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It had been a few thousand years since he had stood on top of what could only be described as a glorified rock in Hell, looking at the 1/3rd of Heaven he dragged down with him for the first time, amongst the tar and the smell. He was remembering it now, looking at the empty space of the room where once a nun by the name of sister Luna had stood, because losing Stanley Moon's soul felt more or less like the same sort of deal—only worse. He could feel the consistency of the air around him. He wished he were in Hell, with his shield on his back, looking at the legions he was about to command, the idea of a life reborn in mud at his fingertips, his hair still curly, longer, cherubic…
But really, he was a bit too English for that sort of thing now, wasn't he?
Sure, he wasn't English, it was just a title he had adopted for the last few centuries. Truth was that he wasn't anything. He didn't belong there and he never felt that more poignantly than when he realized that a white robe doesn't make an angel and God is a great git when it comes to keeping promises.
Oh, he could strangle Stanley Moon. He could rip him apart limb from limb. He hadn't done that in millennia, but he felt like he still could, theoretically. All he needed to do was get a hold of the little short order cook's body and pull.
“Oh. Still here, aren't we?” A nasty little voice sounded behind him, and he could feel his eyes at the back of his skull in record time, even for him.
“Get out.”
“Sad you just missed your boyfriend, hm? Or should I say girlfriend? And what happened to your big, one way ticket to Heaven, huh, smaller guy?”
“Envy, one more word from you and I'm going to make you wish you were never born…”
“Really, that's all you got?”
Envy, ever graceful, slithered in front of him not unlike Luci—George—had in paradise. He watched him and wished that he could poison his drink, but the truth is that there wasn't anyone to fill his position at the moment, so he didn't want to push his luck.
“My,” Envy continued. “You must be really crushed.”
“You're about to be really crushed if you don't get out of my—”
“Oh, poor baby…” Another voice, another deadly sin. He considered locking his door.
He considered never leaving again. “I thought you were going back up there to that big castle in the sky!”
“No, Lily,” Envy said, making way to the bed and lounging in it lavishly, spreading himself about, still holding a cigarette, dragging it. “No such luck.”
London was as Hellish as ever, thanks to him, of course. He had his cape on. He had his suit on, primly. He was on the way to Wimpy's. He wanted to see Stanley bleed, but he'd smile and be courteous. He'd get him fair and square. God thought he didn't have what it took to be an angel? Well, maybe he didn’t.
He opened the door and heard the bell chime, much like the choir of the many in Paradise, though all he saw was the little man going back and forth on his little grill, with the little hat on his head.
He wanted him dead. Instead, he walked in, knowing full well that his aura was making every customer look away. He went towards the counter and took a seat in front of the display of old, disgusting, baked “goods.” He snapped his fingers to make sure they would really cause food poisoning now—not enough to put anyone in the hospital, just enough for hundreds of missed work days.
Stanley, as if feeling a twitch, an electric current no doubt, looked up and locked eyes with him.
“Hello, Stanley.” George tried to keep his tone even. He was rubbing the fingers of his left hand on one another (index and thumb), like a fly on top of a leaf—like Beelzebub when he had a bad rash.
“Hi there, George. Been a while.” And instead of looking fearful that the Devil was there once more, Stanley smiled.
It had been. A while. The sins were on his case about depression and whatnot, but George was not depressed. That didn't even make sense. He was going out, making deals, monitoring wars, talking to politicians in small third world country dictatorships, talking to bands or generally famous people, drug dealers and suppliers, cult leaders, etc, the whole nine yards.
Besides, depression was for humans—lowly beings, like Stanley and his suicidal attempts.
Isn't that what their fight had been about? Come to think of it, he didn't even remember. He didn't want to think about it either.
“Well, I was busy. Then I thought: How about I pay a nice visit to my good old friend Stanley? See how he's doing now that his immortal soul has been restored.” He rested his hand on his chin, making sure to approach the little cook's face as much as possible over the grill, showcasing power, of course. He was much taller than him. He was also the prince of Darkness.
Stanley, far from being deterred, smiled brighter.
“Well, I'll be with you in a minute, eh?” George was taken aback, blinked once, twice…
“Yes. Sure.”
From his new table at the far corner of the “restaurant,” George observed Stanley and Margaret talking to one another for what seemed to have been, at least in his head, a full ten minutes. He was wondering if he hadn't made Stanley a little too comfortable. The time for fighting had long run out. The speech about turning demons into false idols and reallocating everyone had been ages ago.
He still saw some of them, some had reincarnated into actual heads of state. Others were trying to get the ball rolling on New Age religion. Something to do with crystals and the “Age of Aquarius.” George thought it was all marve—what the Hell did Stanley and Margaret have to talk about for ten-bloody-minutes? They couldn't even look at one another without an involved premise by Stanley and a snap of George's fingers until recently.
He got up with a movement that made the chair drop behind him and an old lady squeal, putting a hand on her chest. A discreet snap of his fingers ensured that one of her earring backs fell into oblivion inside of a crack in the tiles. She wouldn't notice it until much later when it was too late and the earring fell on the sidewalk of a busy street during happy hour.
He walked with purpose and set himself in another corner, looking up at Stanley while Margaret got one of the orders. They had stopped talking for a moment—there was work to be done after all—but Stanley did it: He asked her out to dinner.
George could laugh. Of course she said no, he was all stutters and sweat, some of it from the grill, some not so much. George knew Stanley had no experience with women. No experience period. Not even a kiss.
This was laughable, truly, out of the park, laughable.
“I can change that Stanley.”
His best offer, denied.
So what could he do, but scream at the Heavens while God laughed at him, actually laughed, the git, the absolute arsehole…
Ok, maybe he was depressed. Wouldn't anyone be?
“Sign here, here, and here…” A skinny little girl of sixteen's mother was looking to change the entire beauty standard from something a little healthier to something that would demolish body images for the foreseeable centuries. He couldn't pass on that. The girl was none the wiser, but she was gonna be a phenomenon, and so young too? Clearly a recipe for disaster. Two birds, one stone and all…
Yet, she didn't even ask to sign in blood. She didn't even respect the tradition of what it meant to have a contract with the Devil.
He sent her away, a good little bad deed done today, and all he could think about to make himself happy was the brief moment in which the water hit Stanley Moon's head, coming from his pathetic little pipe, not even an actual, dignified piece of metal. Just rubbish really.
He could, in fact, almost hear his voice: George, why do you do such bad deeds?
George, why can't you stop yourself?
George, we'd all be in paradise if it weren't for you.
“George!”
Wait. That was his voice.
He looked up. There, at the top of the stairs, Stanley Moon looked down at him. “Hey! They told me you'd be in here!”
His footsteps were fast downstairs. Didn't he have bad legs? And who exactly let him in? He was sure that Anger was guarding the door… But didn't Stanley beat him up when he was a woman? That must have been embarrassing. George wouldn't even go out on the street afterwards, had it been him.
Besides, Stanley did stay back to take care of the party for him—little, gullible, sweet Stanley—which endeared the sins to him at least a little. He, apparently, even went around listening to Avarice count every single broken bottle, every single cup smashed against the wall, every single fallen sequin of Lily's costume, all before burning his contract.
George had to admit it, Stanley was dumber than he ever thought he could be. It had been a miracle that he—well.
“Stanley!” He greeted, with a cordial smile, getting up from his chair, welcoming his unwanted guest with open arms. “What brings your cheery face here?” Stanley seemed out of place, eyes on the floor, rubbing his forearm in that customary humble way of his.
It was all very sickening, George thought. Very.
“Well… You left before we had a chance to talk.”
“Oh, I was just making sure to give you and Margaret your space.”
Margaret and her icy eyeshadow, her mismatched lipstick, her colorful get ups…
Sure he walked around in a cape, but it was quite fetching on him. She needed to tone it down a little.
“Oh, thank you. That's very nice of you.”
“That's me, Stanley.” George said, eyes sparkling. “Nice.”
“Yes, I know. Well… I was wondering how it went. You know. Up there.”
“Oh marvelous, Stanley. I'm just waiting for the call. Any time now God will have a vacancy for me. Here's hoping that Michael gets sick of being an archangel and decides to bomb a third world country.”
Too much? George had no idea anymore. He didn't know up from down. Things were easier when it was just Adam and Eve. Now, little human beings with big brown eyes looked up at him in confusion and utter honesty…
This is what you'll replace us with? Me, with? I don't think so…
Pride he called it. Sin of pride.
“So you didn't get in?” Stanley asked. George glared at him.
“No.” He sat back down, head supported on his hand, looking anywhere but Stanley.
He, however, had the absolute gall to sit in front of him.
“Well, I’m sorry. I really wanted you to have gotten it.”
“Yes, well. Wanting it doesn’t mean getting it.”
“Wouldn’t I know…” Stanley said. George raised an eyebrow.
“Trouble in paradise?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you and Margaret seemed pretty close.”
“Oh. Yes… More or less. Today she was telling me how her mother used to make burgers. That conversation must have lasted about two minutes. Still, longer than any I’ve ever…”
“Fascinating,” George said, stopping him right there. “Are you sure you don’t want me to fix you up with more interesting topics of conversation?”
“Like when you made me an intellectual and Margaret yelled rape? Don’t think so, George.”
“I could fix that for you.”
“And what would that get you?”
George felt himself frown. Humans were telling, very telling. Emotions were all over their faces. When you are born an angel and know basically one emotion, which is elation, it’s difficult not to know only hatred or basic boredom when you fall. Now, humans had those and more on top of it, which made things very turbulent, even for the most blank faced, less twitchy of them.
George could read most like a book. Disliked most too.
Still, whether or not he disliked humanity or thought they were a waste of space, wasn’t the point. The point was that there wasn’t a hint of insincerity in Stanley’s face. No game. Nothing to be gained from the answer. He was trying to figure out what George was going to get out of taking his soul like he would benefit from knowing whether or not it would rain in a couple of hours.
And what would it get George to damn Stanley for all eternity?
Well, first of all, it’d be a laugh. Seeing him burn would make up for it: The rejection, the interminable hours he saw Stanley fumble wish after wish, which, though funny, could have been faster, the fact he nosed himself up here and decided to enact “sympathy for the Devil,” which he didn’t need and didn’t ask. And also the way he looked at him like he was still an angel inside.
Stanley needed to know.
“I just thought I’d help. What are friends for?” Was what he went with instead of all that.
“Well, it’s fine George, really. I’d still rather do it my own way, if it doesn’t bother you.”
God’s laugh boomed, but only inside of his head.
“Of course not…” Maybe before he’d have a better quip, but for some reason Stanley’s shallow smile was getting him all out of sorts. “Fancy a drink?”
The bar was empty apart from Lily dancing at the pole. Stanley watched her for a few minutes too long while he poured them some shots. George himself had seen it all. Maybe that was part of the problem.
“Here, drink up.”
“Oh, thanks,” Stanley and his little mousey voice piped up, closing his fingers around the glass. He drank it all in one go and George tried to suppress any surprise, following along. “Hey, you won’t charge me for this, will you?”
George looked at him and the empty glass.
“No, you’re fine.”
No, you’re fine? He thought as he poured Stanley another one. We have become a charity, have we? Lucifer, the Morningstar, serving free drinks to humankind. You’ve lost it. You completely lost—
“What are you going to be doing now that you’re not up there, but down here forever?”
George took a deep breath, gave Stanley his glass, drank his up, watched Lily swirl…
All Stanley watched was him.
“What makes you think it’s forever?”
“Well, I thought…”
“Maybe you thought wrong, which has happened before, let’s be honest, Stanley. I might still make it up there and then no more free drinks. Make sure you enjoy this. I'm not a charity.”
Not even his snarkiest remarks managed to get the tiny arsehole today, he still smiled.
“Well, I hope you do make it, then.” Stanley bumped his glass with George’s own. “Cheers.” It was his turn to watch him drink up, savor the most expensive thing that was ever digested by his person (but that was bound to give him a bad case of alcohol poisoning, as it did all people who drank from it, considering who they were buying it from…) Lick his lips when he was done…
“You know I’m the Devil, right? The biblical figure?” Stanley looked up. Lily seemed to have gotten tired and slid down the pole. Envy came out of his room to smoke, looking at them with his little, bright eyes. George made a face at him.
“‘Course I do, I’d be an idiot not to believe it at this point, wouldn’t I?”
George took a sip of his drink.
“I’m talking about fire, Stanley, the depths of Hell. I damn people for all eternity. I damned your whole family to Hell. Who do you think made your grandfather lose everything to gambling and whores? Who do you think tempted the whores to become whores? The scammers to scam him?”
“Well, you can’t help it, can you? Besides, you were nice when you could be. You talked to me...”
“Margaret talks to you.”
“Well, not like you. I… I went to the library…” George almost coughed.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The library, George. Try to keep up,” Stanley said, and George was going to say something to the effect of keep up, with you? But his guest just continued the anecdote like he hadn’t just sassed the Devil. “I went to the library and I picked up a book to look up that bloke you mentioned, the Chinese one? With the tigers?” He didn’t even know what to say to that, so he just nodded. “Well, it was tough to find it, I didn't remember the name properly and then I read the bloody thing maybe ten times over. Two tigers, right, one up, one down. You can’t really win it.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Yes, but well, then there is that tree there, with the strawberry. I think that maybe that’s what I’m doing right now, George. I’m eating the strawberry. I figured that if I can’t win with God, cause he doesn’t pay attention to me and I can’t win with you, cause you’ll just trick me, I can, I don’t know… Drink with you. Go to church. Get by. Try to make it all work.” That was the wisest thing Stanley Moon had ever said in his short, miserable life, and it had been in a den of sin, watching a tired ‘woman’ work the pole, with a little glass of expensive liquor in his hands and the Devil over his shoulder.
George finished his drink.
“Have you ever heard of an expression to the effect of ‘you can’t hold hands with the Devil and say you’re just kidding?’” He waved his head. George figured as much. “Well, I think maybe you’re getting too close to the edge there, Stanley.”
Then again, what was it to him? Just the other day he was having detailed fantasies of throwing Stanley in front of a moving vehicle, preferably a bus, and now he was trying to, what, get him out of damnation? Give him a free ticket to paradise, paradise he couldn’t even access?
Well, to be fair, he could.
…As a guest of dishonor.
“I think I’ll just have to wait and see,” Stanley said. He turned towards him and handed him his glass. “I just wanted to see how you were, George, I have to get going. Got a shift tomorrow, all that.”
“I could get you a job wherever you’d like. Just say the word and I’ll draft a brand new contract—”
“I think I’ll just stick with Wimpy’s for now, see where it gets me,” another one of his shallow smiles and then, “bye George.”
Seeing him go was almost like watching him disappear with the burned edges of the soul contract again—which fell into a pile of ashes on his carpet, burning a hole he hadn't yet snapped his fingers to fix.
Anger glared daggers, but didn’t hit him on the way out. In fact, it seemed like the place had gotten used to Stanley’s presence in the short time he spent there. George poured himself another glass and drank. He could at least take some consolation on the fact that the alcohol would hit soon. Stanley wouldn’t be able to make it to his shift in time. He’d miss his bus because of the headache and have to walk all the way.
Hooray for small mi—
Well.