Disclaimer, Part II: I still own none of the aforementioned characters/entities/real estate, though I do own a possessed computer. Also, I apologize for the non-sequiturness of this bit. A satisfactory transition is in the works.

Back at the flat, Crowley's phone was ringing. Not one to leave a phone unanswered, and as Crowley was busy at his mentally-challenged computer, Chalmers plucked up the receiver, and said in his best butler voice, "Anthony Crowley's residence, how may I- …. Ah! Laur- er, Miss- ah, will you excuse me just a moment, please?"

He ducked into Crowley's office, stretching the cord to its full length, and shut the door. Unnecessarily, as Crowley knew exactly who was on the other end and could also hear both sides of the conversation, even from behind his office door, but it made Chalmers more comfortable, and Crowley didn't actually care very much, so he contented himself with smirking at the computer.

He was typing as quickly as he could, which wasn't all that fast, considering his driving habits, when suddenly, the words and images on the screen began having horrible convulsions, and words began to appear in unfriendly fonts.

CROWLEY they read WHAT IN SATANS NAME IS GOING ON UP THERE WE HAVENT GOTTEN A REPORT FROM YOU IN QUITE A WHILE

"Errrr…."(1)

OUR LORD AND MASTER IS SOON TO BECOME VERY DISPLEASED WITH YOU CROWLEY

"Right, well, I'll-" Crowley frantically tried to delete the type before Chalmers finished his phone call.

HE WAS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY MERCIFUL LAST TIME CROWLEY I WOULDNT TRY HIS PATIENCE IF I WERE YOU

"Yyyyyup…." He hit Ctrl Alt Del several times.

SO YOUD BETTER GET BACK TO WORK CROWLEY YOU CANT AFFORD ANOTH

"Sorry about that," Chalmers said as he reentered the living room.

Crowley knocked his chair over in leaping up and stood with his back pressed against the computer screen.

"Ah, no worries," he answered, crossing his arms nonchalantly.

"…Mm-hm." Chalmers knew better than to ask. Crowley always had been a bit odd.

Crowley smiled, continuing to be the picture of relaxedness, except that the yellow eyes behind his dark shades betrayed a hint of the searing pain caused by teeny tiny letter-brands being pressed one by one into his back.

After about forty-two seconds of slightly confused silence, Chalmers decided to escape.

"Well, I should be off. I've, ah, got to check on the-"

"Ah, yes, yes. Fine. Thanks."

"Right."

"Yep."

"I'll be in touch." Chalmers was on his way out, swinging his overcoat around his shoulders.

"Right, thanks!" Crowley called after him.

As soon as the door had shut, Crowley sprang across the apartment, dashed into the never-before-used shower, and drenched himself in ice water. That had hurt a lot.

When he had gained the courage to return to the computer, he approached slowly and saw a blurred mass of dull red text pulsating illegibly. And at the bottom of the screen, in crimson so deep it was nearly black, was the following clause:

WE ARE NOT AMUSED

(1) The complete disregard for punctuation threw him off even more than these messages usually did.