“I'll
confess something,” the devil said. “I was originally going to
pull an Old Testament when I saw you, pillars of flame and all that.
But you and I both know that we can't go around whipping out the
flaming swords any more.”
Despite
not wanting to agree with the enemy over anything, the angel was
forced to nod. “Too much paperwork,” he complained. “I mean,
even just a simple smiting requires me to complete a WX1074-B within
24 hours. The long form, even! I can't fill out the short form
unless I have three angelic witnesses testifying that it was
'blocking an active corruption'.”
Calcifer
nodded sympathetically. “And no possessions for me, not if I don't
want to go before the advisory board,” he said. “So while we
could still pull of a miracle if we really needed to, we're forced to
follow the same rules as the mortals.” Azrael was nodding,
agreeing despite himself.
At
that moment, the barista stepped up to the table. “Something
wrong, Calcifer?” she asked.
“Yes,
there is,” the devil replied, obviously enjoying the shocked look
on Azrael's face as he heard the mortal use his true name. “This
man, here, should be refused service and thrown out of this shop.”
He made a shooing gesture towards Azrael.
The
barista sighed and rolled her eyes, but she turned towards the angel
nonetheless. “Sorry, but you'll have to go,” she said
apologetically. “You know, 'right to refuse service to anyone' and
all that.”
“What?
Do, do you have any idea who I am?” Azrael stuttered.
The
girl shrugged. “Afraid not. But I know this guy's a devil, and
he's the only one that stops our cappuccino machine from breaking
twice a week. So we try to keep him happy.” She jerked her thumb
towards the door.
Angels
aren't programmed to disobey orders; those that don't follow the beat
of the drum tend to become fallen and join the ranks of the devils.
This didn't stop Azrael from glaring fiercely at both Calcifer and
the barista as he packed up his laptop. “I hope you realize that,
just by consorting with this monster, you're putting your immortal
soul in jeopardy,” he snapped at her as he turned to leave.
The
girl shrugged, not looking particularly worried. “I get a lot of
impure thoughts anyway,” she admitted. “Besides, I stopped going
to church when I was, like, eight.”
As
the angel stormed out of the coffee shop, the girl turned to Calcifer
with a tired look. “Calcie, I know you get off on the whole
'abusing power' thing, but you need to stop with this,” she
complained.
“Calcie?
What is this?” Calcifer broke in. “I'm a devil! You can't give
me a nickname!”
The
girl wagged her finger at him, in what he felt was a far too scolding
manner. “Look, if I'm your big guns for keeping angels out of
here, I get to call you whatever I want,” she explained. “You
can either deal with them all yourself, or you can make these beans
roast themselves. Your choice.”
As
Calcifer snapped his fingers, causing demonic flames to gently lick
each of the coffee beans behind the counter until they were perfectly
dry-roasted and ready to be ground, he wondered if he was being used.
No, he decided. He was an immortal devil, tasked with the
corruption and degradation of humanity itself. There's no way that
mortals could be pulling a fast one on him.
Meanwhile,
as the barista headed back to the counter, she was also weighing the
benefits of keeping the coffee shop devil around. He did keep the
machines in perfect running order, and saved them from burning the
coffee. That was worth the occasional hassle of playing along with
his little squabbles.
Halfway
back to his booth, Calcifer paused, glancing up at the ceiling.
“Wait, squabbles?” he asked suspiciously.
He
heard no response about his very important cosmic battles with the
angels, however, so he returned to his booth without further
incident.
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