Good Omens: VERY VERY first draft-ish
This will get a lot more treatment before ever seeing the Real light of day.
"'Snot right," said Hastur, pausing to stub his cigarette out on a passing soul.
Ligur grunted noncommittally. In as much as he trusted any other demon, he trusted Hastur. This, however, was not saying much. Consequently, Ligur was not rushing to incriminate himself before he even knew the topic of conversation.
"Downsizing," spat Hastur, clearly not sharing his companion's worries about possible betrayal. "That Bastard -" Hell is, by necessity, a climate that breeds creatures deserving the title 'That Bastard'. Only one such creature, however, inspired quite that much rancour in the demon's voice. "- and his fucking downsizing. I tell you, we should've done that fucker Crowley when we had the chance."
Ligur grunted affirmation. This was safer ground. "Fucking Holy Water," he said, stabbing his own cigerette out on another passing soul.
They both winced.
It should probably be clarified at this point that Crowley was not directly responsible for the originally human practice of downsizing, otherwise known as 'sacking large numbers of people with no legal redress'. It is altogether plausible that the original concept may have been devised by unpleasant people whose unpleasantness was exacerbated by delays due to roadworks on Crowley's baby, the M25. However, the fact remains that the practice itself was purely a human invention. Crowley had merely written some reports, pausing only to scribble in the margins, "All we need is some ritual bloodletting and theses guys will have thought of everything!!!!!" By the third exclamation mark, his superiors were convinced.
Hastur, who was now expertly rolling another cigarette with the lightly flayed skin of a nearby PE teacher, spoke again. "If you ask me," he began, his voice suggesting that if you didn't take his advice and ask him, you could say goodbye to your major internal organs. If you could still speak, that is. "If you ask me, they should've downsized him first." The manner in which he said 'downsized' implied something a lot more unpleasant than simply losing your job. Hell being Hell, this was indeed the case.
"Yeah!" You knew where you were, Ligur reflected, when talking about Crowley. Fucker'd probably gone half-native by now.
"Fucker's probably gone half-native," Hastur added.
See? "Yeah!" agreed Ligur. "Fucker," he added for good measure.
===
Cut back to some time during the sixteenth century. An angel and a demon are sitting in a pub, as far away from Spain as possible.
"The way I see it," opined one, with all the grace and wit of a being who'd spent several days imbibing alcohol at a constant rate and fully intended to spend the next week continuing this trend, "is...is...is! Yes." Satisfied with this conclusion, he looked expectantly at his drinking partner.
"In His name," the other, the angel, said, although whether to his companion, the room or his own mug of beer, no one was sure. "In His name."
"Ineffable," said the first, who, being a demon, was less disturbed by that whole 'in His name' business. "Ineffable."
"I should never have given her that sword," said the angel, focussing on a point just behind the demon's left shoulder.
In a rare moment of lucidity, the demon protested. "Nah," he said, attempting to fix the angel with a steely glare. "Nah. Nah, you did good. Def'nit'ly. Good. 'Sineffable, innit? Us buggers don't get free will." The glare was more faintly ferrous than steely, but neither being was about to quibble. "Us buggers don't," the demon reconsidered the point, "don't get free will." Four days earlier, he'd visited Spain to see what this commendation was all about. 'This commendation' being the one marked "To Crowley, for the Spanish Inquisition" on the back in letters it would be overly optimistic to think of as having been written in blood. Three and a half days earlier, he'd bumped into the angel, who'd been ministering to a passing Spaniard. Well, passing in as much as if he'd had working legs he might have tried to pass. Three and a quarter days earlier, they'd started drinking.
"You've got to hope," muttered the angel, each word escaping his lips like a freshly skinned toad, "that it is."
"Is?"
"Ineffable."
"Got to," the demon agreed. "Got to."
Not meeting each other's eyes, they both took another drink.
===
Forward to a few days ago, and a Duke of Hell was giving his underlings - or valuable demonic capital, as a memo inspired by one of Crowley's reports now instructed him to call them - their weekly pep talk. This had much the same effect on demons as Crowley's 'chats' with his plants had on all photosynthesising beings everywhere. Consequently, Hastur's audience was not so much captive as well into the third month of a hostage situation gone badly, badly wrong.
"Denizens of Hell," Hastur began, reading from the sheet he held in his - well, let's call them hands, "6007 years into phase two of our glorious scheme..." In the text, the latter three words were capitalised, but Hastur saw no need to - as a certain angel might put it - overegg the omelet. "6007 years, and what have we achieved? Insert dramatic pause here. Nothing!" This was one of Hell's more rousing versions of a pep talk. "We will do better. If we don't, we will pay the price." With that, Hastur turned his script into a small burrowing mammal and set the creature on fire. As it ran around frantically, perhaps unaware that nothing it could do would be enough to quench a demonic fire, Hastur allowed himself his first smile of the day.
Needless to say, it wasn't pleasant.
===
Same time, or at least near enough to satisfy dramatic convention, different plane of existence, and That Bastard Crowley was about thirty seconds away from doing equally unspeakable things to rodents. All right, thirty seconds and 6000 years of human influence away from flambéed shrew. All right, thirty seconds, 6000 years of humanity and more angelic influence than he cared to think about. Happy now? Well, Crowley wasn't.
Crowley, it seemed, had been knocking at the door to Aziraphale's bookshop for the previous six minutes to no avail. He didn't need to bother with such formalities, but the angel claimed barging in without permission was rude. Not as rude, say, as the imaginative yet technically impossible obscenities Crowley was muttering under his breath, but still rude.
But, Crowley could argue (one unsurprisingly elegant finger raised in mock rhetoric), demons are meant to be rude. Forces of Darkness don't stop to say please before wreaking havoc and other unpleasantries.
True, Aziraphale could then counter (were this conversation to have taken place, which Crowley would deny under oath), but if you're going to be wreaking havoc in my shop, don't even think about doing so near the first editions.
That wasn't my point, Crowley could have replied (had he replied, had there been a conversation, which there hadn't), but- And the argument continued. (Or didn't.) None of this, however, was helping Crowley get an answer at the door, and so, brushing aside the angel's imagined objections, he entered the shop.
"Aziraphale?" Even with the acoustic dampening of several thousand books' worth of aging leather and processed tree, Crowley's voice reverberated around the shop. "Aziraphale?"
There was no answer, although Crowley fancied the books were looking at him reproachfully. More reproachfully, even, than normal. He scowled at them. Bastards. 'Snot as if there were even the angel's proper books, 'snot as if they had any claim on Aziraphale. The first editions of a hundred Boy's Own classics stared back at him, taunting him with the reminder that their owner had - give or take the odd Antichristian intervention - chosen them, whereas Crowley was merely tolerated.
Crowley growled., and the books shrank back in their shelves. It wasn't much, but it made the demon feel slightly better.
"Aziraphale?"
But there was no answer, save for shelves of silent resentment.
And the plot continues as follows:
Aziraphale has gone to the shops. Ligur persuades Hastur to go demon-nap Crowley. Crowley is sitting in bookshop, arguing with the books and just waiting to be 'napped. Ligur's first attempt at 'napping goes wrong and he steals the book Crowley's brought for Aziraphale. "You stole. A book?" This angers C&A more than the attempted bastardness of MyFavouriteEvilGuys. Aziraphale comes back, sees the second attempt at 'napping (a demonic wile, indeed) and thwarts to his little heart's content. The historical snippets still to come include The Arrangement (already written), The Spanish 'Flu Epidemic of 1919 (already planned), Job (must reread that bit of the bible), an economic crisis of Michael's choice.
Emotional arc, as should be obvious by now, is how both beings have changed thanks to human and supernatural influences.
"'Snot right," said Hastur, pausing to stub his cigarette out on a passing soul.
Ligur grunted noncommittally. In as much as he trusted any other demon, he trusted Hastur. This, however, was not saying much. Consequently, Ligur was not rushing to incriminate himself before he even knew the topic of conversation.
"Downsizing," spat Hastur, clearly not sharing his companion's worries about possible betrayal. "That Bastard -" Hell is, by necessity, a climate that breeds creatures deserving the title 'That Bastard'. Only one such creature, however, inspired quite that much rancour in the demon's voice. "- and his fucking downsizing. I tell you, we should've done that fucker Crowley when we had the chance."
Ligur grunted affirmation. This was safer ground. "Fucking Holy Water," he said, stabbing his own cigerette out on another passing soul.
They both winced.
It should probably be clarified at this point that Crowley was not directly responsible for the originally human practice of downsizing, otherwise known as 'sacking large numbers of people with no legal redress'. It is altogether plausible that the original concept may have been devised by unpleasant people whose unpleasantness was exacerbated by delays due to roadworks on Crowley's baby, the M25. However, the fact remains that the practice itself was purely a human invention. Crowley had merely written some reports, pausing only to scribble in the margins, "All we need is some ritual bloodletting and theses guys will have thought of everything!!!!!" By the third exclamation mark, his superiors were convinced.
Hastur, who was now expertly rolling another cigarette with the lightly flayed skin of a nearby PE teacher, spoke again. "If you ask me," he began, his voice suggesting that if you didn't take his advice and ask him, you could say goodbye to your major internal organs. If you could still speak, that is. "If you ask me, they should've downsized him first." The manner in which he said 'downsized' implied something a lot more unpleasant than simply losing your job. Hell being Hell, this was indeed the case.
"Yeah!" You knew where you were, Ligur reflected, when talking about Crowley. Fucker'd probably gone half-native by now.
"Fucker's probably gone half-native," Hastur added.
See? "Yeah!" agreed Ligur. "Fucker," he added for good measure.
===
Cut back to some time during the sixteenth century. An angel and a demon are sitting in a pub, as far away from Spain as possible.
"The way I see it," opined one, with all the grace and wit of a being who'd spent several days imbibing alcohol at a constant rate and fully intended to spend the next week continuing this trend, "is...is...is! Yes." Satisfied with this conclusion, he looked expectantly at his drinking partner.
"In His name," the other, the angel, said, although whether to his companion, the room or his own mug of beer, no one was sure. "In His name."
"Ineffable," said the first, who, being a demon, was less disturbed by that whole 'in His name' business. "Ineffable."
"I should never have given her that sword," said the angel, focussing on a point just behind the demon's left shoulder.
In a rare moment of lucidity, the demon protested. "Nah," he said, attempting to fix the angel with a steely glare. "Nah. Nah, you did good. Def'nit'ly. Good. 'Sineffable, innit? Us buggers don't get free will." The glare was more faintly ferrous than steely, but neither being was about to quibble. "Us buggers don't," the demon reconsidered the point, "don't get free will." Four days earlier, he'd visited Spain to see what this commendation was all about. 'This commendation' being the one marked "To Crowley, for the Spanish Inquisition" on the back in letters it would be overly optimistic to think of as having been written in blood. Three and a half days earlier, he'd bumped into the angel, who'd been ministering to a passing Spaniard. Well, passing in as much as if he'd had working legs he might have tried to pass. Three and a quarter days earlier, they'd started drinking.
"You've got to hope," muttered the angel, each word escaping his lips like a freshly skinned toad, "that it is."
"Is?"
"Ineffable."
"Got to," the demon agreed. "Got to."
Not meeting each other's eyes, they both took another drink.
===
Forward to a few days ago, and a Duke of Hell was giving his underlings - or valuable demonic capital, as a memo inspired by one of Crowley's reports now instructed him to call them - their weekly pep talk. This had much the same effect on demons as Crowley's 'chats' with his plants had on all photosynthesising beings everywhere. Consequently, Hastur's audience was not so much captive as well into the third month of a hostage situation gone badly, badly wrong.
"Denizens of Hell," Hastur began, reading from the sheet he held in his - well, let's call them hands, "6007 years into phase two of our glorious scheme..." In the text, the latter three words were capitalised, but Hastur saw no need to - as a certain angel might put it - overegg the omelet. "6007 years, and what have we achieved? Insert dramatic pause here. Nothing!" This was one of Hell's more rousing versions of a pep talk. "We will do better. If we don't, we will pay the price." With that, Hastur turned his script into a small burrowing mammal and set the creature on fire. As it ran around frantically, perhaps unaware that nothing it could do would be enough to quench a demonic fire, Hastur allowed himself his first smile of the day.
Needless to say, it wasn't pleasant.
===
Same time, or at least near enough to satisfy dramatic convention, different plane of existence, and That Bastard Crowley was about thirty seconds away from doing equally unspeakable things to rodents. All right, thirty seconds and 6000 years of human influence away from flambéed shrew. All right, thirty seconds, 6000 years of humanity and more angelic influence than he cared to think about. Happy now? Well, Crowley wasn't.
Crowley, it seemed, had been knocking at the door to Aziraphale's bookshop for the previous six minutes to no avail. He didn't need to bother with such formalities, but the angel claimed barging in without permission was rude. Not as rude, say, as the imaginative yet technically impossible obscenities Crowley was muttering under his breath, but still rude.
But, Crowley could argue (one unsurprisingly elegant finger raised in mock rhetoric), demons are meant to be rude. Forces of Darkness don't stop to say please before wreaking havoc and other unpleasantries.
True, Aziraphale could then counter (were this conversation to have taken place, which Crowley would deny under oath), but if you're going to be wreaking havoc in my shop, don't even think about doing so near the first editions.
That wasn't my point, Crowley could have replied (had he replied, had there been a conversation, which there hadn't), but- And the argument continued. (Or didn't.) None of this, however, was helping Crowley get an answer at the door, and so, brushing aside the angel's imagined objections, he entered the shop.
"Aziraphale?" Even with the acoustic dampening of several thousand books' worth of aging leather and processed tree, Crowley's voice reverberated around the shop. "Aziraphale?"
There was no answer, although Crowley fancied the books were looking at him reproachfully. More reproachfully, even, than normal. He scowled at them. Bastards. 'Snot as if there were even the angel's proper books, 'snot as if they had any claim on Aziraphale. The first editions of a hundred Boy's Own classics stared back at him, taunting him with the reminder that their owner had - give or take the odd Antichristian intervention - chosen them, whereas Crowley was merely tolerated.
Crowley growled., and the books shrank back in their shelves. It wasn't much, but it made the demon feel slightly better.
"Aziraphale?"
But there was no answer, save for shelves of silent resentment.
And the plot continues as follows:
Aziraphale has gone to the shops. Ligur persuades Hastur to go demon-nap Crowley. Crowley is sitting in bookshop, arguing with the books and just waiting to be 'napped. Ligur's first attempt at 'napping goes wrong and he steals the book Crowley's brought for Aziraphale. "You stole. A book?" This angers C&A more than the attempted bastardness of MyFavouriteEvilGuys. Aziraphale comes back, sees the second attempt at 'napping (a demonic wile, indeed) and thwarts to his little heart's content. The historical snippets still to come include The Arrangement (already written), The Spanish 'Flu Epidemic of 1919 (already planned), Job (must reread that bit of the bible), an economic crisis of Michael's choice.
Emotional arc, as should be obvious by now, is how both beings have changed thanks to human and supernatural influences.