Remember that Time the Demons Went on Strike?

If it hadn't been for inflation, the Devil could have bribed them.

“The little buggers know too much,” Lucifer says as he slides into the chair next to Hades at the bar. Hooves, the only establishment open during the day in the Lower Levels, is nearly empty. Not surprising, considering it’s Halloween on Earth.

“Of course they do – that’s one of the reasons you pay them so poorly,” Hades says, ordering a whiskey sour for the Devil. The zombie behind the bar, a pleasant fellow named Greg, nods slowly and shuffles over to the line of liquor bottles along the back of the bar.

“I don’t pay them to blackmail me, Hades.”

Hades chuckles under his breath, shakes his head. “Perhaps if you paid them a real wage, instead of a handful of souls every few weeks, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

“Greg, focus!” The zombie looks up from the arm he’s just ripped off a paying customer, his rotting teeth halfway to the flesh of its forearm. He nods, sets the arm down on the bar, and sets about pouring Lucifer’s drink.

“They couldn’t have picked a worse time,” Lucifer says. “It’s Halloween – I need them downstairs, wreaking havoc and scaring small children all over the globe.” He feels a tapping on the back of his hand, looks down to see the recently detached arm calling for his attention. He turns to the woman who lost it a few moments ago. “Madame, if you’d be so kind…” She retrieves it, settles it back into her shoulder socket, and goes back to her conversation.

Greg drops the whiskey sour in front of him and frowns, mumbles something unintelligible, then shuffles away.

“What do the boys want?” Hades asks.

Lucifer pulls a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket, slides it over to his business partner. “It’s a list of their demands,” he says at Hades’ questioning look. “Make sure you take a look at the signature on the bottom.”

Hades opens the sheet, reads it over. His head pops up when he’s finished, his eyes wide. “She didn’t.”

“She did.”

“Wow…”

“Two thousand years running and those jerks have been perfectly happy getting souls every week. Never asked for another thing. Now I get a list of demands and a strike notice within twenty-four hours of their first HR meeting with Hers truly.” He slings the whiskey sour back in one gulp, throws the glass at Greg, who catches it simply by turning to the side and allowing it to land in his hollowed out rib cage.

“You’ve always said the two of you can’t get along…”

“She stole my demons on Halloween, Hades. This requires retribution.”

Hades sighs, rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “I’m going to regret asking you this, but what kind of retribution were you thinking?”

Lucifer turns a terrifying, toothy grin on his business partner. His irises have gone a violent shade of magenta and there’s smoke rising from his pointy ears. “Vengeful retribution.”

“That’s mildly redundant…” Hades starts, but he’s unable to finish.

Lucifer jumps up from his chair and throws his arms up in the air, startling Greg in the process. The zombie topples to the floor as Lucifer’s body swells to a size twice as large and far more purple than before.

“Vengeance will be mine!”

He sprints off, away from the bar, and Hades shakes his head as he watches him disappear through the door. He leans over the bar to check on Greg.

“You okay, buddy?” he asks.

“Urghdmanadamam,” Greg mutters and Hades nods.

“Ridiculous, I know.” He sit down, finishes his sea breeze. “Two thousand years of being the Goddamn Devil and he’s still just as big a drama queen as he was the day I met him.”

The Pearly Gates Corporation Staff Cordially Invites You...

TO: PEARLY GATES CORP. STAFF

RE: ARMAGEDDON

Recently, it has come to My attention that We are falling behind schedule on the repair work to the universe, specifically Earth. I see that We failed to meet the deadline for planning improvements set about three hundred years ago and that We have yet to actually schedule a Planning Committee meeting. As such, please take note: life on Earth will end in precisely nine years and three months (as measured in Earthly time) as this date is just shortly before the warranty is up.

Additionally, you are allowed one guest. Prophets, lower angels, and all minions must be pre-approved and must have appropriate supervision to enter the Conference Center – no exceptions (YES, LUCIFER, THIS INCLUDES YOU).

Please be on time the morning of the apocalypse and remember to sign in at the front. Lunch will be provided; eye protection will not. We look forward to seeing you all.

Please forward all correspondence regarding this upgrade to the attention of Metatron.

Regards,

God

Throwing Stones in Glass Houses...Er...Libraries

The Library is empty, as usual, which makes it an excellent place to regroup. Claire tugs on Michael's sleeve and they slip through the open door, closing it quietly once they're inside.

She takes a deep breath, leans against the nearest shelf, and closes her eyes. It's been, to put it mildly, a hell of a day. She's cataloging her grievances with her Boss when a book bounces off the top of her head and lands on the floor by her feet.

"Books have a thing for you," Michael says, bending down to pick up the medium-sized tome. Claire rubs the spot on her head where it landed. "They like to meddle," he says and hands her the book with a cryptic smile.

She takes it, frowns as she reads the title. "Oh for the love of..." It's a first edition printing of a Jane Austen novel. She turns to glare at the bookshelf and it seems to shrug, as if to say, Who? Me? She turns back to glare at Michael. "Jack and I are friends, Mike. Have been for awhile now." She looks down at the book, flips to the title page. "That's all it is."

"Oh boy," Michael says. "You've got a thing for him, too." Claire looks up sharply from the book; the archangel's grin is far too smug for her liking.

"For Jack?!" she asks, her voice shrill.

"Yup."

Her cheeks color. "I do not have a thing for Jack."

Michael's grin widens. "You've got a thing for the record store owner!"

She scowls, throws the book at him. It smacks him in the chest with a loud thud and lands on the floor once again.(1)

"We're in the middle of stopping an apocalypse; there are angels and demons running amok down the hall from God Herself, and you want to hide in a library and discuss my love life?"

He shrugs. "Sure."

Her shoulders slump. "I've got a thing for a Jack." She picks up the book, points at him. "But keep your mouth shut or I'll tell Ellie you've got a thing for Her."

"Hey now," he says, holding up his hands, "we're talking about you."

"Nooo," Claire says, drawing out the word, "you were talking about me. I'm talking about you. And Ellie. Having a thing." She wiggles her fingers for emphasis.

He turns, looks at the door. "We should definitely get going. We've got an apocalypse to stop." He frowns, ruffles his feathers. His face becomes stern. "No sense wasting time in a library."

"I waste time in a library everyday."

He sighs and the stern expression drops. "I'm not going to win this one, am I?"

"Nope."

"Shouldn't have even started it, should I?"

"Nope." She tucks the book away on the shelf behind her, carefully finding the right spot within her own numbering system. (2) "We need to find our wayward companions," she says. "Otherwise, the world goes boom, I lose my job, and Ellie rips your wings off."

Michael pauses at the door. "You realize that even if we stop the apocalypse, all of that could still happen?"

"Not the boom, though."

"Right. So just the unemployment and loss of wings."

"One issue at a time, Mike." She pats him on the cheek. "One issue at a time."



(1) Jane Austen would be appalled at Claire's treatment of her novel. Which is why Claire makes a mental note to mention it the next time she sees her at book club.

(2) Dewey ain't got nothin' on Claire Rogers.

The Devil and Ms. Rogers

“Even in August, midnight in Maine shouldn’t be this fucking hot,” Claire mutters into the darkness beyond her back porch. She pulls her thin t-shirt away from her sweat-soaked skin, rests her glass of quickly melting ice against the side of her neck. She feels trails of water make their way south, imagines they hiss and steam against her warm skin, like water dropped into a hot pan.

The heat rolled in three days earlier, the humidity right behind it, and according to the spindly, unattractive weatherman on the morning news who reminds her of Satan himself, there’s no respite in sight. She hasn’t slept in three days, hasn’t been able to brush her hair thanks to the uncontrollable frizz. If it wasn’t for the lake full of cold, mountain fed water down the road, she’d most likely have turned to a puddle of goo on the hardwood floor of her living room by now.

“Am I in Hell?” she wonders aloud. She pinches her exposed skin just to make sure she isn’t. It hurts just as much as it should, which means she isn’t downstairs but is, instead, stuck in a New England weather pattern…which might just be the same thing.

“Thermostat’s broken.”

The voice comes from behind her, from the kitchen of her tiny cottage, and she jumps at the sudden intrusion, drops the glass in her hand. It shatters against the stone steps, ice and shards disappearing into the night. She whirls on the intruder, feels a fleeting moment of panic when she realizes who it is. But then she takes in the ugly Hawaiian shirt, designer linen pants, and knobby toes sticking out of leather sandals and her panic turns to amusement – and disdain.

“Lucy, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t just pop in, unannounced.”

The Devil smiles wide and shrugs, shoulders moving up and down and making the garish purple flowers on his shirt seem alive. “What can I say, Claire? Nobody expects the Devil.”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,”(1) she says, standing. “Pretty much everybody expects you.”

His smile droops, his lips becoming almost pouty. It’s a strange expression on his pointed face, nearly as disturbing as the Hawaiian shirt.

“Despite the fact that I adore you, Claire, you can be unpleasant at times.”

“And you’re Satan. Standing in my kitchen.” She motions for him to move aside – which he does with a knowing smirk – and she edges past him into the house. She turns her back on him for a moment, just to open a cabinet and retrieve another glass and fill it with ice, and by the time she turns back around he’s found a pile of her mail and is going through it.

“Congratulations on a clear pap smear,” he says, reading from a letter. “What’s a pap smear?”

Claire, mortified, snatches the paper from his hand and frowns her most severe Librarian frown at him. He withers just a bit.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “It makes you look like one of the Crones…it’s terrifying.”(2)

“Did you come by to insult me or do you want something in particular?” she asks.

“So I have to want something to come see you?” He sounds offended; Claire knows better.

“It’s a million degrees outside and I’m low on patience.” She rests the glass against her cheek. “If you’ve got a point, make it soon. Otherwise, you’re getting holy water in the face.”

“I thought we were friends,” he says.

“You’ve got to be kidding me with this,” she mutters, shaking her head. “One minute,” she says, holding up a finger. “That’s how long you’ve got to tell me why you’re here.”

“Or what?” he asks, lips curling into a decidedly devilish smile. “I don’t see any holy water anywhere.”

Claire turns to the sink and twists the tap on, lifts the sprayer, and turns back around to hit the loose tails of his shirt with water from the nozzle. It hisses when it hits the fabric and Lucy screams like a little girl who’s just been confronted by a bug.(3)

“What the fuck is that?!”

Claire smiles, slow and wide, keeps the nozzle pointed at him. “Mike’s house warming gift,” she says. “He blessed the well.”

Lucy’s skin takes on a magenta hue and Claire, knowing what’s coming, sprays him in the chest to prevent him from Hulking out in her kitchen. He screams again, beats at the smoke rising from his ugly shirt. It’s just the distraction he needs; his skin returns to its normal shade of pale.

“I can do this all night, Lucy,” she says. She puts just enough pressure on the sprayer handle for water to dribble out and onto the floor. “Let’s try this again: what do you want?”

He looks up from his shirt. “Goddammit, I just bought this shirt.”

“Lucy…” she warns.

“I need your help.”

“I somehow doubt that.” She points to the door with the sprayer. “Go home.”

He stares at her, his jaw slack and the holes in his shirt smoking. He looks pitiful, which is quite a feat for the so-called Prince of Darkness.

“I asked Ellie, but She told me I was on my own. You’re my last resort, Claire. I don’t know who else to ask.”

“You’re the Devil, Lucy. What the hell could you possibly need my help with?”

His cheeks turn pink, not magenta but pink. He looks embarrassed. “Ilostmylibrarycard,” he mumbles.

Claire’s confused. “What did you say?”

“My library card,” he says, loud and clear. “I lost it.”

“Your library card?” He nods. “You broke into my house in the middle of the night because of a goddamn library card?” He nods again. She stares at him a second longer; then, with the sprayer still in hand, she reaches up and takes a cookie tin down from the top of the refrigerator. She opens it, shuffles through the contents.

“Pecan Sandies?” he asks, surprised. “I always took you for a grasshopper girl.”

“I’m full of surprises,” she says. She pulls out a stack of green cards wrapped in an aging red rubber band. “I’ll give you a temporary card,” she says, taking one from the stack. She lays the sprayer hose over the crook of her elbow and pulls a gold pen from the tin. “Minerva will let you use it for a little while, but you need to find your original.” She prints LUCIFER in large, block letters on the top line, checks the box for restricted access.

He looks over her shoulder. “Restricted access?” he asks, indignant.

Claire hands him the card, carefully avoiding his fingers. “You haven’t used your library card in years,” she says. “You must want access to something you’re most likely not supposed to have access to if you’re slumming it on the mortal plane. So yes, restricted access, and don’t give me any shit about you being the Devil and whatnot. I’m the librarian – I can restrict your access as I see fit.”

He frowns at her. “I just wanted something to read.”

“I know your preferences for non-fiction novels and the like,” Claire says, grinning. “But you’re also prone to episodes of romantic literature and Ellie’s mentioned to me just how uncomfortable that makes Her.” Her grin widens. “She says it gives you ideas.”

He pouts for the second time this evening. “Only good ones.”(4)

“That’s a matter of opinion.” She points the sprayer at him once more. “Now, get out of my house before I do the Underworld a favor and light your ugly ass shirt on fire.”


(1) That's half true. Some people expect the Spanish Inquisition...they're called historians. And anyone who's ever seen Monty Python...

(2) The three Crones. The Fates. He's mostly afraid of them because they share an eye and run around with scissors. He thinks one might have something to do with the other.

(3) A wee little girl. With pigtails. And pink Maryjanes.

(4) Nope. Not even a little bit.

Things One Shouldn't Say When Meeting God for the First Time

Okay. So you've died and gone to Heaven, Incorporated and you're meeting God for the first time. You're about to have your entire belief system marginally blown out of the water and the greatest thing about God is that She gets it. You're expecting an old white dude with a long beard and flowing robe and instead you get a gorgeous woman with caramel skin and green eyes who fills out a toga in a way that makes you think earthly women need lessons. She understands all that because She's God and She knows how you think - knows what you're thinking - and loves you all the same.

That doesn't mean She appreciates the oggling, or the dead fish impressions, or the occasional attempt at an exorcism.(1) She may be a deity and may put Her sandals on differently in the morning (2) but that doesn't mean She isn't just like everyone you've ever met before in your tiny little earthly life.

To save yourself a long stay in a spectacularly warm room, though, it's recommended that you never voice the following five things when first meeting God. Trust us; with advice like this, you may actually get out of the DMV even after you've died.

1. "Are You sure You're God?"

Oh boy, is She sure. She's so absolutely positive about being God that She'd like to prove it to you. Just pay close attention while She smites your ass.

2. "Do you know Jesus/Jimi Hendrix/Any other dead person you've always wanted to meet?"

Yup. She does. She has lunch with a whole lot of dead people on a daily basis and Jesus is Her half-brother. Does She want to talk to you about them? Hell no. Why's that? Because you've just died and your naughty/nice list has appeared in Her inbox with a definite slant towards the former. You've got bigger things to worry about at the moment.

3. "What's Hell really like?"

It's hot. And there are demons. And if you're really unlucky, you work for Satan. Any other stupid questions?

4. "So. Garden of Eden."

How about the next time you royally screw up in your life, we all just knock on your door and remind you of it? What's that? You died while antagonizing a buffalo on the side of the road? Haha, wow...let's talk about that constantly for the next hundred or so years...

5. "Can I get in contact with my dead relatives and/or friends?"

This is a completely valid question. Who wouldn't want to see their deceased loved ones when they've finally arrived in the afterlife? But don't ask God.(3) She isn't the tour guide, She's the President. Do you think the President knows where all the bathrooms are in the White House? Find a docent wearing a blue blazer and ask all the questions you can manage - they love it when you bother them incessantly.

So there you go. A quick and dirty guide to your first few moments in the Pearly Gates Corporation. Remember to look at the wall maps so you'll always know where you are. There are all sorts of interesting hallways to travel down...however, some of them lead to rooms full of nasty things like classrooms.



(1) She thought for the first few years of Her tenure at Heaven, Inc. that saying "I cast you out, demon!" was just how the Baptists said hello.

(2) Her sandals have wings. Have you ever tried to put on sandals sporting tiny wings on their sides? No? Then stop judging.

(3) Honestly, She loves this question. Nine times out of ten, She'll even help you find them. Unless they're downstairs, in which case She'll have Gabriel help you find them.

The Perilous Case of the Exploding Minion (er...Demon)

It's nearly two in the morning when the lamp on Claire's bedside table flickers on and the very much asleep Prophet of God mumbles something about shutting off the moon. She does not, however, wake up.

The light gets stronger, brighter, causing Claire's eyelids to flutter open and a frown to appear on her normally impassive face. She turns the lamp off, smiles once more, and rolls away from it, buries her head under a mountain of blankets and pillows - just in case it decides to try it again.

The lamp, not to be out manuevered, turns itself back on and tips over onto the bed.

"Dirty billards," Claire says, pulling herself out from under the blankets and pillows. "Talk about a fire hazard." She turns the lamp off once again.

"Oh good," a feminine voice says from the doorway to the bedroom and Claire starts, falls out of bed in a heap of bare limbs and mismatched socks. God grins at her and waves. "You're up."

***

God at least has the decency to make Claire coffee and breakfast while She explains why She's suddenly appeared in the prophet's apartment. The unfortunate side of it, however, is that God can't, for the afterlife of Her, make a decent cup of joe. She can create planets, explode stars, make life, and even get jiggy with it, but She's an utter failure at coffee making.

Claire takes a tentative sip, grimaces when the bitter liquid hits her tongue with the same flavor reserved for batter acid. God looks at her expectantly.

"Well?" She asks.

"I think You're getting a little better at it," Claire says, setting down the cup. "This tastes more like acid and less like sludge." God frowns, setting off car alarms all down the block, and Claire sighs. "Why are You here?" she asks. She hazards a glance at the clock on the stove and wishes almost immediately that she hadn't. There are single digits...low single digits...glaring at her in green light. "Better yet, why are You here three hours before sunrise on a Saturday."

"How do you feel about Florida?"

"The same way You feel about Hell."

God's pout becomes more pronounced. "I'm having a little problem with a demon down there."

Claire sips her coffee without thinking and regrets it. "So call an exterminator," she says. "I tell people about You, convince them to play for the side of good. I do not get rid of demons in swamps."

"It's in Miami."

"Semantics."

God stares at her for a moment and Claire stares right back. She learned a long time ago, when she first became a prophet, that the best way to keep God from bossing you around was to look Her in the eye and stand your ground.

"I'll fly you first class and spring for a suite."

There's only so much ground one can stand when faced with fluffy towels and free champagne.

***

Gabriel, dressed in short khakis and a Hawaiian shirt and sporting a thick, black mustache on his tanned face, meets Claire at her hotel. Sort of. He lands on her balcony, knocks on the door, and scares the shit out of her. She's expecting Michael, so the sudden appearance of God's right-hand-angel throws her for a loop.

Claire opens the sliding door. "Magnum P.I. called," she says. "He wants his shirt and mustache back."

He frowns, smooths down the mustache. "I'm sure that would be hilarious if I knew who this Magnum person was."

Claire hides a grin and shakes her head. "Nice to see you, Gabe."

"Somewhat the same, Claire." He motions over his shoulder. "Shall we get on with it? I have a bridge game with Hermes and Shiva in three Earthly hours and if I'm late, Shiva destroys my cards. He literally destroys them."(1)

"Do you know where we're going?" she asks.

"She mentioned something about a crackhouse..."

***

God gets confused with Earthly references. What She thought was a crackhouse was actually a house cracked in half by a recent hurricane. And the demon, who God told her was evil and terrible and would most likely suck her soul if given the chance, was actually an adorable little boy with an afro and a grin that lit up the cracked house.

"That's a small child," Gabriel says, confused.

"Your observation skills are getting better."

"What's up, Heaven Ink?" the little boy says, his grin widening even more. There's a flash of white teeth - white, pointed, very sharp teeth - and the illusion of him being simply a child is vaporized. "You the po-po?"

"Do you have a name?" Claire asks.

"Razul."

Recognition hits Claire with an animated background and lots of bright colors.(2) She can't help it - she laughs.

The little boy grows in size, proves he's definitely NOT a little boy, and Gabriel seems to shrink a little, hides behind Claire. (3)

"Don't laugh at the demon, Claire," he hisses.

"Yeah, lady, it ain't nice to laugh at demons!"

Claire's spent time in a vault with the Devil, has had lunch with Hades, and grew up with her mother. She doesn't scare easily, especially when faced with a lower level demon wearing a Sponge Bob Squarepants t-shirt. She rolls her eyes. "Just do your thing, Gabe. I'm hot, I'm tired, and there's a huge jacuzzi tub in my hotel suite calling my name."

"You're such a mortal," he says and pushes back the hair on his forearms like sleeves.(4)

***

God pops into Claire's hotel room three hours after Gabriel does his thing and disintegrates the little demon. Gabe's back in the Penthouse and She's all smiles. Meanwhile, Claire's still picking pieces of demon from her curls.

"Two things: first, that was horrible. You should have told me Razul was a little boy."

"Technically, his coporeal form is a little boy. He's actually a three foot tall green thing with scales and the disposition of a rattlesnake."

Claire pauses in her de-demoning long enough to throw an icy frown in God's direction. "Second, You could have warned me that when you blow those damned things up, they have a ridiculously huge blast radius."

God rolls Her green eyes. "Oh please, Claire. It was just a little coporeal form explosion. Think of it as blowing away the fluffy part of a dandelion."

"Dandelions do not have horns and tails and a definite dislike of being exploded!" She combs a piece of demon from her hair and flings it in God's direction, where it lands on Her pristine white linen pants with a sad squelching noise.

"These are brand new, Claire," She says, Her voice borderling whining.

"I'm not even sure why You sent me down here. Gabriel did all the work."

"Did he?"

"He's the one who blew up Razul." She points to her hair. "I just collected the evidence of it."

"There are bad things coming, Claire. The more exposure you have to them, the better prepared you'll be."

"So the apocalypse is going to be full of exploding demon children?"

God sighs, hides Her face behind Her hands. "You have a gift for missing the point." Claire flings another piece of demon at Her. It lands in Her afro and even God has a difficult time not being disgusted. "Spot on with the demon pieces, though."



(1) Shiva the Destroyer...of all things fun. See here.

(2) Razul, as in the guard from the Disney movie "Aladdin". As in the fat guy with the satanic goatee...who also happens to be a demon in the shape of a little boy with a huge afro. Claire loves when her life takes a turn for the truly strange - it's so different from her usual state of weirdness.

(3) The only thing in the universe Gabriel could hide behind is Zeus. And Zeus makes a Buick look small.

(4) Gabriel is one hairy mofo.

Little Lucy's Coffee and Soul Emporium

Michael finds himself late to lunch on most occasions. It's usually a normal excuse, like too much work or God has him running errands She can't convince Metatron to do, but sometimes it's just plain laziness. Like today. He could have gotten up from his chair at lunchtime and made it down before they closed the kitchens, but he just didn't feel like it. So instead of the meatloaf special (which he wasn't really looking forward to, anyway), he's eating a stale danish and drinking hours old coffee. Because it's so quiet in the lunchroom, though, he's actually enjoying it.

Until Lucifer shows up and decides to ruin Michael's party by sitting down at the table with him.

"Did you miss lunch, too?" Michael asks, carefully avoiding subjects on which the Devil might feel obligated to expound.(1)

"As a matter of fact, I did." He points to the meager meal in front of Michael. "Is any of that good?"

"The coffee ate the spoon about three minutes ago and I think I chipped a tooth on the danish, but overall it isn't the worst thing I've ever eaten."

Lucifer stares at him a beat longer before getting up from the table and disappearing into the kitchen. When he reappears a few minutes later, he has a fresh pot of coffee in one hand a plate with bread, cheese, and fruit piled high on it in the other. He sets them in the middle of the table and grabs two cups before sitting down again.

"It ain't loaves and fishes, but it'll do in a pinch," he says, pouring out fresh black coffee.

Michael inhales a waft of steam from his coffee cup, quirks an eyebrow. "Why, Lucy, I do believe this coffee smells like brimstone."

Lucifer inhales, takes a large sip. "Indeed it does, angel. And it tastes like despairing souls, as well."

"Manufacturing coffee now, are we?" Michael asks, sipping his coffee slowly. He doesn't think it'll have any adverse effects on him, but all the same - if the Devil brewed it, there's no telling what it's capable of.

Lucifer shrugs, leans back in his chair. He looks casual and comfortable in a well-tailored linen suit and light blue oxford shirt, sans tie. Michael glances around the edge of table, finds his suspicions confirmed - boat shoes, no socks, incredibly hairy ankles.

"We just had a handful of Colombian drug lords arrive downstairs. Terrible people, definitely headed for the barraks in the Pit of Despair Wing, but goodness do they know how to make a cup of coffee."

"Getting fashion tips, as well, I see," Michael says with a smirk.

Lucifer grins, the flash of sharp, white teeth somewhat subdued by his attire. "They spend eternity in purple jumpsuits," he says. "I just can't see throwing out a perfectly good set of linen suits." He holds both of his hands up, five fingers on one and two on the other. "Seven of them, Mike. Seven."

"Got anything in a forty-four long?" Michael asks.

"Not with them, but there's a crew of mobsters arriving from Miami in the evening - I'm sure I could rustle up something for you."

Michael nods. "Ellie's always bugging me to dress better."

"I'm not one to usually agree with Her Grand Self, but togas are a little outdated."

"Damn comfortable, though." He stands, sways his hips, and the fabric around his legs sways. "Not to mention breezy." He reclaims his chair.

"I'm not sure that image will ever leave me," Lucifer says.

"Let me add to it by telling you I'm footloose and fancy free."(2)

Lucifer cringes. "Yup. That did it." He taps his temple. "Burned in there forever and ever." He finishes his coffee, takes a hunk of bread and cheese, a handful of grapes. He stands. "Thanks for the conversation, Mike," he says.

"No problem, Lucy. Thanks for the coffee."

The Devil nods, disappears into the hallway. Michael sits and finishes his coffee, is just pouring himself a second cup when God and Saint Rita(3) arrive in the lunchroom. Rita is all smiles under her habit. She waves at Michael, practically skipping across the room to his table. He's always had a soft spot for Rita - he likes a woman who refuses to see anything but possibility.(4)

"We just passed Lucy in the hallway," Ellie says, sitting down across from the archangel. "I hate to say it, but he looked good in that suit."

"Spoils of the Colombian drug war," Michael says. He motions to the pot of coffee, which is still steaming. "Coffee?"

"Did the Magenta Misfit make it?" Ellie asks.

"He did, indeed. He could have a second career as a barrista if things don't work out for him as the Root of all Evil." He sips his coffee, hums with approval. "Little Lucy's Coffee and Soul Emporium. It's a bargain."

Ellie pulls a face, something between amusement and disgust. "I think I'll pass. We both know what happened the last time I drank something he'd made."

Rita sits down, pours herself a cup of coffee, and takes a sip before anyone can stop her. She stares down at the cup. "Lord, this is amazing. You mean to tell me the Devil himself made this?" she asks.

"Seems impossible, right?" God asks before She can stop Herself.

Rita pours herself more coffee. "No one likes a smartass, Dia."




(1) Like who his favorites are on the most recent season of American Idol. Michael's never been a fan of pop music, but he can appreciate a good, upbeat song as much as the next person (with wings). American Idol, though, offends his punk rocker sensibilities. It would figure the Devil would endorse it.

(2) He forgot to do laundry (which means he forgot to leave his laundry out for the cherubs to do), so he's currently commando. Buckwild. Naked under his clothes. Do I really need to go on?

(3) St. Rita, Patron Saint of the Impossible. Those days when you just don't think your skinny jeans will contain your not so skinny ass but they do? St. Rita. You wake up with fifteen minutes to get ready and eat breakfast and you still make it into work on time and looking fabulous? Yup, St. Rita. She's pretty much the shit.

(4) Sometimes, he wishes she'd rub off a little on Ellie. And then he reminds himself that he's not supposed to be in love with his boss...especially since his boss is THE BOSS.