Happy Holidays, googlebrat
Title: Welcome To My World
Author: musegaarid
Rating: PG-13, I guess, for language and motherloads of sarcasm
Prompt: I'd love to see the world through Crowley's eyes.
Notes: I hope this is what you were looking for googlebrat! I only wish I could have done both of your fantastic prompts...
I usually wake up at five o’clock in the morning.
I know that’ll surprise some of you. You’ll point out that sloth is one of the seven deadly sins or that I had no problems indulging in the 19th century. Well, fuck you. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.
At that time, the city is blissfully quiet. Its population consists almost entirely of people who have proper jobs to do and real reasons for being there, as opposed to the unnecessary millions who trail in after 8am. Besides, there’s something poignant about a large empty space that should be bursting with people but isn’t: some kind of hungry desire there that I like. You own that place, or maybe it’s the other way around, and you feel you can do anything at all with your sudden and unexpected freedom, though you never do. Have you ever felt that way? Maybe you can’t when your body is constantly yelling for food or sleep or warmth; when your breath is echoing loudly in your ears and the beat of your heart becomes a relentless drum marking the constant passage of mortal Time.
I think some of you get a sense of it - those of you who go alone to haunt museums and libraries and theatres when they first open or are about to close. You know that the space is there waiting for something; its great maw of abandoned humanity opening out over infinite space. You get that edgy, electric, fight-or-flight thrill raging through your body despite the fact that you’re perfectly motionless, and you’re open to the potentiality that anything could happen at any moment…
Now imagine, if you will, a time when the entire Earth felt that way; when every square foot of ground was not-so-patiently waiting to discover how it would be used by creatures of understanding whenever there were enough around to attend to it; when the whole globe was aching for something that it couldn’t yet identify.
Welcome to my world.
Who's to say it ever stopped?
I woke up at five o’clock that morning. I don’t need to set an alarm, it just happens; probably a function of the fact that I don’t technically need to sleep. But if I never slept, I could never wake up, which is far more pleasant than you realize. You all just seem to complain or get up and get going - afraid of wasting your limited time, I suppose - but I lay in bed every morning for fifteen or twenty minutes just savouring the silken (or flannel or disgustingly high thread-count cotton) softness and downy warmth.
I don’t think about my day, there in my cocoon. I don’t think about my appointments or what I have to remember to bring with me or where I’m going for lunch or if I remember what I’m going to say. When you get past the six thousand year mark, you realize that it’s all bollocks. You either know it or you don’t, and I know it. I’m the best at what I do.
Nor do I think about the past, much. I know humans love to wallow in maudlin nostalgia, but what’s the point of reliving the Black Death, for instance? It was thoroughly vile and nothing else of interest happened for a whole bloody century. Pestilence never could learn to be satisfied with minor victories….
Mostly I just lie there and don’t think about anything at all. So much of my life is taken up with thinking and acting and speaking quickly that taking a few minutes out of the morning to indulge in nothing but dim sight, quiet sound, and soft touch - being thoroughly grounded in my senses in a way you never bother to be - is one of the finest luxuries of all time. Trust me, I know.
At any rate, when I’m ready, I crawl out of bed, and in one grand gesture I am clean, fully clothed, teeth sparkling, every hair in place, and the bed is made. If I were ever in the habit of feeling sorry for you poor bastards, that’d be the time. In five seconds, I’m out the door, not that it matters much. I’m never late. Or at least no one dares to tell me that I am.
I decided to go to the Stock Exchange that morning. They’re supposed to open at eight, but there’s always people in there by six checking the numbers from the Asian markets. I pulled up on the north side of Paternoster Square at the new headquarters, annoyed, as usual, that they now back onto St. Paul’s Cathedral. I suppose commerce and the church have always gone hand-in-hand, but this is ridiculous. It’s at the point where I can’t even go into the back offices because they’re bordering on consecrated ground. Obviously, I don’t go to the Stock Market as often as I once did.
There are still people there who know me, though, and I promptly made my way to Kathy’s desk. Kathy is a thirty-six year old trader who’s starting to think that maybe she shouldn’t have given up marriage and children for her career, seeing as that isn’t fantastic, either. She’s got a commitment-phobic, unethical lawyer boyfriend who will keep her only as long as she still looks all right, and somewhere in the recesses of her mind she’s aware of this, but she’s too afraid to dump him because she doesn’t think anyone else would have her. That’s the result of being abandoned by her father and neglected by her mother. These high-ambition types often are, having to prove themselves in some way, though her parents wouldn’t give a flying fuck if she became the Prime Minister so long as she keeps sending money home. She fancies me. I guess she’s got a thing for rich assholes.
Anyway, I made my way to her desk. She was pleased to see me, though her eyes were puffy. I put on sympathetic expression #8 - “I-know-this-is-personal-but-let’s-talk-because-I-want-you-to-break-up-with-him-so-that-I-can-ask-you-out-one-day…maybe” - and asked after Robert. They’d had a fight, she said. He’d been criticizing her for ordering dessert after dinner; said she was going to get fat if she didn’t watch it. I nodded understandingly. She was entering oil prices while we talked - didn’t want to get behind before the bell even rang - and I watched her hands. Sunglasses are remarkably useful, you know, and for more than maintaining the mystery, hiding my rather unique eyes, and, of course, keeping down the glare. No one ever knows exactly where I’m looking. In this case, I was looking at where she’d transposed the numbers for the day’s cost of a barrel of crude because I’d distracted her with a flash of bare wrist, kind smile #3, and a hint of sultry look #2.
My pride compels me to insist that you note this. It’s a matter of style. Of course I could have just waved my hand and made the numbers in her computer dance, but where’s the challenge in that? Where’s the panache? Computer error, they’d say, and it would end there. Or they’d try to figure it out - you’re such a curious species - and there are already far too many phenomenon that I prefer remain unexplained. So I did it not in any supernatural way, but by carefully coaxing out an entirely human error. That’s craftsmanship. The kind that turns the worldwide financial markets upside-down until they discover the problem, but fortunes have already been made and lost by then and someone has to take the blame… I wondered vaguely if Kathy would be a happier person after she was fired; take charge of her life and do something she actually wanted for a change, or if she would spiral down even further into misery by chasing an impossible goal. It was her choice in the end. It always was, which was something the Kid didn’t understand when he was chastising us about 'mucking people about'. What does an eleven-year-old who's been omniscient for four days know?
Eventually extricating myself with a smile and a promise to come back another time, I was long gone before anyone noticed anything. I was on my way to my next appointment, over at the BBC. Though the meeting had been set for 8am, I arrived at a quarter after seven. It’s always funny to watch them rush around like madmen. Well, everyone but Peggy. With a welcoming smirk, she handed me a fresh cup of really hot coffee - one sugar, no milk, just the way I like it - in my favourite mug. She had it ready when I walked in, the little bitch, and we watched with identical amused expressions as everyone else tried to pretend they were ready, too. Peggy takes some watching. She’s a cynical thing, but very good at what she does, which is act as the secretary to the BBC’s head honcho, Mike Johnson. Half of British television would be lost if she ever left, which would be fun some day, but I like her, so she stays.
I asked after her grandkids. She said that Peter and Annabelle had been over on Saturday to make biscuits. I’ll admit to the fact that my mouth started watering at that. Peggy makes the best fucking biscuits I have ever had and I don’t even like the damn things. I laughed and told her that sounded quite domestic. She made a face and explained that after the kids left, she got on the bike and went to a tattoo convention. My raised eyebrow led to her brushing imaginary lint off the back of her immaculate, professional skirt and I knew exactly what had happened after that.
“Well?” I asked, my glance sliding down to her still shapely arse.
“Flaming skull in a pentagram.”
“Niiiiice. When can I see?” I leered.
She gave me an evil grin that made me proud. “Just keep asking, kiddo.”
I’ve never had a grandmother, but if I did, I’d want her to be just like Peggy.
After a few minutes, she ushered us all into the nice conference room - the one with the view - and everyone did their ridiculous greeting rituals. I shook hands with Mike and he greeted me with a hearty, "Anthony! Glad you could make it. We need your help again." There was a chorus of "Good morning, Mr. Crowley's", and then a "Hey, Tony!"
A dense fog of thick tension suddenly dampened all the sound in the room, except for a faint gasp off to my left. I could have laughed at their horrified faces, but I instead turned to the offending voice and raised one eyebrow. Someone whispered, "You can't call him To… that!" Whether it was fear or respect that had them all on edge, I didn't care. The idea that I could have a roomful of top execs cowering because someone had dared call me by a nickname was glorious power and they knew it. In that ponderous moment, all those high-powered, pinstriped people were four years old again and trying desperately to avoid a spanking from the father they always suspected had never loved them.
I took one less-than-casual step toward the unremarkable, balding man who'd spoken. "Bill Jameson, is it?" I asked, knowing full well it was. He blanched. "Assistant Head of BBC Sport?" Part of my knowledge came from my remarkable memory. I never knew what would be helpful later, so I paid attention to names and faces. The rest was from the fact that everyone else seemed to be thinking it as hard as they could as if to divert my attention away from themselves. What causes that, I wonder. Mammalian instinct, maybe? Survival of the fittest? Not that you lot ever really evolved… I took another step, looking carefully thoughtful. He stumbled half a step back. "We met last year at that football game in Manchester. The finals." Bill nodded, eyes wide, not sure where I was going with this.
"Well, Bill," I said, very, very calmly, "I know football games are informal affairs, but I can't say I'm terribly fond of that particular name." He shook his head quickly. "So I generally ask that people not use it." He nodded several times in succession. "I can see you'd like to keep things easy between us, though, right…?" I swallowed a smirk because he clearly had no idea what the 'correct' response was, so I continued on as if he had said yes. "Fine, fine. Then why don't you just call me Crowley."
There was a long pause. I looked at him expectantly.
"Yes, M… Cr-Crowley." Apparently being singled out for special treatment was too much for the man, and the sharp odor of urine suddenly struck my sensitive nostrils. Forty-three years old and when he finally gets noticed by an influential person at the top of the corporate ladder he's been frantically climbing for half his life, he pisses himself. Some people are completely hopeless.
As I bestowed a small, sharp, condescending smile on him, the relief in the room was palpable. People started breathing again, talking, settling into their chairs and pulling out notepads and files. Bill was left with the interesting decision of staying and pressing his "advantage" or leaving and retaining what remained of his dignity. But this is the entertainment industry, after all. I don't need to tell you what he ended up doing. I sat to Mike's right - not at the top, never at the top, always the power behind the throne as it were, but all the more powerful for that because I don't have to answer to "the people".
There were a number of serious issues on the table, which you've probably heard about by now. Contest fixing scandals, selling the headquarters, 2,500 lay-offs, reducing original programming, accepting advertising on the website, a 2.4 billion pound deficit, trying to keep up with digital technology, prospects of strikes, poor American knock-offs… I was really basking for a while there. They practically wrote my end-of-year report for me. In the end, these things go as they always do. Someone would voice a hesitant suggestion, I would say, "Hmm, let's think about Paul's suggestion here," (impressing on their minds forever that it was Paul's suggestion) and then tweak it to the edges of morality and believability, though it always remained, 'Paul's idea'. It's a technique I've used for years. If it worked on Brutus and Cassius, it'll damn well work on these dicks. And token dickette. That'd be Lisa "Pug-Faced" Pagetti, head of Human Interest for the News department in the unfortunate, outdated brown trouser suit. Against all narrative convention, if she took off the glasses and shook out the librarian bun, she'd be even less attractive.
The meeting ran some four and a half hours and by the end of it, all the BBC's problems were solved. With solutions that would end up being worse than the original problems, of course, but that's the way of the world, isn't it? Someone else's problem. After firm handshakes all around to show how businessy and professional we all were - what great and powerful chums - I turned down an offer for lunch, pinched Peggy's arse (the other side - I'm not that much of a jerk), and headed for my appointment in Kensington.
The appointment was with my fifteenth financial planner, Arthur Smythe. I have a full two dozen financial planners, actually, and none knows about the others. They're all dull, stolid, unimaginative men who are terribly honest and all seem to share the delusion that I'll harm their family members if they ever discuss my business with anyone else.
It's rather amazing how much money one can accumulate when one's been investing for nigh on four thousand years. (I learned a good lesson during the Flood: Don't put all your wealth into livestock.) At any rate, as my net worth is well into the billions and I'd rather not be known as one of the richest men in the world, I have twenty-four financial planners to manage bits of it for me. The best part? They actually encourage me to invest in things like pharmaceuticals, cellular phone companies, and big oil. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.
Arthur wanted to show his appreciation for my custom during our semi-annual lunch by taking me to Babylon at the Roof Gardens: Richard Branson's little playhouse in the city. I was thirty-seven minutes late. The man had apparently amused himself by nursing a glass of water and staring out the window. He suggested the prix fixe lunch and looked vaguely surprised when I agreed. His relief was short-lived, however, when I went with the L'Enclos 1999, Pomerol to drink.
After some small talk - I asked after his family, and he blanched for some reason - we got down to the business of my money and where it should go and why. Eventually, our meal came and the food was quite good, though I only had a few bites of my Irish sirloin, which seemed to irritate him. Especially when I chose not to take the leftovers home. Arthur still has some things to learn about dealing with eccentric billionaires, but he's young and I have high hopes for him. He seemed a bit concerned over my tax bill for the year, but once I explained to him one or two convenient little loop holes in the VAT (you didn't think I'd create it just to get stuck paying it myself, did you?) it seemed that little problem had gone away. I lingered over the wine a while, long past the time he wanted to leave and long enough so that he offered to ring me up a taxi, but I smiled and said that wouldn't be necessary. When the time had come to go - he didn't need to look so damn pleased - I shook his hand and headed down to the Bentley.
I'm not sure what he did when he found out that he didn't have his wallet and was stuck with the rather large check, but I'm sure it would have been fun to watch. I doubt he'd have to do anything as cliché as washing the dishes, but the thought of solid, dependable Arthur, sleeves rolled up and arms submerged in a sink full of suds amuses me to no end. He really should thank me, though. That driver's license picture was truly hideous. And leaving a ten year-old condom in his wallet just to make a ring in the leather and look like a "player" is really sad. (What? Did you think Aziraphale was the only one who knew a little prestidigitation? It's like I said: style over ability. Any demon could just vanish the damn thing.)
Having a couple of hours to kill, I parked the Bentley at the High Street Kensington tube station and went into the Underground. I hopped on whichever train arrived first and sat next to a young woman with an organic hemp bag and dreadlocks, who was reading An Inconvenient Truth. That was enough to go off into a loud rant about how the liberals were ruining this country and global warming was a myth. She got pissed off and we ended up in a blazing row that disturbed everyone else in the car. I repeated this scenario throughout London: pick a likely target, rail about the liberals/atheists/fundamentalists/terrorists/towel-heads/Irish/blacks/kids/the poor, (choose one), and proceed to ruin everyone's day with prejudicial bullshit. The nice thing is that it's a captive audience, it's not illegal, and the ripple effect spreads like you wouldn't believe.
After a while I worked my way back to the car and drove to No. 10 Downing Street to have a little talk with my doughy friend, 'Mr. Bean'. You'll find out soon enough what we discussed so there's no point in mentioning it here, other than as something that occurred as part of my day. For the record, it was his idea.
Why am I telling you about my day, anyway, you may be wondering some thirty-five hundred words and twelve hours in? Because it was at once totally ordinary - the sort of day I've had thousands of times before - and entirely unique. Although the unique part comes later. These things take time. There's narrative convention to consider. If I just jumped to the part in the club and what Diamante said and how strongly I was affected, it wouldn't make any sense. There'd be no context. You'd just think, "So?" So that's what this nonsense is. And quite frankly, how often will you ever get the chance to peruse demonic ramblings on the nature of mankind and the bloody idiots who compose the vast majority of it?
Speaking of idiots, I had a date that night: Sarah Middleton, the primary buyer of women's fashions for Selfridge's. I go to Selfridges's fairly often as it's near my flat and there's a salesgirl there who's fun to visit. It was actually while I was in the women's department tormenting talking to Katie a few days prior that I'd met Sarah. Katie's had this thing for me for years which I tended to encourage and Sarah was obviously interested, so it became this rather amusing clash of the silicone titans. I swear I haven't seen so much passive-aggressive bitchery since Anne and Mary Boleyn celebrated Michaelmas together in 1533.
Regardless, though Katie tried every dirty trick in the book to drive her rival away, including my favourite, "Miss Middleton, I'm so impressed that you can still wear mini skirts at your age. You must spend a lot of time at the gym," Sarah had much more rank in the company and the girl's arguments ultimately couldn't hold up. As a modern woman secure in her sexuality and single status because there was no shame in it when she had her career, Sarah had asked me to dinner then and there. To the horror and frustration of Katie, I accepted. We agreed on a date, time, and restaurant while Katie steamed, and she asked when I was going to pick her up. I wouldn't let that much peroxide anywhere remotely near my car - it'd peel the paint - so I told her I'd meet her there. She's a 'modern woman'. She can deal.
I met her at Fifteen - Jamie Oliver's trendy little place - about twenty minutes late. Sarah already had a glass of wine and the thunderstorm look of someone who believes they've been stood up, which is also something I've done many times, but in this case I wanted to talk to her. The relief when she caught sight of me was comic, though she seemed vaguely irritated still. I found out why when after the mandatory compliments about our appearance and attire, "Is that from Armani's fall collection? I saw it on the runway, but I like your tie better and the hint of something more rugged in the shoes," she mentioned that there was no A.J. Crowley on the reservation list. I snorted, took the maitre' d aside, and seconds later we were being led to a table. She hadn't even thought to check under her own name. (Of course, her name wasn't on there either, but she didn't know that. It made her embarrassed and threw her off guard.)
Sarah wanted me to hold out her chair for her as we sat. I didn't, but the host did. She also wanted me to order for her. Not that she ever said as much, but I always know what people want. Makes tempting them a fuckload easier. It goes without saying that I didn't. Some 'modern woman' she was.
Dinner conversation revolved mostly around fashion, as you might expect, and subtle attempts to find out how much money I make. After determining my Mayfair address and learning about the Bentley, and also taking into consideration that we were at a restaurant with a price tag of sixty quid per plate, and an additional forty quid each for the wine, I'm surprised I didn't see pound signs dancing in her eyes. It's quite amazing what she was willing to overlook for a handsome devil with the ability to speak knowledgeably about fashion and a lot of money. Of course, she was so focused on trying to get information out of me that she never really noticed when I began talking about how the clothing that was coming out of Mayalsia these days looked as good as the Italian and Saville Row stuff for a fraction of the cost (and quality). It's thanks to the sweatshops, but that hardly needed to be mentioned over the pan roasted loin of Welsh lamb with aubergine funghetto, Italian spinach and anchovy-rosemary dressing. By the time we'd gotten to the limoncello semifreddo ai torroncino with poached Sicilian pears and spiced biscuit, she'd subconsciously already decided to do her buying overseas, which should prove interesting over the next couple of years.
She never once mentioned the sunglasses. No one ever does.
I waited until the check came to suggest that we go dutch, which she could hardly refuse to do as it put her on terms of equality with men and proved what a powerful and strong woman she was. Albeit one who was now a hundred and twenty quid poorer. Seeing my black American Express card seemed to buck her up, though. Not that the charges ever went through…
As we were leaving, she gave me what she probably thought was a coy look and asked if I'd like to go back to her place for "coffee". I managed not to sneer - as if I'd hit that - but turned her down just the same. Clearly disappointed, she gave me her card and asked me to call her before scrounging up the courage to give me a kiss on the cheek. She disappeared in a cab a moment later and I looked at her card trying to figure out if it would be more cruel to never call or to lead her on for a few weeks first. Funny how often I have to decide which choice is worse. You'd think it would be easy, but it's always difficult to predict.
We'd spent some hours lingering over dinner, so it was just after nine o'clock when I got back into my car. I sat there for a moment with my eyes closed, just taking a break. I enjoy my job. I really do. But sometimes it makes me tired. I took a couple of minutes to relax and reflect before taking off for my last stop for the day: Bar Red in Soho.
I like Bar Red. It's sexy and arrogant, overpriced and theatrical, and they make bloody good drinks. I slid past Danny, the most impressively frightening bouncer in London, who actually knuckled his forehead as I passed and grunted out, "Midder Crawlee".
Once inside, I did what I did most nights. I talked to people. I flirted with women - and men, for that matter, if the situation warranted it. I'm an equal opportunity tempter. I bought them drinks, listened to their problems - I'm a damn good listener - and generally offered advice. A wise woman once told me that people only ask for advice when they already know what they should do, but don't want to actually do it. That's my specialty. I talked for hours. Got a few phone numbers, heard some good industry gossip that would send me to the docks in the morning, set up a couple more dates, rejected a few more immediate advances. It was all standard stuff.
Or so I thought.
Near midnight when the place was about to close, I went to the bar for one more drink. The bartender that night was Diamante (born Mary Clark). Now I can certainly understand choosing a new name for yourself - one that's more you - but Diamante? In five years I'd never asked if she meant the car, the style of poetry, or the fake gem, but I was leaning toward the latter due to the number of rhinestone earrings she wore in her right ear. The one in her nose was new, though. I mentioned that it suited her.
"Thanks," she smiled and poured me a scotch and soda on the house, just as everyone was starting to pick up their things or wipe down the tables. She knows that I don't get the fruity drinks for myself. After a moment of her watching me drink, I put the glass down and met her eyes. Well, as much as I was able to. She was still staring into blank lenses.
"What?" I asked.
"I don't get you, Crowley."
It was the first time anyone had said my name like that all day. Not Mr. Crowley or Anthony or A.J. Crowley or Tony or stuttering over it… She said it easily, like it really meant me.
I shrugged. "What's not to get?"
With a surprisingly twinkling laugh, Diamante said, "You. You come in here four nights out of seven. You chat up everyone. You buy them drinks. But you never talk to the same person twice and you always go home alone. It's not like you don't have offers. Good-looking, rich bloke like you. I've seen it." She hesitated. "Forgive me for saying so - it's not my place - but I say it as a friend. You seem really lonely."
Lonely?!
Me?
I talk to hundreds of people every day. I know thousands of people by name. I've lived for millennia. How could I possibly be lonely? Demons don't get lonely.
Do they?
"Maybe," she continued, "maybe you could take a chance, you know? You need someone you can talk to, someone who understands you. Where you're coming from. A lover or a friend. Just… not business."
"Not businesss," I repeated, hissing a little. I was more tired than I thought. "I'll think about it. Thanks, Diamante." Leaving her a big tip and a perplexed expression, I got my coat and left, reeling more from the revelation than the alcohol.
I don't really remember how I got home. The Bentley managed on its own and I stumbled up the steps, pushing the locked door open. Throwing my things on the kitchen counter, I pulled out the book in which I note down things I've done for the day. It makes it easier to account to the Boss at the end of the year and justify my work up here.
I'm not sure why, but when I finished that day's entry, I started flipping through the book. Almost a whole year's worth of temptations and sins, deals and devilry. And it was damn good work. But what did it add up to for me? The work was satisfying enough, but what kind of life did I have outside of it? Had I really saved the world in order to be… lonely… in it? Always pretending to be someone else?
I took off my glasses and rubbed at my eyes. Just then, I noticed an entry from nearly eight months prior. I stared at it. Someone you can talk to. Someone who understands you. Had it really been so long?
A few minutes later as I waved my clothes back into the ether and crawled naked into bed, (tempting, always tempting) I broke my own rules and thought about the next day. If I blew some people off, manipulated some others, I could wrangle the evening free…
I looked at the phone, considering, then smiled.
Nah.
It's always much more fun to just surprise the angel.
Enjoy, googlebrat, from your Secret Author!
Author: musegaarid
Rating: PG-13, I guess, for language and motherloads of sarcasm
Prompt: I'd love to see the world through Crowley's eyes.
Notes: I hope this is what you were looking for googlebrat! I only wish I could have done both of your fantastic prompts...
I usually wake up at five o’clock in the morning.
I know that’ll surprise some of you. You’ll point out that sloth is one of the seven deadly sins or that I had no problems indulging in the 19th century. Well, fuck you. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.
At that time, the city is blissfully quiet. Its population consists almost entirely of people who have proper jobs to do and real reasons for being there, as opposed to the unnecessary millions who trail in after 8am. Besides, there’s something poignant about a large empty space that should be bursting with people but isn’t: some kind of hungry desire there that I like. You own that place, or maybe it’s the other way around, and you feel you can do anything at all with your sudden and unexpected freedom, though you never do. Have you ever felt that way? Maybe you can’t when your body is constantly yelling for food or sleep or warmth; when your breath is echoing loudly in your ears and the beat of your heart becomes a relentless drum marking the constant passage of mortal Time.
I think some of you get a sense of it - those of you who go alone to haunt museums and libraries and theatres when they first open or are about to close. You know that the space is there waiting for something; its great maw of abandoned humanity opening out over infinite space. You get that edgy, electric, fight-or-flight thrill raging through your body despite the fact that you’re perfectly motionless, and you’re open to the potentiality that anything could happen at any moment…
Now imagine, if you will, a time when the entire Earth felt that way; when every square foot of ground was not-so-patiently waiting to discover how it would be used by creatures of understanding whenever there were enough around to attend to it; when the whole globe was aching for something that it couldn’t yet identify.
Welcome to my world.
Who's to say it ever stopped?
I woke up at five o’clock that morning. I don’t need to set an alarm, it just happens; probably a function of the fact that I don’t technically need to sleep. But if I never slept, I could never wake up, which is far more pleasant than you realize. You all just seem to complain or get up and get going - afraid of wasting your limited time, I suppose - but I lay in bed every morning for fifteen or twenty minutes just savouring the silken (or flannel or disgustingly high thread-count cotton) softness and downy warmth.
I don’t think about my day, there in my cocoon. I don’t think about my appointments or what I have to remember to bring with me or where I’m going for lunch or if I remember what I’m going to say. When you get past the six thousand year mark, you realize that it’s all bollocks. You either know it or you don’t, and I know it. I’m the best at what I do.
Nor do I think about the past, much. I know humans love to wallow in maudlin nostalgia, but what’s the point of reliving the Black Death, for instance? It was thoroughly vile and nothing else of interest happened for a whole bloody century. Pestilence never could learn to be satisfied with minor victories….
Mostly I just lie there and don’t think about anything at all. So much of my life is taken up with thinking and acting and speaking quickly that taking a few minutes out of the morning to indulge in nothing but dim sight, quiet sound, and soft touch - being thoroughly grounded in my senses in a way you never bother to be - is one of the finest luxuries of all time. Trust me, I know.
At any rate, when I’m ready, I crawl out of bed, and in one grand gesture I am clean, fully clothed, teeth sparkling, every hair in place, and the bed is made. If I were ever in the habit of feeling sorry for you poor bastards, that’d be the time. In five seconds, I’m out the door, not that it matters much. I’m never late. Or at least no one dares to tell me that I am.
I decided to go to the Stock Exchange that morning. They’re supposed to open at eight, but there’s always people in there by six checking the numbers from the Asian markets. I pulled up on the north side of Paternoster Square at the new headquarters, annoyed, as usual, that they now back onto St. Paul’s Cathedral. I suppose commerce and the church have always gone hand-in-hand, but this is ridiculous. It’s at the point where I can’t even go into the back offices because they’re bordering on consecrated ground. Obviously, I don’t go to the Stock Market as often as I once did.
There are still people there who know me, though, and I promptly made my way to Kathy’s desk. Kathy is a thirty-six year old trader who’s starting to think that maybe she shouldn’t have given up marriage and children for her career, seeing as that isn’t fantastic, either. She’s got a commitment-phobic, unethical lawyer boyfriend who will keep her only as long as she still looks all right, and somewhere in the recesses of her mind she’s aware of this, but she’s too afraid to dump him because she doesn’t think anyone else would have her. That’s the result of being abandoned by her father and neglected by her mother. These high-ambition types often are, having to prove themselves in some way, though her parents wouldn’t give a flying fuck if she became the Prime Minister so long as she keeps sending money home. She fancies me. I guess she’s got a thing for rich assholes.
Anyway, I made my way to her desk. She was pleased to see me, though her eyes were puffy. I put on sympathetic expression #8 - “I-know-this-is-personal-but-let’s-talk-because-I-want-you-to-break-up-with-him-so-that-I-can-ask-you-out-one-day…maybe” - and asked after Robert. They’d had a fight, she said. He’d been criticizing her for ordering dessert after dinner; said she was going to get fat if she didn’t watch it. I nodded understandingly. She was entering oil prices while we talked - didn’t want to get behind before the bell even rang - and I watched her hands. Sunglasses are remarkably useful, you know, and for more than maintaining the mystery, hiding my rather unique eyes, and, of course, keeping down the glare. No one ever knows exactly where I’m looking. In this case, I was looking at where she’d transposed the numbers for the day’s cost of a barrel of crude because I’d distracted her with a flash of bare wrist, kind smile #3, and a hint of sultry look #2.
My pride compels me to insist that you note this. It’s a matter of style. Of course I could have just waved my hand and made the numbers in her computer dance, but where’s the challenge in that? Where’s the panache? Computer error, they’d say, and it would end there. Or they’d try to figure it out - you’re such a curious species - and there are already far too many phenomenon that I prefer remain unexplained. So I did it not in any supernatural way, but by carefully coaxing out an entirely human error. That’s craftsmanship. The kind that turns the worldwide financial markets upside-down until they discover the problem, but fortunes have already been made and lost by then and someone has to take the blame… I wondered vaguely if Kathy would be a happier person after she was fired; take charge of her life and do something she actually wanted for a change, or if she would spiral down even further into misery by chasing an impossible goal. It was her choice in the end. It always was, which was something the Kid didn’t understand when he was chastising us about 'mucking people about'. What does an eleven-year-old who's been omniscient for four days know?
Eventually extricating myself with a smile and a promise to come back another time, I was long gone before anyone noticed anything. I was on my way to my next appointment, over at the BBC. Though the meeting had been set for 8am, I arrived at a quarter after seven. It’s always funny to watch them rush around like madmen. Well, everyone but Peggy. With a welcoming smirk, she handed me a fresh cup of really hot coffee - one sugar, no milk, just the way I like it - in my favourite mug. She had it ready when I walked in, the little bitch, and we watched with identical amused expressions as everyone else tried to pretend they were ready, too. Peggy takes some watching. She’s a cynical thing, but very good at what she does, which is act as the secretary to the BBC’s head honcho, Mike Johnson. Half of British television would be lost if she ever left, which would be fun some day, but I like her, so she stays.
I asked after her grandkids. She said that Peter and Annabelle had been over on Saturday to make biscuits. I’ll admit to the fact that my mouth started watering at that. Peggy makes the best fucking biscuits I have ever had and I don’t even like the damn things. I laughed and told her that sounded quite domestic. She made a face and explained that after the kids left, she got on the bike and went to a tattoo convention. My raised eyebrow led to her brushing imaginary lint off the back of her immaculate, professional skirt and I knew exactly what had happened after that.
“Well?” I asked, my glance sliding down to her still shapely arse.
“Flaming skull in a pentagram.”
“Niiiiice. When can I see?” I leered.
She gave me an evil grin that made me proud. “Just keep asking, kiddo.”
I’ve never had a grandmother, but if I did, I’d want her to be just like Peggy.
After a few minutes, she ushered us all into the nice conference room - the one with the view - and everyone did their ridiculous greeting rituals. I shook hands with Mike and he greeted me with a hearty, "Anthony! Glad you could make it. We need your help again." There was a chorus of "Good morning, Mr. Crowley's", and then a "Hey, Tony!"
A dense fog of thick tension suddenly dampened all the sound in the room, except for a faint gasp off to my left. I could have laughed at their horrified faces, but I instead turned to the offending voice and raised one eyebrow. Someone whispered, "You can't call him To… that!" Whether it was fear or respect that had them all on edge, I didn't care. The idea that I could have a roomful of top execs cowering because someone had dared call me by a nickname was glorious power and they knew it. In that ponderous moment, all those high-powered, pinstriped people were four years old again and trying desperately to avoid a spanking from the father they always suspected had never loved them.
I took one less-than-casual step toward the unremarkable, balding man who'd spoken. "Bill Jameson, is it?" I asked, knowing full well it was. He blanched. "Assistant Head of BBC Sport?" Part of my knowledge came from my remarkable memory. I never knew what would be helpful later, so I paid attention to names and faces. The rest was from the fact that everyone else seemed to be thinking it as hard as they could as if to divert my attention away from themselves. What causes that, I wonder. Mammalian instinct, maybe? Survival of the fittest? Not that you lot ever really evolved… I took another step, looking carefully thoughtful. He stumbled half a step back. "We met last year at that football game in Manchester. The finals." Bill nodded, eyes wide, not sure where I was going with this.
"Well, Bill," I said, very, very calmly, "I know football games are informal affairs, but I can't say I'm terribly fond of that particular name." He shook his head quickly. "So I generally ask that people not use it." He nodded several times in succession. "I can see you'd like to keep things easy between us, though, right…?" I swallowed a smirk because he clearly had no idea what the 'correct' response was, so I continued on as if he had said yes. "Fine, fine. Then why don't you just call me Crowley."
There was a long pause. I looked at him expectantly.
"Yes, M… Cr-Crowley." Apparently being singled out for special treatment was too much for the man, and the sharp odor of urine suddenly struck my sensitive nostrils. Forty-three years old and when he finally gets noticed by an influential person at the top of the corporate ladder he's been frantically climbing for half his life, he pisses himself. Some people are completely hopeless.
As I bestowed a small, sharp, condescending smile on him, the relief in the room was palpable. People started breathing again, talking, settling into their chairs and pulling out notepads and files. Bill was left with the interesting decision of staying and pressing his "advantage" or leaving and retaining what remained of his dignity. But this is the entertainment industry, after all. I don't need to tell you what he ended up doing. I sat to Mike's right - not at the top, never at the top, always the power behind the throne as it were, but all the more powerful for that because I don't have to answer to "the people".
There were a number of serious issues on the table, which you've probably heard about by now. Contest fixing scandals, selling the headquarters, 2,500 lay-offs, reducing original programming, accepting advertising on the website, a 2.4 billion pound deficit, trying to keep up with digital technology, prospects of strikes, poor American knock-offs… I was really basking for a while there. They practically wrote my end-of-year report for me. In the end, these things go as they always do. Someone would voice a hesitant suggestion, I would say, "Hmm, let's think about Paul's suggestion here," (impressing on their minds forever that it was Paul's suggestion) and then tweak it to the edges of morality and believability, though it always remained, 'Paul's idea'. It's a technique I've used for years. If it worked on Brutus and Cassius, it'll damn well work on these dicks. And token dickette. That'd be Lisa "Pug-Faced" Pagetti, head of Human Interest for the News department in the unfortunate, outdated brown trouser suit. Against all narrative convention, if she took off the glasses and shook out the librarian bun, she'd be even less attractive.
The meeting ran some four and a half hours and by the end of it, all the BBC's problems were solved. With solutions that would end up being worse than the original problems, of course, but that's the way of the world, isn't it? Someone else's problem. After firm handshakes all around to show how businessy and professional we all were - what great and powerful chums - I turned down an offer for lunch, pinched Peggy's arse (the other side - I'm not that much of a jerk), and headed for my appointment in Kensington.
The appointment was with my fifteenth financial planner, Arthur Smythe. I have a full two dozen financial planners, actually, and none knows about the others. They're all dull, stolid, unimaginative men who are terribly honest and all seem to share the delusion that I'll harm their family members if they ever discuss my business with anyone else.
It's rather amazing how much money one can accumulate when one's been investing for nigh on four thousand years. (I learned a good lesson during the Flood: Don't put all your wealth into livestock.) At any rate, as my net worth is well into the billions and I'd rather not be known as one of the richest men in the world, I have twenty-four financial planners to manage bits of it for me. The best part? They actually encourage me to invest in things like pharmaceuticals, cellular phone companies, and big oil. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.
Arthur wanted to show his appreciation for my custom during our semi-annual lunch by taking me to Babylon at the Roof Gardens: Richard Branson's little playhouse in the city. I was thirty-seven minutes late. The man had apparently amused himself by nursing a glass of water and staring out the window. He suggested the prix fixe lunch and looked vaguely surprised when I agreed. His relief was short-lived, however, when I went with the L'Enclos 1999, Pomerol to drink.
After some small talk - I asked after his family, and he blanched for some reason - we got down to the business of my money and where it should go and why. Eventually, our meal came and the food was quite good, though I only had a few bites of my Irish sirloin, which seemed to irritate him. Especially when I chose not to take the leftovers home. Arthur still has some things to learn about dealing with eccentric billionaires, but he's young and I have high hopes for him. He seemed a bit concerned over my tax bill for the year, but once I explained to him one or two convenient little loop holes in the VAT (you didn't think I'd create it just to get stuck paying it myself, did you?) it seemed that little problem had gone away. I lingered over the wine a while, long past the time he wanted to leave and long enough so that he offered to ring me up a taxi, but I smiled and said that wouldn't be necessary. When the time had come to go - he didn't need to look so damn pleased - I shook his hand and headed down to the Bentley.
I'm not sure what he did when he found out that he didn't have his wallet and was stuck with the rather large check, but I'm sure it would have been fun to watch. I doubt he'd have to do anything as cliché as washing the dishes, but the thought of solid, dependable Arthur, sleeves rolled up and arms submerged in a sink full of suds amuses me to no end. He really should thank me, though. That driver's license picture was truly hideous. And leaving a ten year-old condom in his wallet just to make a ring in the leather and look like a "player" is really sad. (What? Did you think Aziraphale was the only one who knew a little prestidigitation? It's like I said: style over ability. Any demon could just vanish the damn thing.)
Having a couple of hours to kill, I parked the Bentley at the High Street Kensington tube station and went into the Underground. I hopped on whichever train arrived first and sat next to a young woman with an organic hemp bag and dreadlocks, who was reading An Inconvenient Truth. That was enough to go off into a loud rant about how the liberals were ruining this country and global warming was a myth. She got pissed off and we ended up in a blazing row that disturbed everyone else in the car. I repeated this scenario throughout London: pick a likely target, rail about the liberals/atheists/fundamentalists/terrorists/towel-heads/Irish/blacks/kids/the poor, (choose one), and proceed to ruin everyone's day with prejudicial bullshit. The nice thing is that it's a captive audience, it's not illegal, and the ripple effect spreads like you wouldn't believe.
After a while I worked my way back to the car and drove to No. 10 Downing Street to have a little talk with my doughy friend, 'Mr. Bean'. You'll find out soon enough what we discussed so there's no point in mentioning it here, other than as something that occurred as part of my day. For the record, it was his idea.
Why am I telling you about my day, anyway, you may be wondering some thirty-five hundred words and twelve hours in? Because it was at once totally ordinary - the sort of day I've had thousands of times before - and entirely unique. Although the unique part comes later. These things take time. There's narrative convention to consider. If I just jumped to the part in the club and what Diamante said and how strongly I was affected, it wouldn't make any sense. There'd be no context. You'd just think, "So?" So that's what this nonsense is. And quite frankly, how often will you ever get the chance to peruse demonic ramblings on the nature of mankind and the bloody idiots who compose the vast majority of it?
Speaking of idiots, I had a date that night: Sarah Middleton, the primary buyer of women's fashions for Selfridge's. I go to Selfridges's fairly often as it's near my flat and there's a salesgirl there who's fun to visit. It was actually while I was in the women's department tormenting talking to Katie a few days prior that I'd met Sarah. Katie's had this thing for me for years which I tended to encourage and Sarah was obviously interested, so it became this rather amusing clash of the silicone titans. I swear I haven't seen so much passive-aggressive bitchery since Anne and Mary Boleyn celebrated Michaelmas together in 1533.
Regardless, though Katie tried every dirty trick in the book to drive her rival away, including my favourite, "Miss Middleton, I'm so impressed that you can still wear mini skirts at your age. You must spend a lot of time at the gym," Sarah had much more rank in the company and the girl's arguments ultimately couldn't hold up. As a modern woman secure in her sexuality and single status because there was no shame in it when she had her career, Sarah had asked me to dinner then and there. To the horror and frustration of Katie, I accepted. We agreed on a date, time, and restaurant while Katie steamed, and she asked when I was going to pick her up. I wouldn't let that much peroxide anywhere remotely near my car - it'd peel the paint - so I told her I'd meet her there. She's a 'modern woman'. She can deal.
I met her at Fifteen - Jamie Oliver's trendy little place - about twenty minutes late. Sarah already had a glass of wine and the thunderstorm look of someone who believes they've been stood up, which is also something I've done many times, but in this case I wanted to talk to her. The relief when she caught sight of me was comic, though she seemed vaguely irritated still. I found out why when after the mandatory compliments about our appearance and attire, "Is that from Armani's fall collection? I saw it on the runway, but I like your tie better and the hint of something more rugged in the shoes," she mentioned that there was no A.J. Crowley on the reservation list. I snorted, took the maitre' d aside, and seconds later we were being led to a table. She hadn't even thought to check under her own name. (Of course, her name wasn't on there either, but she didn't know that. It made her embarrassed and threw her off guard.)
Sarah wanted me to hold out her chair for her as we sat. I didn't, but the host did. She also wanted me to order for her. Not that she ever said as much, but I always know what people want. Makes tempting them a fuckload easier. It goes without saying that I didn't. Some 'modern woman' she was.
Dinner conversation revolved mostly around fashion, as you might expect, and subtle attempts to find out how much money I make. After determining my Mayfair address and learning about the Bentley, and also taking into consideration that we were at a restaurant with a price tag of sixty quid per plate, and an additional forty quid each for the wine, I'm surprised I didn't see pound signs dancing in her eyes. It's quite amazing what she was willing to overlook for a handsome devil with the ability to speak knowledgeably about fashion and a lot of money. Of course, she was so focused on trying to get information out of me that she never really noticed when I began talking about how the clothing that was coming out of Mayalsia these days looked as good as the Italian and Saville Row stuff for a fraction of the cost (and quality). It's thanks to the sweatshops, but that hardly needed to be mentioned over the pan roasted loin of Welsh lamb with aubergine funghetto, Italian spinach and anchovy-rosemary dressing. By the time we'd gotten to the limoncello semifreddo ai torroncino with poached Sicilian pears and spiced biscuit, she'd subconsciously already decided to do her buying overseas, which should prove interesting over the next couple of years.
She never once mentioned the sunglasses. No one ever does.
I waited until the check came to suggest that we go dutch, which she could hardly refuse to do as it put her on terms of equality with men and proved what a powerful and strong woman she was. Albeit one who was now a hundred and twenty quid poorer. Seeing my black American Express card seemed to buck her up, though. Not that the charges ever went through…
As we were leaving, she gave me what she probably thought was a coy look and asked if I'd like to go back to her place for "coffee". I managed not to sneer - as if I'd hit that - but turned her down just the same. Clearly disappointed, she gave me her card and asked me to call her before scrounging up the courage to give me a kiss on the cheek. She disappeared in a cab a moment later and I looked at her card trying to figure out if it would be more cruel to never call or to lead her on for a few weeks first. Funny how often I have to decide which choice is worse. You'd think it would be easy, but it's always difficult to predict.
We'd spent some hours lingering over dinner, so it was just after nine o'clock when I got back into my car. I sat there for a moment with my eyes closed, just taking a break. I enjoy my job. I really do. But sometimes it makes me tired. I took a couple of minutes to relax and reflect before taking off for my last stop for the day: Bar Red in Soho.
I like Bar Red. It's sexy and arrogant, overpriced and theatrical, and they make bloody good drinks. I slid past Danny, the most impressively frightening bouncer in London, who actually knuckled his forehead as I passed and grunted out, "Midder Crawlee".
Once inside, I did what I did most nights. I talked to people. I flirted with women - and men, for that matter, if the situation warranted it. I'm an equal opportunity tempter. I bought them drinks, listened to their problems - I'm a damn good listener - and generally offered advice. A wise woman once told me that people only ask for advice when they already know what they should do, but don't want to actually do it. That's my specialty. I talked for hours. Got a few phone numbers, heard some good industry gossip that would send me to the docks in the morning, set up a couple more dates, rejected a few more immediate advances. It was all standard stuff.
Or so I thought.
Near midnight when the place was about to close, I went to the bar for one more drink. The bartender that night was Diamante (born Mary Clark). Now I can certainly understand choosing a new name for yourself - one that's more you - but Diamante? In five years I'd never asked if she meant the car, the style of poetry, or the fake gem, but I was leaning toward the latter due to the number of rhinestone earrings she wore in her right ear. The one in her nose was new, though. I mentioned that it suited her.
"Thanks," she smiled and poured me a scotch and soda on the house, just as everyone was starting to pick up their things or wipe down the tables. She knows that I don't get the fruity drinks for myself. After a moment of her watching me drink, I put the glass down and met her eyes. Well, as much as I was able to. She was still staring into blank lenses.
"What?" I asked.
"I don't get you, Crowley."
It was the first time anyone had said my name like that all day. Not Mr. Crowley or Anthony or A.J. Crowley or Tony or stuttering over it… She said it easily, like it really meant me.
I shrugged. "What's not to get?"
With a surprisingly twinkling laugh, Diamante said, "You. You come in here four nights out of seven. You chat up everyone. You buy them drinks. But you never talk to the same person twice and you always go home alone. It's not like you don't have offers. Good-looking, rich bloke like you. I've seen it." She hesitated. "Forgive me for saying so - it's not my place - but I say it as a friend. You seem really lonely."
Lonely?!
Me?
I talk to hundreds of people every day. I know thousands of people by name. I've lived for millennia. How could I possibly be lonely? Demons don't get lonely.
Do they?
"Maybe," she continued, "maybe you could take a chance, you know? You need someone you can talk to, someone who understands you. Where you're coming from. A lover or a friend. Just… not business."
"Not businesss," I repeated, hissing a little. I was more tired than I thought. "I'll think about it. Thanks, Diamante." Leaving her a big tip and a perplexed expression, I got my coat and left, reeling more from the revelation than the alcohol.
I don't really remember how I got home. The Bentley managed on its own and I stumbled up the steps, pushing the locked door open. Throwing my things on the kitchen counter, I pulled out the book in which I note down things I've done for the day. It makes it easier to account to the Boss at the end of the year and justify my work up here.
I'm not sure why, but when I finished that day's entry, I started flipping through the book. Almost a whole year's worth of temptations and sins, deals and devilry. And it was damn good work. But what did it add up to for me? The work was satisfying enough, but what kind of life did I have outside of it? Had I really saved the world in order to be… lonely… in it? Always pretending to be someone else?
I took off my glasses and rubbed at my eyes. Just then, I noticed an entry from nearly eight months prior. I stared at it. Someone you can talk to. Someone who understands you. Had it really been so long?
A few minutes later as I waved my clothes back into the ether and crawled naked into bed, (tempting, always tempting) I broke my own rules and thought about the next day. If I blew some people off, manipulated some others, I could wrangle the evening free…
I looked at the phone, considering, then smiled.
Nah.
It's always much more fun to just surprise the angel.
Enjoy, googlebrat, from your Secret Author!