Right then. Being fired from Hell. It had its ups, naturally. No more infernal memos, no more Beelzebub buzzing about like a particularly irate bluebottle with their stupid haircut, and, most importantly, no more sneaking about with Aziraphale like a pair of star-crossed lovers in a particularly tedious melodrama. But, as Crowley had discovered, even the most delightful of freedoms came with its own set of inconveniences, like, say, living in a Bentley. A magnificent machine, yes, a testament to the sheer, unholy power of internal combustion, but hardly a comfortable residence. One couldn't exactly stretch out and read a good book in the back seat, not without risking a rather unpleasant crick in the neck. And the constant need to polish the chrome was, frankly, a divine punishment in itself, though he'd never admit it.

He'd sought refuge in a dimly lit pub, a place that smelled of stale beer and quiet desperation, a comforting sort of atmosphere, really. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, with ice clinking like tiny, accusing demons, and brooded.

He was contemplating the finer points of human bureaucracy, a system so convoluted and needlessly complex that even Hell's paperwork seemed almost charming in comparison, when he noticed a figure approaching. Ugh, a human, it seemed. They always seemed to be poking their noses into things, like curious ferrets with an agenda.

He adjusted his sunglasses, the dark lenses reflected the flickering pub lights like the eyes of a particularly irritated snake, and fixed the interloper with a look that could curdle milk at fifty paces.

"What?" he hissed, with a low, sibilant rasp. "You got a problem? Or are you just here to admire the decor?"