Agreed to take ‘graveyard shift’ at bookshop for the angel. Angel worried about unscrupulous collectors getting their covetous hands on his first quartos during his trip to Edinburgh. Probably third most adorable worry this year. Fourth, counting the badgers.
Promised to pull wriggling-maggots gambit on any would-be thieves, did not promise to refrain from eating leftover palmiers. Angel oddly concerned about ‘what the shop might get up to.’ Assured him working at night is nothing new, have a saying in Hell that ‘it’s always the graveyard shift somewhere.’ (Was inspiration for the signs about five o’clock, for which received award for Special Contributions in Intemperance.)
Angel left. Briefly brushed shoulders as he was putting on coat, i.e. life still unendurable disaster.
Should be preparing conference paper for annual Hell all-hands in Las Vegas, can’t be bothered. Intend to waste entire night watching tv humans make complicated desserts and posting misattributed Victorian quotations. Not going to ransack Aziraphale’s kitchen, doze off, or go looking in obscure cabinets.
Woke up as snake coiled around till amid palmier crumbs. Not good, not supposed to be sleeping. Weird dream in which dressed in white, waiting for a dog, angel had curly moustache. Moustache should not have been attractive, was. Bugger it all to Heaven.
Made tea in the angel’s atrocious kitchen, caused eviction of mouse family when retrieving kettle, probably instigated fall of mouse civilization. Kettle one of those disgusting 1950s flower-patterned nightmares, of course.
Checked email, heaps of bids for own illegal listings on eBay. Should be able to fulfill lust quota for month with posts selling purported toenails of celebrities. Played d*vil’s adv*cate on Twitter (not allowed to actually write that down or Office of Infernal Counsel will send a c&d for making overstated legal claims), started rumor that cauliflower is actually dehydrated human brains.
Heard shuffling sound. Should probably go check for quarto thieves.
Could not find source of shuffles anywhere. Looked in back room, nothing unusual. All ten zillion throw pillows angel insists on burdening sofa with appear to be in place.
Have had too many thoughts about that sofa. Picked up nearest bottle and went to kitchen to drown idiocy in several teacups of whiskey.
Got bored, started poking around. Found mildew stain that appears to be accurate map of Antarctica. Considered eating preserves noticed in back of cabinet, but unable to verify that it was made subsequent to Charlemagne’s accession. Briefly entertained notion of reading a book, came to senses and scrolled through 15 articles on phone about dogs that look like famous dictators.
Continued papery-sounding noises in the background. Would not be shocked if angel has white noise machine designed to sound like someone rifling through dictionary pages.
Got bored-er. Attempted to clean grime from windows experimentally and lost nerve about ten seconds in.
Peeked into bathroom on second floor (which have been unconditionally invited to use but have only entered once to vomit in after regrettable work event in fourth circle). Angel apparently hoarding soap from past three centuries, in least surprising development of modern age.
Washed hands to get rid of window gunk. Refrained heroically from sniffing any towels.
Heard whispering from downstairs. Neighbors? Cannot believe anyone is actually waiting around to steal first quartos from world’s unfriendliest-looking bookstore.
Finished whiskey. “Cauliflower Is Brains” trending on Twitter. Found own decades-old tie deep in sofa cushions, not that was examining these too closely.
In attempt to trace whispers, entered stacks. Began imagining scenarios in which unexpectedly holy book toppled and caused catastrophic injury. Do not want angel to return to smoldering pile of ex-demon on his unspeakably dusty floors. Also do not want to be smoldering pile of ex-demon, naturally.
Obtained gloves the angel uses for book repair from end table. Also took umbrella from its place hanging on hatstand and partially opened as defense against falling books. Probably looked like Edwardian wanker.
Proceeded with stack-examining. Organization system unclear. Slightly alarmed by discovering volume of Galen with recent takeaway receipts seemingly serving as bookmarks for easy reference. May explain why angel still refers to all colds as ‘excesses of phlegm.’
Too difficult to navigate narrow shelves with umbrella. Abandoned umbrella, substituted trilby hat for protection from falling sacred texts. Have never looked more ridiculous, very much including all of 17th Century and that time had snakebite piercings and mullet with short fringe.
FUCKASPIDERCRAWLEDONMYHANDFUCK
Can never go back to Hell, spider might be waiting there.
Well. That’s certainly interesting.
Section of one bookshelf protected by some kind of holy bond-of-secrecy-whatsit. Should have left alone. Could have broken it with hellfire, but am in most flammable location in known universe, decided that was terrible idea. Managed to undo holy bonds using profane combination of two parts own venom, one part hoarded soap spritzed through a salad mister.
The angel has about two hundred books and fifteen scrolls concerning how to summon and bind demons. Thought at first maybe was for professional development. Too many. Angel has copy of the Big One, the one that can force a demon to do whatever summoner requests.
In fact, angel has all known copies.
Have only had it used twice before. Once some pissed aristocrat wanted to steal Love’s Labours Won, turned into whole thing. Second time group of students got very desperate trying to complete science fair project. Learned way too much about thermodynamics.
Theoretically should be extremely horrified that the angel has all extant copies of Big One and can summon and bind demons at any time.
Feeling am experiencing is…not horror.
Relevant pages in the Big One crossed out in indelible ink, ‘absolutely not’ written in weird cursive angel was using four hundred years ago. Impossible to see incantation.
Theorized why this might be throughout second bottle of whiskey. Enjoyed feelings of profound relief. Ignored feelings of vague disappointment.
Theory one: angel at one time planning to use Big One, decided not to. Reasonable theory, but does not explain why every copy is in this bookshop.
Theory two: angel bought every copy with the express intent of crossing out incantation so no one could completely control a demon ever again.
Will never mention any of this unless perhaps world ends. Probably not even then. What would that really change?
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