Crowley was bored and peckish, but also feeling lazy, and not sure if he was peckish because he was bored or if he was actually hungry. Probably for company–he he had come to associate eating with Aziraphale, but there was the matter of being lazy. He thumbed through his phone contacts. “Pizza…angel…or mice. I do have those mice in the freezer. Could always put the mice on the pizza.” Aziraphale liked pizza, but there was also the prospect of spending an evening watching Alton Brown humiliate trained chefs on TV and eating demonic junk food, two things the angel didn’t really enjoy. He had just reached the mental compromise of a cupcake decorating show and two different pizzas when the ground opened up beneath him.
His first assumption, that Hell had seen fit to recall him in the most efficient way possible, didn’t seem to be correct. Hell had linoleum floors that were often sticky, but it usually didn’t smell like a combination of popcorn and cucumber melon body spray, and it also usually didn’t have cheap wood siding and a pool table. Summoned, then. He looked at the hand that had landed in the sticky. The sticky stuff on the floor had glitter in it. Glitter was also not especially infernal, no matter how hard it was to get out anything you didn’t want to have glitter on it.
There was normally a whole script you’d have to go through for a summoning–it was very impressive and contained a lot of threats, promises, and thees and thous–but Crowley hadn’t gotten through millennia on Earth by indulging a work ethic. Also, his summoners had used glitter glue. And they were wearing pajamas with cartoon characters instead of proper black robes. Professionalism could probably be dispensed with in this situation. He let the glitter glue disintegrate off his hand, then glared at the girl holding the bowl of popcorn. “That had better be for me.”
Her mouth dropped open, revealing half-chewed popcorn stuck to braces. Crowley decided he didn’t really want popcorn. He turned to a short redhead holding a large leather book. She wore Miss Piggy pajamas and a smug expression. Probably the leader. “Look, it’s Friday night, I’ve got places to be, just tell me what you lot want so I can get out of here.”
“So, I really need to pass this test–”
“I need my braces off in time–”
“–or else they’re going to ground me for LIFE–”
“I mean, does he LIKE me like me–”
“–I’ll look like a dork in my bat mitzvah pictures–”
“Can you make it so I pass all of my tests, actually–”
“–and if he doesn’t like me can you tell me who does?”
“It doesn’t have to be all A’s, I’m okay with a B-plus–”
“–and can you make me a blonde?”
The redhead slammed the book shut. “Lauren, that is such a dumb thing to ask a demon. You can just dye your hair.”
“But my mom won’t let me!” Lauren wailed.
Crowley ran his fingers through his hair. He wanted a drink, snapped his fingers, and got one. It was pink and had an umbrella in it and a curly straw. He hadn’t intended that. “She’s got a point. You can’t let your mother tell you what to do all your life. Go blonde, you’d look good. Dye your hair blue if you want.” Disobeying your parents was one of the big ten, that was a very good one. He pointed at the girl who’d been worried about her test. “In fact, screw what your parents think, and screw grades. You want tests all your life? Don’t even bother with that test. Run off and–” What did kids run off to do today? “Become an Instagram influencer.”
“Um, I actually want to be a marine biologist.”
“Oh! Saving the whales. Better study, then. No way ‘round it. Sorry.” He sipped the drink. It tasted like coconut. “Who was asking about Bobby?”
“I don’t think I want to know now.”
“Yeah, good choice.” Crowley had no idea who Bobby was, how he felt about the girl with the bright orange fingernails and bunny slippers, or how he’d go about finding that out. He turned to the leader. “What about you, Miss-Piggy-with-the-book? You must want something. Or did you summon me up to braid my hair?”
“I want magic powers,” she said firmly.
Crowley gestured to the glitter glue. It was a mess. “You’ve already got them. This really shouldn’t have worked. Just…practice.” He pulled one of Aziraphale’s business cards out of thin air, which was really impressive because Aziraphale had absolutely refused to get business cards printed up, and handed it to her. “Loads of occult books in this shop. Bring your pocket money.”
She looked dubious, but pocketed it. Hopefully she’d stop by and Crowley would have a good afternoon’s entertainment watching the angel try and get rid of a very determined, very powerful little witch.
“All right,” Crowley said, “show’s over? Can I go now?”
Bunny slippers raised her hand. “Actually…Can I braid your hair?”
“How are you going to do that? I’m in a magic circle. I can’t get out, and you really shouldn’t step in.”
“Okay, well I don’t know everything about how magical circles work, and you don’t need to be a jerk about it.” Bunny slippers rolled her eyes.
“Demon,” Crowley said. “It is part of my job description to be a–look, do any of you want to sell your soul?”
A chorus of noes. There was a reason that bit normally came earlier in the spiel, but he had never been a very good salesman.
