. "Well, no, but I mean, it's not like he's been after my head with a bucket of Holy Water, either. It doesn't seem sporting."
"You are a DEMON. You do not have to BE sporting," Beelzebub bellowed.
Crowley involuntarily stepped back. "Alright, alright, no need to get testy." He paused a moment to regroup and to tell the little voice in his head to stop shrieking so girlishly. "I mean, I suppose I could take a crack at the – Felling, if you'd like. But I might warn you, that angel has a righteous staff so far up his arse, it's going to be difficult to dislodge."
Hastur chuckled lewdly and shrieked, "Well, maybe you can replace it with a staff of a different nature!"
Beelzebub did something similar to what humans call rolling their eyes, but instead of appearing petulant, it came off rather threatening. "The maggot is right. You have an assignment, Crawley, one which you will complete."
"But what if I—"
"You WILL complete it."
Crowley hissed. There was plenty of arguing in hell. It was sort of a theme. But there was very little winning-of-arguments.
"Right. Would you like him gift-wrapped, as well?"
Hastur opened his mouth but Beelzebub silenced him with a sharp glance. "That will not be necessary."
1 Something about the agony of souls fussed with the electrical current
2 Not that he was capable of entering in any other manner.
