Ah, whizz-bang electronic printy gizmos. I love whizz-bang electronic printy gizmos. Almost as much as I love my stationery porn. Last week I had cause, I had an actual and genuine reason, to go and buy a set of Derwent pencils, which I have not had since I was a kid. I almost fainted with delight at the check-out. Note to self: do not let husband catch you humping the tin.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"I gotta admit," said Bobby, passing another ice pack to Crowley, "I'm kinda impressed. The guy may be a professional asshat, but he knows what he is, and took on the King of Hell, so kudos to him."
"We could make a quick trip to the healers," suggested Castiel, "They will still have your records in the files, and I'm sure that…"
"No!" snapped Crowley, gingerly applying the ice pack to his stricken snoot, "I do not need that harpy assaulting my nose again! Nor do I need that idiot big brother of yours applying his own personal version of TLC. You owe me for another tie, too."
"I take no pleasure in seeing you in discomfort," Castiel added in a compassionate voice.
"We do," chuckled Sam.
"Ultimately, there aint no shame in losin' to a superior opponent," chortled Bobby. "Maybe we can locate a sinner who's just as wicked, but a little bit more amenable to bein' scared straight…"
"No!" Crowley yelped, "You don't understand! I have to save him!"
The others stared at him. "You do?" queried Sam.
"Yes!" Crowley nodded vigorously. "It's vitally important that his soul be saved!"
"Well, yeah," Sam agreed, "This second Trial has to be completed so that…"
"I don't care about the problem child," snapped Crowley, "Well, only so far as he doesn't make a complete nuisance of himself with the First Blade. What I do care about is the very idea of that Proll bastard strolling into Hell and mounting a hostile takeover!"
"A… you mean, depose you?" asked Sam.
"He said as much," Crowley stated grimly. "And he's every bit as bad as his press; trust me on that, I'm the King of Hell, I can smell AP elite bastardry from a mile away."
"Even with the Monopoly man up your nose?" asked Dean grinningly.
"He reminds me very much of me, as it happens," Crowley went on, "He's ruthless, he's cunning, he has no scruples, he's got more front than Roseanne Barr, and he is absolutely fixated on what he can do for the greatest number, provided that number is Number One."
"So, a contender, then," mused Bobby.
"Possibly," nodded Crowley. "He's one of those rare beings, somebody who knows exactly what he is. And he's definitely not a team player."
"Demons generally aren't, once they're demonified," Sam pointed out.
"True, but in temperament, he's practically a demon already, he's just stuck in his meatsuit. It will take a lot of my time and effort to… suppress him. And I can tell you, if he does get his arse on the Diabolical Bidet Of Power, things will get considerably more unpleasant for you squishy mortal types on this much abused and yet somehow strangely loveable blue marble of a planet."
"And considerably more unpleasant for you," added Bobby earnestly.
"Well, yes," agreed the King of Hell. "I am forced to draw the hideous conclusion that, for my sake as much as the wanna-be metal god over there," he jerked a thumb in Dean's direction, "It is absolutely vital that I convince this man to redeem himself in the eyes of Heaven."
"Very well," said Castiel. He drew himself to his full height, and gave Crowley his Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. "It is clear that this man is a bully, who will only understand force greater than what he himself can bring to bear." There was a shimmer, and Castiel manifested once more in his full battle armour.
"Oh, a man in uniform," leered Dean. Sam yelped, and kicked him in the leg.
"We will take you to the armourer, and have you fitted for your own," Castiel intoned.
"What?" whatted Crowley, eyes widening, "Are you mad? I'm a Herald, a Messenger. Heralds carry messages, not swords!"
"Father's most senior Herald, my brother Gabriel, is one of Heaven's fiercest fighters," Castiel told him, "Wielding a flaming sword in the defence of Heaven. This time, I shall accompany you, and you shall manifest before him as a Soldier of God, for all angels are His soldiers, fighting in His name…"
"I'm not!" snapped Crowley, "What you seem to be forgetting here is that I'm the King of Hell! I'm only your little brother under protest, by adoption, and sheer bad luck! Besides, it won't work. This bloke lives, breathes, enjoys using threats, violence and dishonesty to get what he wants. The whole 'Behave Yourself Or God Will Spank You' thing really isn't going to work."
"So, what, then?" asked Bobby.
Crowley put down the ice pack. "We do things my way," he growled. Picking up his harp, he absently began to strum the Imperial March theme from Star Wars. "If I could enlist your assistance, I think I can convince him that he really wants to play for Team Harp rather than Team Chainsaw."
He outlined his plan.
"I'm not completely happy about this," protested Sam.
"I am!" chirped Dean cheerfully. "Sounds like fun!"
"I'll go make that call," Bobby rolled his eyes, "It'll be better if I ask."
"Tell her I said I can't wait to see her in black leather!" purred Dean. Sam kicked him again.
"I will of course offer my assistance," said Castiel.
"Good," humphed Crowley, "So, I shall head Downstairs, change, fetch the required liquor, and return tomorrow. Here," he thrust the harp into Castiel's hands.
"Shall I take your robe to be mended?" asked the Angel of the Lord.
"Bugger that," replied the King of Hell, "I'm going to use it to line an imp's litter tray."
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The CEO of Proll Enterprises had spent a busy morning talking to police, structural engineers and his PR team, trying to figure out what had happened in his office the previous evening. The conclusion that he'd come to was that the Toga-Guy calling himself Crowliel was some sort of religious loony, environmentalist loony, do-gooder loony or tabloid press loony, because he'd had plenty of loonies on his case before (and had bankrupted many of them for the amusement value), although they usually approached him in more public spaces. On that thought, he'd fired pretty much the entire security detail for the building, including the people who hadn't been on shift at the time. Sacking people always cheered him up, though, so he took himself off to one of the exclusive and prohibitively expensive clubs he favoured, and by the time he sat down for a quiet lunch, he was practically whistling.
After he'd finished eating and picked up his tablet to check on some pre-release market data that one of his moles had sent him, a bottle of brandy appeared on the table before him. He paused, recognised it, and eyed it greedily.
"Remy Martin, Black Pearl Louis Treize," said a vaguely familiar British voice. "Very smooth."
David dropped the tablet; the man, who was no longer Toga-guy but was dressed in a well-tailored suit, lowered himself into the opposite chair and raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "Peace offering," he said, with a rueful smile. "And an ice-breaker for the grovelling apology I owe you."
"How the fuck did you get in here?" David hissed, already composing his letter of complaint to the Board and pondering on how many of them to ruin for letting a loony in.
"Oh, I can get in just about anywhere I want to, darling," No-Longer-Toga-Guy smiled, gesturing to a passing waiter and asking for two glasses. "But seriously, I really do want to apologise for my appalling behaviour last night. It was completely out of line, and uncalled-for." The glasses arrived. "So, shall I be mother and pour?"
"Where did you get that?" David demanded, pointing at the cognac, "It's as rare as hen's teeth, and it doesn't come up for sale. Who the hell did you have to murder to get hold of it?"
"Do you really want to know?" asked the other man earnestly. He grinned at David's expression. "Oh, I know you were only joking. I really mean it, I can get in just about anywhere. But I didn't murder anybody." He carefully poured the honey-hued liquor into the glasses, and picked on up, studying it. "I'm more of a scotch man, but this is such a nice drop. No, if I want anybody dead, I have lackeys to do that. Just like you." He raised the glass. "To business."
Somewhat suspiciously, David picked up the other glass. The deep, rich scent of obscenely expensive liquor reached his nose; it tasted every bit as decadently wonderful as it smelled. "So, last night you tried to reform me," he began, "And now, you're here trying to blackmail me…"
"I most certainly am not!" sniffed the other man disdainfully, "I told you, I am here to apologise. For behaving like a complete, I think the word we're looking for might be 'dick', yes, I apologise for behaving like a complete dick."
David found himself intrigued. "Who are you?" he asked, "Who are you working for?"
"My name is Crowley," the other man smiled, "And as to whom I'm working for, well, I suppose you could say I work for myself. Very much like you, in fact."
That made David laugh. "And what exactly is it that you do, Crowley?" he chuckled.
Crowley's smile didn't waver. "I'm a demon," he replied serenely, "And I'm CEO of Hell. Ah, this really is nice, although there is a Hennessy Beaute de Siecle that I'm quite curious about…"
David laughed out loud. "Well, that settles it," he grinned, taking out his phone and tapping at it. "I've been wondering what sort of loony you were – turns out, you're a religious loony after all."
"Well, not exactly religious," Crowley said, "I don't go around believing in any gods. People shouldn't go around believing in gods, you know, I think it just encourages them. But sometimes, given my job, I do start to feel as if I am losing my mind, so I might just have to wear the 'loony' bit. Don't bother," he waved a hand casually at David's phone, "Your dirt-diggers won't find me anywhere. Technically, I've been dead for three centuries."
"Lookin' good for a dead guy," said David, lifting the phone to get an image to pass on to his legal people, "If they gotta dig up your grave, that's what they'll do, so, smile for th-AAAAAARGH!"
The image he saw through the viewfinder was something that would've made an experienced horror movie special effects technician sleep with all the lights on.
When he dropped the phone, there was just Crowley, smiling calmly. "Oh dear, was that not my best side?" he asked solicitously. "If you want to get technical, love, it wasn't actually my own side at all…"
David picked up his phone. "What are you?" he growled, "And what do you want?"
"Oh dear, you have difficulty with this sort of thing, don't you?" Crowley said understandingly. "And here we are without a whiteboard. Now, pay attention. I am here today to apologise to you. My name is Crowley. I am a demon." He let his eyes bleed briefly to blazing red. "And I run Hell."
To his credit, David didn't flinch. "Okay," he gazed back levelly, "Okay, let's say you are a demon. Isn't the Lord of Hell supposed to be Lucifer? Are you Lucifer? Satan?"
"It's an easy mistake to make," Crowley told him, "But no, I'm not the Lord of Hell – Lucifer is on sabbatical, anyway, it's a long story. I'm CEO. The one who runs the place. The one who does the moving and shaking." His face assumed a knowing expression. "I might have to defer to His Infernal Majesty, for the sake of keeping up appearances – I mean, if the President came to visit, you'd be polite to him, wouldn't you, in public? – but I'm the one who gets to go out and have all the fun."
"His Infernal Majesty?" echoed David, curious in spite of himself. "There's a, what, a King of Hell? But it's not Lucifer?"
"That's right," Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "Like I said, it's a long story. His Infernal Majesty does the sort of thing that kings do, you know, sits around smiling at the plebs, waves graciously, holds state banquets, burns demons out of existence just by smiling at them if they look at him sideways, that sort of thing."
"Does he keep Corgis?" David chuckled.
"Hellhounds," Crowley replied. "Well, not him personally, he has somebody to do that for him, obviously. That's what being a king of anything is all about, having people to do things for you, so you can get on with the waving."
David sat back, looking at Crowley thoughtfully. "So, what was the CEO of Hell doing in my office last night, trying to convince me that you were an angel?"
Crowley visibly wilted. "It's a long and tedious story," he sighed, "And I won't bore you with the banal details. Suffice to say, I did it against my better judgement, and am thoroughly mortified by my actions. Hence the apology. I truly am sorry. I had no business barging into your office, and hectoring you about your behaviour. It was rude, it was hypocritical, and it was thoroughly unprofessional of me. Oh, incidentally," he took a small figurine, the Uncle Pennybags ornament, from his pocket, "This is yours. That's quite funny, that paperweight, I'd like one."
"Okay," David took the returned figurine, "So, what does the CEO of Hell want with me?"
"Now we're getting somewhere!" Crowley beamed at him. "You didn't know what I was, but you spotted me last night. You have talent, David, you have real talent, a rare gift, and you have the cohones, the chutzpah, to wield it to its full potential! You know which skeletons are in which closets, where the bodies are buried, and you're not afraid to use it! You don't mind getting your hands dirty to get the job done – better than that, you enjoy it! Best of all, you recognize these things in yourself. David, you're sexy and you know it!"
David eyed him dubiously. "Is this some sort of bizarre attempt at reverse psychology?" he asked.
If Crowley smiled any wider, the top of his head was in danger of falling off. "Absolutely not! I don't want to reform you, David – you are perfect just as you are! I want to recruit you! I want you on Team Hell!"
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