Who: Anthony Crowley and (OPEN) What: Cursing angels and searching for a drink. When: Early evening. Where: The streets, outside a convenience store Rating: TBA. PG-13 for language.
There was a wheel clamp on his car. He'd been trapped inside a plane for the majority of the day, he'd just spent an hour inside a Los Angeles convenience store trying to find an eye-glass repair kit and the name of a good bar, and there was a wheel clamp on his beautiful, sleek 1926 Bentley. A garish, bright yellow clamp. Typical.
Anthony Crowley bent to examine the thing, holding his broken sunglasses in one hand. No, he didn't technically have to touch it to cause it to vanish, but bending over the wheel pretty much blocked it from view, and he didn't want anyone seeing what he was doing. It occurred to Crowley belatedly that instead of wasting time listening to Muzac and arguing with a sales clerk, he could've simply wished the dark lenses back in place. The demon did this, stood, and leaned against his car, mumbling under his breath about jet lag.
The planes weren't to blame, really; the police that had placed that clamp and written him a ticket (which was now, mysteriously, ash) weren't to blame; even the little bastard on the airplane that had stepped on his sunglasses was faultless. If he was going to get technical in his blaming, Crowley'd have to start cursing (blessing, rather) Hell, and though he hadn't been punished yet for going up against Beelzebub, the idea of getting in more trouble Downstairs made him shiver. They'd told him to go here but hadn't been specific, and they hadn't mentioned what they wanted him doing... Perhaps this was his punishment. His body still remembered those cold-blooded days, and the absence of the sun was already beginning to take its toll. Crowley needed to go somewhere warm, with a drink.
The demon's eyes wandered until they came across the Bentley's tartan bike-straps, and he looked at them with a renewed, enthusiastic dislike. "Fucking angel," he spat at it. He'd barely left a message for Aziraphale after recieving Hell's orders. Stupid: another bucketful of holy water might've done him well, and now, probably, the angel was fretting in a way that was annoying and somehow supernatural -- the bastard could pass for a Jewish grandmother if he ever asked for a female body. It'd be nice to have Aziraphale here. If only to yell at him...