(no subject)
WHO: Crowley; open
WHAT: Wiles. HAPPY wiles.
WHERE: Seattle. A park or something I GUESS.
WHEN: Sunday, after the Griffin arrives with his unreasonable, all-engulfing happiness
WARNINGS: DEMONIC ACTIVITY ?
Crowley wasn't sure when had been the last time he'd felt this ... good about things. Sure, most of the time he was more or less pleased with himself; he was good at what he did, he took pride in it, and, if he had had a choice, there was nobody who had ever existed who he would have rather been than Anthony J. Crowley. And, yes, he had his doubts about whoever was running this show -- especially since he'd come here -- but he was basically certain, 99% of the time, that everything was ultimately going to fall in his favour. It always did.
But that morning he'd woken up with a really good feeling about the day ahead. He had an exceptionally pleasant lie-in, and when he headed out into the city to go about his diabolical business he found that the persistent doubts that had been nagging at him -- was there any point in tempting if Hell didn't exist here? Was this really the best possible use of his time? Should he perhaps think about ... doing something else? -- had dulled almost completely.
It was ... nice.
There was a spring in his step as he caused a significant car accident and encouraged passing motorists to slow down and take a look, thus ensuring a large number of people indulged in voyeuristic shock-ogling at the expense of someone else's misfortune and an even larger number of people were held up in traffic. Horns blared. Crowley was proud of car horns; they served no real purpose other than to make the driver's wrath known to fellow motorists and to frustrate everybody within hearing range.
He allowed himself a few moments of pleased, indulgent reflection, and then set off down the road, smiling.
He let air out of people's tyres, and set off car alarms. He made children cry in restaurants, and encouraged other diners to glare at the parents. He encouraged people to be smugly hostile towards tourists, and discouraged them from dropping change into homeless people's cups. He made people's mobile phones ring at the wrong time. He bolstered people's convictions that a little casual misogyny couldn't hurt. He planted a few ideas in the minds of creative and industrious types that would go on to become immensely successful but hugely divisive aspects of popular culture. He felt great about all of it.
Right now he was in the park, absent-mindedly living up to his username and inciting minor sins in passersby. It was proving unusually difficult to encourage wrathfulness and envy today; everybody seemed remarkably good-humoured and content with their lot in life. But Crowley was in far too good a mood to mind. Besides, pride was working out even easier than usual, and lust and sloth and gluttony were all right, and most people were turning out to be very quick to forgive themselves of even the most inexcusable vices.
The sun was shining, the ducks were sinking, and Crowley had a smile on his face like a python that had just swallowed your dog. It was a good day.
WHAT: Wiles. HAPPY wiles.
WHERE: Seattle. A park or something I GUESS.
WHEN: Sunday, after the Griffin arrives with his unreasonable, all-engulfing happiness
WARNINGS: DEMONIC ACTIVITY ?
Crowley wasn't sure when had been the last time he'd felt this ... good about things. Sure, most of the time he was more or less pleased with himself; he was good at what he did, he took pride in it, and, if he had had a choice, there was nobody who had ever existed who he would have rather been than Anthony J. Crowley. And, yes, he had his doubts about whoever was running this show -- especially since he'd come here -- but he was basically certain, 99% of the time, that everything was ultimately going to fall in his favour. It always did.
But that morning he'd woken up with a really good feeling about the day ahead. He had an exceptionally pleasant lie-in, and when he headed out into the city to go about his diabolical business he found that the persistent doubts that had been nagging at him -- was there any point in tempting if Hell didn't exist here? Was this really the best possible use of his time? Should he perhaps think about ... doing something else? -- had dulled almost completely.
It was ... nice.
There was a spring in his step as he caused a significant car accident and encouraged passing motorists to slow down and take a look, thus ensuring a large number of people indulged in voyeuristic shock-ogling at the expense of someone else's misfortune and an even larger number of people were held up in traffic. Horns blared. Crowley was proud of car horns; they served no real purpose other than to make the driver's wrath known to fellow motorists and to frustrate everybody within hearing range.
He allowed himself a few moments of pleased, indulgent reflection, and then set off down the road, smiling.
He let air out of people's tyres, and set off car alarms. He made children cry in restaurants, and encouraged other diners to glare at the parents. He encouraged people to be smugly hostile towards tourists, and discouraged them from dropping change into homeless people's cups. He made people's mobile phones ring at the wrong time. He bolstered people's convictions that a little casual misogyny couldn't hurt. He planted a few ideas in the minds of creative and industrious types that would go on to become immensely successful but hugely divisive aspects of popular culture. He felt great about all of it.
Right now he was in the park, absent-mindedly living up to his username and inciting minor sins in passersby. It was proving unusually difficult to encourage wrathfulness and envy today; everybody seemed remarkably good-humoured and content with their lot in life. But Crowley was in far too good a mood to mind. Besides, pride was working out even easier than usual, and lust and sloth and gluttony were all right, and most people were turning out to be very quick to forgive themselves of even the most inexcusable vices.
The sun was shining, the ducks were sinking, and Crowley had a smile on his face like a python that had just swallowed your dog. It was a good day.