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Lucifer (ungelic) wrote in entrywaythreads,

“Blah blah, Oliver Queen. Who cares? The blonde that was with you was a bit skinny, but I could work with that? Bit of a sass. Ringing any bells or has Purgatory taken your memory?”

Lucifer wasn’t in the business of owing anyone anything. Made him look bad as the King of Deals. He turned his attention to the bar and like magic, someone came over to refill his glass. “No favors, Connie,” his smile went devilishly wide, “but I could be moved if your case strikes my fancy.”

He stared down into his newly refilled glass, overcome by an intense unwelcome desire to plant his ass back on his throne. He was virtually as useless as Michael here. Short of coming up with ways to rile his not-brother brother up, Lucifer was stuck at this piano. Unusually unkempt, hair mussed, sans tie and missing his top buttons. He only remembered the slight annoyance standing there with a smug smile stretched across his lips.

“How does Purgatory find you, John?” John. Not Connie, Constantyne, or Johnny. “Venus and Mars converging, how lucky for you. Aphrodite, is it?” There. Change of subject. No more favors. No more deals. “What do you think about me as King of Purgatory? Mayor seems so dull.”