Is this the real life... is this just fantasy...Anthony J. Crowley was currently doing 112 towards Soho, and cursing under his breath the entire way there. The familiar tones of Queen were doing nothing to clam his nerves which were, to say the very least, frayed.* In an admittedly foolish attempt to drown out the voices in his head and the police sirens chasing behind him, Crowley turned up the volume of his stereo and immediately regretted it.
Caught in a landslide, no escape from realiiiiwwWE'RE COUNTING ON YOU CROWLEY.[i]
"Ohshitohshitoh[i]shit!" Crowley's hands jerked to the left, nearly swerving off the road. Freddie Me "Ahhaha,
yes. Erm. Thank you, my lord."
THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE, CROWLEY. FINISH THE JOB AND WE MAY RECONSIDER YOUR FAILURE REGARDING THE BUISNESS WITH THE ANTICHRIST."That's... very generous of you, My Lord."
DON'T PUSH YOUR LUCK. AND CROWLEY?"...yes, My Lord?"
IF WE FIND OUT YOU'VE BEEN CONSPIRING WITH THE ANGEL, ALL BETS ARE OFF. Any way the wind blows, doesn't really matter to meeee..."Yeah,
if you find out, you slimy bastard." Crowley plunged the gas pedal into the floor of the car and moved faster to Soho.
Aziraphale's bookshop was a small hole in the wall, jammed between a flower shop and a sort of boutique that sold poorly sewn tie die and hand made in the front and incense in the back. Crowley parked across the street and dashed across, not bothering to check for traffic. The sign read CLOSED, but the demon never bothered with things like that. He entered in a flurry. "Aziraphale? Hey, Angel, you home!?"
*To say
more than the very least, the closest analogy one might associate with the state of Crowley's nerves might be the tattered drapes that hang far too close the ground in the home of a family who did not take into account said drapes frailty when bringing home the new, not-quite-yet-declawed kitten.