Pyriel and Asmodeus had been walking along the narrow-paved path, running parallel to the main hospital building, to the car park. By this time, late evening, most visitors, and day staff had already gone home for the night. To Pyriel, the scattered remaining cars appeared abandoned.

‘How about that one?’ Pyriel asked excitedly. Having scanned the empty car park, a white Mercedes convertible coupe had caught her eye. ‘I think Jane will look really sexy in that.’

‘Whatever.’ Asmodeus shrugged.

As they approached, Asmodeus waved his hand. The car responded with a loud peep-peep, flashing its indicators, and unlocking its doors. She got in.

‘Very nice,’ he nodded approvingly as he inspected the car's luxurious interior.

Asmodeus waved his hand. The dashboard illuminated, bathing the interior in a rich turquoise hue. At the same time, the engine started. Idling with a deep throaty purr of the V8. The convertible roof began to fold down as Asmodeus looked up, allowing the full view of the cloudless sky to come into view. He reached out to…

‘Where the Hell’s the radio?’ he shouted in disbelief, while staring with a confused expression at the buttons surrounding a large LCD screen displaying the iconic three-star Mercedes emblem. ‘Mode, Select, Info, what’s all this?’ he mumbled as he pushed buttons at random.

‘Hey, my bum’s getting hot,’ Pyriel exclaimed. Knowing how technologically inept Asmodeus is, she knew what would likely come next.

‘Arrrggghhh.’

Sounding infuriated, Asmodeus punched the dashboard. A loud, high-pitched screech from abused, shearing metal shattered the serene carpark ambiance followed by a squeak and several bubbling noises. Smiling inwardly, Pyriel watched as a pillar of steam and smoke rose from spot where the console used to be.

Pyriel assessed the situation. Asmodeus’s punch had created a hole, approximately ten inches wide and three foot deep. Glowing hot metal edges gave the escaping smoke an eery amber glow as the interior filled with odours of burning rubber, electrics, and molten metal. Looking satisfied and seeming to feel better about modern technology, Asmodeus sat smiling as he inspected his handiwork. Pyriel, having anticipated his little tantrum, was already working on a plan B.

‘Wanna go old school?’ she asked. She pointed at one of history’s most iconic American muscle cars. A vintage Ford Mustang.

‘Oh yeah, baby. Come to papa. That’s a classic.’ Asmodeus shouted, his face lighting up like a lighthouse. Before Pyriel had a chance to reply, Asmodeus had already forced the Mercedes’ door open, and was running toward the Mustang.

‘Hey, what about your mess?’ Pyriel shouted, after him.

‘Please sort it …,’ came the fading reply as he continued hastily across the car park. Pyriel, shaking her head, sighed.

‘Bloody technophobe’, she mumbled. ‘He makes the mess and I do the cleaning.’ Giving the smoking hole a second glance, she got out of the car and closed the door. Some country song was already bellowing into the night. Well at least he’s found a radio he can operate. Modern day miracle? Pyriel wondered as she waved her hand.

The driver door closed with a click as bubbling, screeching, and farting noises emanated from the car’s interior. The hole seemed to melt back into place. With a low whirring sound, the roof closed, and the locking mechanism snapped into place. A loud beep-beep accompanied by all four indicators flashing finalised the reverse transformation as the doors locked. Pyriel turned.

Giving the Mercedes one last glance, she began to walk over to the Mustang. ‘Oh Lord,’ she exclaimed. She stopped dead in her tracks as she heard Asmodeus murdering a Shania Twain song. That bloody demon has less vocal talent than Hitler had compassion, she decided. He sounds like a Siberian bull frog being steamed alive. As she approached, she noticed the car shaking as if trying to escape. She knocked on the driver side window. The car stopped bouncing as Asmodeus closed his mouth and wound down the window.

‘Sup?’

‘I’m not driving with you if you sing. You know our deal.’ Her frosty words hung in the cool night air.

‘Oh c’mon, just a few tunes, no harm done,’ he replied grinning.

‘No harm? You cracked the windscreen.’ Pyriel shrieked. She pointed at the spider web of cracks covering the glass.

‘It was like that when I got in. Honest.’

Looking at Asmodeus shamelessly lying while grinning from ear to ear, she could not help but smile. Ninety percent arduous work and ten percent fun, on a sliding scale. An overgrown celestial child. I suppose I could do worse. She thought. Chuckling to herself, she got into the car.

‘So, I see you found a radio.’

With a dreamy expression Asmodeus caressed the vintage dials. As he waved his hand, smooth Jazz began to play. ‘Hell no,’ he cried out, waving his hand frantically until he found another country western station.

Pyriel shot him a disapproving look but said nothing. They had their rules: The driver chooses the music, but no singing, under any circumstances. Asmodeus waved and the engine started.

‘Drinking time?’

‘Drinking time!’ Pyriel confirmed resoundingly as Asmodeus pushed the gear selector lever to drive.

‘HI HA,’ he shouted, flooring the accelerator.

***

Shops, pedestrians, cars, and a collage of lights flew by in a blur as Asmodeus weaved thought the evening traffic. He was loving the raw, untamed roar of the V8. No airbags, no traction control, no over complicated electronics. The cars simplistic design creating a more intimate bond between driver and car. As Asmodeus pressed harder on the accelerator the Mustang continued to accelerate. The world rushed by in a kaleidoscope of colour.

With Asmodeus tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of a Dixie-Chicks song, the Mustang continued to rocket toward a busy intersection. He ignored the traffic light, blazing a rich crimson.

He never saw the pickup which seemed to appear out of nowhere. To the accompaniment of a loud bang, the Mustang clipped the tail end of the pickup, causing both vehicles to spin out of control.

‘Ah, shit.’ Asmodeus sighed calmly as the mustang pirouetted about, narrowly missing two more cars to the accompaniment of screeching tyres and blowing horns. Finally, it came to a halt with a gentle shake. ‘Crap. Incoming,’ Asmodeus remarked calmly as the truck's door flew open and a large man wearing a dirty T-shirt and jeans stomped toward the Mustang in dirt work boots.

‘You bloody idiot. Got your licence from a fuckin’ cereal box?’ Asmodeus watched with curiosity as the man, red faced and snarling, continued bellowing obscenities while pounding the Mustangs roof with his fists. Asmodeus, unperturbed by the man’s ranting, began to look for another radio station while Pyriel, smiling, said nothing.

‘Get out. I want to talk to you.’ The man shouted as he yanked the handle and threw open the driver door. Asmodeus saw that some of the other drivers had gotten out of their cars to watch the confrontation. On the sidewalk, pedestrians were filming the commotion on their phones.

He knew the rules. No celestial interference in human lives of any kind was tolerated. What wasn’t clear to Asmodeus was the definition of interference. Fooling around with them, in his opinion, wasn’t interfering. He liked to think of it as two worlds colliding with a big bang, before continuing their merry ways.

Asmodeus could feel the man’s hot breath on his neck as the driver reached into the Mustang and grabbed him by the scruff. Nonchalant, he let the man manhandle him out of his seat before being slammed against the car. Their noses touching, Asmodeus felt drops of spittle hit his face as the man continued to shout.

‘You’re gonna to pay for this.’ The man pointed at his pickup. ‘Look at my car, you fuckin’ idiot. I’m going to sue you for every penny you got, and then some.’ Unfazed, his expression pensive with a hint of boredom, Asmodeus stood calmly while the man began to prod him in the chest. Asmodeus’s placid, non-flinching demeanour seemed to infuriate him even more.

Wondering if he should kiss the man, Asmodeus continued to stare untroubled.

‘Talk to me, you idiot’, the driver yelled as he grabbed Asmodeus’s’ shirt. His eyes wide. Psychotic. His teeth exposed like an animal.

Asmodeus had enough. His eyes lit up, glowing a rich ruby colour. The man froze instantly. Smiling with amusement, Asmodeus watched as the man’s face drooped and his body visibly relaxed before he dropped his arms loosely by his side. Moving in closer, Asmodeus whispered into his ear.

‘Go home. Forget this ever happened. If you have a wife, or partner, buy her some flowers. Tell her you love her and apologise to her for being such an asshole.’

Asmodeus had never believed himself to be truly evil. Possessing, killing, and manipulating humans had never suited him. Neither had he enjoyed being an angel. Being all goody-goody, walking around praising Him while fluffing clouds into weird shapes had felt demeaning and outright boring. His fall from grace had never been a direct, conscious, decision. He blamed negative influences, hanging around with the wrong angels and having his application for Archangel training denied four-thousand-nine-hundred-fifty-six times. In hindsight, he had to admit that he should’ve known better. Allowing himself to be lured to the dark side by false promises of good fun and adventure after all was his own fault. “Anything in moderation”, had become his new motto. “Punish the ones that deserved it and help the ones who truly tried but failed”, he would say to the dismay of his mentors.

Believing his actions justified, he watched the man turn on the spot before walking back to his car with a dead-pan expression. Asmodeus waved his hand. Shards of glass began to wiggle on the tarmac. Like a movie being played backward, the pieces came together, reforming the broken taillight into a single piece while the truck's metallic body groaned back into its original shape. Finally, the repaired light bulb re-illuminated as the lens cover popped back into place. The driver of the truck started the engine, and without looking back, drove off.

Getting back into the car, Asmodeus noticed Pyriel’s questioning stare.

‘What?’

‘What about them?’ she asked, pointing at several onlookers who were staring in disbelief. Some were still recording on their phones.

‘Leave them. They’ll think it was some special effect, like in a movie.’ Still mildly annoyed at the interruption, Asmodeus waved his hand. The engine started. As he floored the accelerator the Mustang leaped forward, its screeching tyres leaving snake-like black lines on the road. Giving the bewildered crowd of rubberneckers one final glance in the rear-view mirror, he continued thundering toward the next intersection.

Pyriel sat with her arms folded, a thunderous expression on her face. ‘I still hate the fact that you can compel humans and I can’t,’ she snorted.

‘Jealous?’ Asmodeus smirked.

‘You know I am. At least you can’t compel me. I shudder at all the things you would have me do for your own perverted pleasure and entertainment.’

‘Oh, you have no idea. Your angelic imagination doesn’t stretch that far,’ Asmodeus said laughing loudly.

‘I just wish we could use our powers for something other than our nightly excursions. You know, actually helping those in need.’

Asmodeus understood what she meant. Angels were hard coded to protect humans and he knew how difficult it was for her to roam among living humans with all her powers, but unable to help them in their darkest moments.

They continued for several minutes in silence until Pyriel shouted excitedly.

‘Hey, look. That looks promising.’ She was pointing at a rundown brownstone building displaying several coloured neon lights in shapes of beer and cocktail glasses. Some were glowing or flashing dimly. The name of the establishment was illegible as most of the neon letters were broken or missing. What remained spelled out T-I-T in bright green neon. A row of motorcycles stood parked out front.

‘Could be our kind of place,’ Asmodeus said, smirking.

‘You mean Your kind of place. Dirty, dingy, smelling of pee and sweat. Charming.’

‘Hey, I’m still a demon and like a few creature comforts.’

‘I just wish your creature comforts included a king-sized bed, feather duvets and a big screen TV.’

‘You just want to curl up and watch the real housewives of L.A. or Beverly Hills again. You’re addicted to those bloody shows,’ Asmodeus said remembering that huge department store where they had made themselves at home for several weeks in a storeroom. Complete with cinema sized flat screen and double bed. He had been quite happy until somebody, investigating the horrid smell, discovered their decomposing bodies and called the police.

‘And what’s wrong with that? You were laughing too, especially when that husband found out his wife was busy getting it on with the pool boy who is twenty years her junior. That’s a big deal for humans.’ Asmodeus said nothing in reply but could not hide a smile as he parked.

‘C’mon. Let’s have some fun with the bikers,’ he said with an evil twinkle in his eye.

‘No interference. Remember?’

‘It’s not interference, it’s called being sociable.’

‘I don’t think our illustrious leaders would call making a bunch of humans play naked hopscotch being sociable.’

‘Tomato — Potato.’

‘I’m sure that’s not how it goes.’

‘Who cares, it’s been centuries since we’ve last seen them and you must admit, whiskey and messing bikers about goes together like rain and dancing,’ said Asmodeus with a massive grin. ‘It just has to be done.’ Pyriel sighed. She shook her head but said nothing.

***

Shards of crumbling black paint fluttered to the ground as Asmodeus pushed on the wooden door. The hinges squealed in protests. His smile broadened as a waft of smoky air smelling of stale beer and cigarette smoke filled his nostrils. As he stepped inside, Pyriel in tow, the floorboards creaked, darkened by years of abuse, alcohol spillages and dirt.

He looked around. On the right, a dark wooden bar stretched about eighteen feet along. A dull brass foot rail ran along its length. None of the stools were occupied. Several coloured bottles stood displayed on glass shelves mounted in front of mirrors, while others hung inverted along the wall attached to optics. Filled with varying hues of amber liquid. The remainder of a crystal chandelier above the bar cast ribbons of light over the bar and entrance area while other dim wall mounted lights bathed the remainder in a subdued gloom. About half of the tables and chairs dotted about were occupied. Several figures lurked about in the rear. Some leaning against a vintage jukebox, drink in hand. Others stood playing pool or standing about holding cues. Obscured by a cloud of thick smoke. A ceiling suspended canopy hung over the pool table, illuminating it brightly.

The hubbub of voices fell silent as Asmodeus walked in. Only the sounds of some country song and the distant rumble of an extractor fan continued.

Feeling their stares, Asmodeus quickly assessed the mood. He judged by the pristine bikes and their fancy airbrushed artwork that these were serious bikers, not enthusiasts. Scuffed boots faded and cracking leather jackets enforced his deduction. All had their individual club affiliations proudly displayed on their cut.

Most patrons appeared to be men. The dim lighting and unisex attire made gender recognition near impossible for Asmodeus. Not that he cared. At a quick glance, he counted three distinct club patches. A sign that no individual group claimed ownership of the bar. Previous experience told him that if he sat down and did not order a Shirley Temple, they’d probably leave him alone. Then again, where’s the fun in that…? he thought

Approaching the bar, he noticed the usual suspects on the shelf until a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label caught his eye.

Oh yes, that’s exactly what I need right now. I’ll never admit it to Pyriel, but that stuff is bottled Heaven. Come to daddy I say, he thought, inwardly smiling.

‘What’ll it be?’ asked the heavy-set bartender in a monotone. He flung a grimy looking cloth over his shoulder.

‘Two Johnny Blue my good man. And make them double, on the double.’ Asmodeus shouted as he slapped the bar counter with a flat hand.

Giving a curt nod, the bartender turned and reached for the bottle. With a well-practiced flick of the wrist, he produced two shot glasses which he placed on the bar. The smirk with which the bartender poured the two inches of the hazel-coloured liquid into each glass was not lost on Asmodeus, but in his mind he was already feeling the golden nectar flow over his tongue and into the back of his throat.

Having waited impatiently for the drinks to be poured, Asmodeus grabbed his glass and threw it back. Grimacing with disgust, he slammed the glass onto the bar.

‘What in the deepest pits of hell is that shit?’ he shouted at the bartender who shrugged; replying to Asmodeus' quizzing stare with a phlegmatic gaze.

‘Dunno, I just work here. Not my problem.’

Pyriel stepped forward and grabbed her glass. She winced as she swung back the content.

‘Fuck me, that is awful.’ Scowling, she slid the empty glass across the bar where it dropped. It smashed, peppering the floor with small glass shards.

‘Hey, watch it, lady. I just serve. If you don’t like the stuff, take it up with management,’ the bartender shouted with an infuriated expression.

‘Where is this, management?’ Asmodeus demanded. There was no way he would let somebody defraud him without retribution.

Conversation ceased. All eyes fixated toward the rear of the bar where a loud screech emanated from protesting floorboards as somebody pushed back their chair. Interest peaked; Asmodeus turned toward the sound. The floorboards bowed and creaked in protest as a mountainous figure rose. Without turning, the man spoke in a deep, gruff voice.

‘Management’s right here.’

Asmodeus stared at the man’s clown sized boots. Standing around seven-foot-tall, his cut declared affiliation to a club named Satan’s Spawn which made Asmodeus smirk. A large patch beneath his colours introduced this giant by his road name, ‘The Hammer'. Tree trunk like arms hung loosely by his side as this herculean monstrosity turned. A long, wide scar ran down his right cheek, clearly visible through his salt and pepper coloured beard. A black, skull embossed bandanna covered his hair and head.

The hammer’s stern expression changed to one of humorous curiosity as his eyes met Asmodeus’.

Grinning, Asmodeus inspected The Hammer’s anvil-like hands. Covered in thick, gold rings, only a fool would question the origins of his road name he thought.

The Hammer strolled leisurely closer, causing the floor and walls to shake with each step. His dragon-like huffs smelled of whisky and stale cigarettes as he towered over Asmodeus.

‘What’s the problem then?’ The Hammer asked. His voice thick and gravelly.

Picking up his empty glass, Asmodeus grinned as he gazed up at the man. ‘Your whisky tastes like horse piss,’ he announced factually. ‘Whatever’s in that bottle doesn’t deserve to be called whisky, let alone Johnny Blue.’

Bending backwards, The Hammer, let out a tumultuous roar of laughter that shook the walls. Most patrons, who had been hanging onto every word with increasing anticipation, joined in. As the laughter subsided, The Hammer’s patronising expression met Asmodeus’s curious one.

‘You’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that,’ the hammer said smiling as he looked about. The Hammer shook his head as he sucked his nicotine-stained teeth. Feeling every pair of eyes locked on him, Asmodeus returned the smile, recalling the biblical story of David and Goliath. Like Goliath, The Hammer never had a chance, he thought.

The Hammer continued: ‘The real question is, whatcha gonna do about it?’ With raised eyebrows, he continued to give Asmodeus an amused, curious look.

Taking a moment for himself, Asmodeus contemplated his dilemma.

Rules vs. demonic principle. The rules are clear. No interference, but what about the fine print? Is there any? There should be, for situations like this. I think the fine print should read something like: In cases of humans, grievously and maliciously defrauding a demon by serving said demon with sub-standard alcohol while trying to have a good time, the demon, at his discretion, should be allowed to punish the infringing human, especially if the offending human is huge, hairy, and smelly. Yes, if there is some fine print, I’m sure it will say something like that. After all, Demons punish sinners, and this behemoth has sinned BIG TIME. Nobody messes with my drink. Let the ass kicking commence.

‘Funny you should ask.’ Asmodeus replied as he raised his hand level with the hammer’s chest.

‘Asmo—’ Pyriel quickly corrected herself. ‘John. NO!’ she shouted as Asmodeus’s smile turned evil.

‘I would listen to your lady friend if you want to continue breathing,’ The Hammer smirked.

That’s it. Insult to injury, the gloves are off, Asmodeus thought as his eyes began to glow a deep scarlet. As their gaze met, The Hammer’s face drooped, his body visibly relaxing

Asmodeus knew that harming humans physically would lead to prosecution and even death if found guilty. With such non-ambiguous restrictions imposed, he had mastered the art of creating punishment that, in his opinion, was appropriate but would not lead to the wrath of Heaven and Hell combined to be unleashed upon him.

‘Dance for me,’ he said flatly.

The Hammer began to sway his hips rhythmically from side to side while twisting his torso about ever so slightly to the slow beat of a country song playing on the Jukebox,

Asmodeus, having endured countless hours of cruelling dance completions on TV, another of Pyriel’s dirty delights, knew what real dancing should look like, and stood unimpressed.

‘Really? Is that the best you can do? C’mon, give it some effort,’ Asmodeus shouted encouragingly. ‘You look like C3PO trying out for a breakdance competition.'

Adding a foot shuffle, The Hammer continued to sway from side to side while bopping his head to the song’s rhythm. Asmodeus cocked his head. The Hammer’s performance was not up to his standards. More encouragement was needed, he decided.

‘Seriously, move your arms man. Let’s see some funky chicken moves.’

The Hammer began to flap his arms.

’What’s this now? Are you a dying swan or a water sprinkler with low pressure?’ Asmodeus shouted. To his delight, two bikers approached with expressions of incredulity and determination.

‘’ey, what the fuck is goin’ on here?’ one shouted.

With his eyes still glowing, Asmodeus turned his head. His gaze met the two bikers. Both men stopped dead in mid stride. Since neither he nor Pyriel could use their powers to help people or make positive differences, having fun punishing humans that deserved it was his way of staying sane.

‘Ah, I see you’ve come to support your— your— whatever he is to you. C’mon then. Let’s see you bust some moves and shake what your momma gave ya.’

Wondering if he should charge an entertainment fee, Asmodeus began to wave his arms about as if conducting an orchestra.

With glazed expressions on their faces, the three bikes swayed, shuffled, and bounced about to the accompaniment of raucous laughter.

‘C’mon, feel the rhythm, move your body, jump around a little. Who can do the moves to YMCA?’ Asmodeus shouted, clapping his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Pyriel doubled over with laughter.

‘Wow. Now that was too close for comfort. OK, stop with the arms. You’re not windmills. Somebody is going to get an eye poked out.’ Asmodeus said, taking back several steps after almost being backhanded by an exuberantly dancing biker. OK, let’s see you jump. Yes, jump. Jump up, jump down. Spin it all around. Really? What is that? I ‘ve seen Mexican jumping beans do a better job. Move about a bit, shake it left, then shake it right, let’s see you bust some moves.’ With Asmodeus clapping, the bikers continued to sway, shuffle, and bounce about. ‘Oi, what’s this now? You three entering a dancing Bobblehead competition? I said dance, not rock from side to side and shake your head, I’m going to get seasick. Tell you what. All of you. Put your arms over each other’s shoulder. — Yeah, there you go— now let’s see those chicken legs. On three. One— two— three—.’

Hava nagila, Hava nagila, Hava nagila ve-nismeḥa…

Clapping his hands, Asmodeus sang, while the biker’s legs thrashed left and jumped right causing the floor and walls to shake with earthquake-like tremors. The remaining patron’s, including the bartender, gawked, some smiled while others joined Asmodeus’s clapping.

‘There we go, now we’re having fun. Faster now’, Asmodeus shouted.

Hava nagila, Hava nagila, Hava nagila ve-nismeḥa… (his singing increasing in tempo)

If only they had decent whiskey this could become my favourite hangout. Asmodeus smiled to himself.

‘ENOUGH !!!’ A voice bellowed deafeningly.

Taken by surprise, Asmodeus stopped singing. His eyes returned to normal. With the trance broken, the three bikers stopped dancing. Eyeing each other with confusion and disarray while they detangled their arms and legs

Asmodeus scanned the bar. The command had come from a man who had stood in a gloomy corner, his face obscured by shadows. Stepping forward determinately, the man began to regard each patron in turn. Wary expressions of incredulity and disbelief replaced laughter and smiles as an eerie silence befell the bar.

Equally surprised and upset that someone dared interfere while he was having fun, Asmodeus turned his attention to the stranger who had moved to the middle of the floor.

‘GET OUT – EVERYBODY,’ the newcomer barked.

Exchanging confused glances, the bikers stayed put. The night's entertainment was clearly over but many hours of drinking remained. Besides, Asmodeus knew that bikers seldom adhere to commands. Especially coming from a stranger.

The stranger clenched his hands. Grimacing his fists burst into electric blue and white flames, spreading quickly, engulfing his torso and head. Turning on the spot, the man scanned the frozen crowd.

What the hell? Who or what is this? Asmodeus stood marvelling. Oh man, that’s so cool. I wish I could do that.

‘GET OUT, NOW!!!’ The stranger shouted again with blue flames spewing from his mouth.

Asmodeus stood aside as a cataclysmic stampede of pounding feet, waving arms, and yelling ensued. Everybody, including the hammer and bar tender, scrambled for the door. All falling over each other not to be the last to escape.

The sound of shouting, screeching tyres and bellowing engines faded as an unnatural and suffocating silence made itself at home. The man, still standing in the middle of the floor turned. The flames died as he addressed Asmodeus.

‘What’s your name then?’ he asked. Out of the corner of his eye Asmodeus noticed another man. He was still lurking in the shadows.

‘Hi, I’m John, and that is my— umm— friend, Jane.’ Asmodeus said. He stepped forward with his hand extended. Without moving, the stranger gave Asmodeus a deprecatory stare.

‘NO, I want your real name, not the earthly one you’ve chosen for tonight or a few days.’

WHAT? Another demon in a meat suit? I thought we were the only ones. What’s going on here? Asmodeus’s mind went into overdrive. Is that another one there? He wondered, casting critical glanced at the corner where the other figure still stood bathed in darkness. But more importantly, how the hell did he do that flame thing? That was bloody awesome.

‘Well— my name is Asmodeus, and who may the two of you be?’

The stranger stepped forward, his gaze pitying.

‘I am Balberith,’ he said as if announcing his arrival to royalty. ‘And who’s your lady friend over there?’

Asmodeus glanced across to Pyriel who had been quietly watching from the bar. She stepped forward confidently. Notorious by name and deed, he knew that she had made many enemies over the millennia. He also knew that an agreed cease-fire between Heaven and Hell had not wiped away personal animosity or the desire for revenge between individuals.

‘My name is Pyriel,’ she said in a subdued tone.

Uh-oh, is it just me or has the temperature dropped suddenly? Asmodeus wondered as he felt the mood change. It had become tense and electric.

‘Pyriel! — Punisher!’ The quiescence tone of his statement hung in the air, cold and menacing. Asmodeus’s focus shifted. The words had come from the man still shrouded in darkness. His demeanour had started to bother Asmodeus more than the whining country song playing on the jukebox.

‘So, shall we all get a drink then?’ Asmodeus asked sheepishly as he became increasingly uncomfortable with the situation. ‘Or we can see if they have a karaoke machine. I love singing.’

The silence hung like sweltering heat in the room. Draining. Suffocating.

‘No? OK then. Fair enough. No singing. How about a drink then? No Johnny Blue though. That stuff will send you to an early grave.’ Asmodeus felt increasingly troubled. He continued to compensate with humour. ‘Really? Not even a bit of gallows humour? Hey Pyriel, don’t you dare call me miserable again. These two might need stitches if they smiled,’ Asmodeus said laughing nervously.

‘I am Classyalabolas,’ the second man announced as he stepped into the light. ‘I trust you’ve heard of me.’ Apprehensively Asmodeus took a step back. Sure that things were about to get ugly. He hated confrontations with his own kind.

Pyriel’s eyes darted about with a thoughtful expression. Shrugging, she gave Classyalabolas a mildly confused but curious glance.

‘Um, no. Sorry. The only stupid, ignorant and lazy demon I associate myself with is this one,’ she said pointing at Asmodeus who felt more than just a little insulted but knew to keep his mouth shut. Retribution could wait.

Classyalabolas laugh sounded bitter and acidic before he continued.

‘I’m no demon,’ he shouted. ‘I’m an angel. A soldier, in heaven’s army, like you used to be. — BUT YOU!’ He pointed at Pyriel as he stepped forward. ‘You killed Tzaphqiel. My best friend. My Lieutenant and mentor. I lost everything because of you. I heard you were dead. Slain by some demon. But I see fate has willed it otherwise. Tonight, I will have my revenge.’ Classyalabolas continued to approach. His eyes ignited, glowing a deep, midnight blue.

Asmodeus saw a shocked expression wash over Pyriel’s face. She seemed to waver. Then stepped back.

She seldom spoke about the time before the ceasefire. Asmodeus knew that the decision to fight Tzaphqiel had not been an easy one for her. He also knew that the burden and responsibility for Tzaphqiel death still haunted her daily. Just as he was reminded daily, when seeing her, that he owed her his life, and more. It still boggled his mind that she, an Arch Angel, notorious and known to every demon in hell, had used her first ever, free-will decision to save him and defy heaven. Him, a mortal enemy back then. How could he ever repay such a debt? Now it seemed the relentless footsteps of consequence had caught up with her. Carrying with them the impending doom of the dark past she had fought so hard to leave behind.

Perplexed Asmodeus watched as Pyriel’s consciousness seemed to drift. Her body began to sway with her head bowed in obsequious submission. No, don’t give up on me now, Asmodeus screamed in his head.

***

Pyriel felt shaken as centuries of repressed memories bombarded her. A strange sensation washed over her. A feeling that the ground was opening beneath her. A bottomless abyss from which outstretched hands and arms of slain angels and demons reached out to her. Grabbing at her. Demanding that she join them in the void. With her head spinning out of control, she felt herself tumbling. Falling into the abyss. Darkness engulfing her.

‘PUNISHER!’ Classyalabolas’ voice sliced through the ghostly mist of emotions that had taken her prisoner. Shattering the shackles and allowing her mind and focus to return to the present.

‘I was there, in the clearing when you chose to defy your destiny.’ Classyalabolas said as he circled her. His body tense. Face leering while his eyes continued to glow.

‘I was there when that sniffling excuse of a demon lay on the floor begging and pleading for his pitiful excuse of an existence.’ Pyriel continued to stand mute. Her head bowed as Classyalabolas paced about, ranting.

‘I heard the lies, the deceit, the— the utter bull-shit— about angels and demons being withheld free will. That we, like humans, have choices.’ He’s laugh sounded hollow and bitter. ‘Then came the biggest lie. That he, a demon, was friends with the human. Helping the poor soul. That he was INVITED in?’ Waving his arms in the air, Classyalabolas face contorted into an expression of incredulity. He continued while Pyriel remained silent.

‘A demon invited in by a human. That was boldly the biggest lie I’d ever heard.’ Lowering his arms, Classyalabolas stepped closer. He leaned forward and brought his face so close to Pyriel’s that she could smell the sour smell of decomposition emanate from his mouth. ‘I watched as you betrayed heaven, the angel oath and worst of all— yourself when you struck down Tzaphqiel and saved that wretched thing.’

Pyriel stood unmoving. She couldn't explain herself. For millennia she had followed heaven’s orders. Unquestioning. Unwavering. The vessels she had chosen to walk the earthly realm with had been mostly nuns. Devout Christians. Like her, committed. Loyal to a fault. Then she met Noya. Noya’s husband had been lost to her after being possessed by a demon. But instead of becoming bitter or vengeful, Noya continued to look for the positive in everyone and everything. Pyriel’s time with Noya had opened her eyes to many things. Noya, devoted and dedicated, had been curious. Questioning and absorbing not only knowledge but taking the time to understand people and culture differences. She never judged. “A non-Christian is not a heathen,” she would say. “Just someone who has not had the opportunity to be educated in His ways.” Her ways of teaching were unlike Pyriel had ever experienced before. Noya would take her time with each person. Getting to know them. Their needs. Desires. Hopes, and dreams. Then she would begin to plant spiritual seeds. She would say that true believing had to come from the heart. Without coercion or force. “If it’s not born from free will it means nothing”, she would say along with things like, “If you truly believe in something, and it feels right in your heart, how can it be wrong?” That's how it had been on that dreadful day. She had listened to her heart. Embraced free will and for the first time in her existence, acted on a decision that she had made from her own free will. No consulting heaven. No over analysing and doing what she knew would only please or gratify heaven. In her opinion, the words to what she was thinking or how she had felt in that moment have not yet been created.

‘Punisher, I’m talking to you’, Classyalabolas shouted in an impatient tone. He began to poke Pyriel’s chest, forcing her focus back onto him.

‘What do you want?’ she snarled.

‘What do I want? I want your head, on a stick. And that’s just for starters,’ came his icy retort.

‘Really? Look, it hasn’t been a good night so far. So, I suggest that you, and your shadow over there take a walk while you still can. I’m not in the mood to start a pissing contest with two numb-nuts who don’t know what they’re talking about,’ Pyriel said. She turned to walk away. Classyalabolas grabbed her by the shoulder and forcefully turned her to face him.

‘You will pay for your betrayal’ he snarled. His hands ignited, bathing his face in a sea blue hue.

Pyriel shifted her body, taking on a fighting stance. A flaming broadsword appeared in her right hand. Classyalabolas, seeming pleased, grinned devilishly.

He nodded.

‘Now that’s what I’m talking about,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. He stepped back several feet before extending his arms.

Pyriel had seen this style of combat before. To her it was cowardice, lacking the style and elegance of a sword. Like modern day guns, anyone can pull the trigger from a distance. To her, it lacked sincerity.

Pyriel noticed Classyalabolas' demeanour and expression change. Becoming more resolute. With his eyes brightening, he brought his wrists together. His hands formed a clam like shape. The lights in the bar began to flicker as a deep purple dot appeared, levitating between his palms. Still hovering, the dot began to spin. Growing steadily to the size of a tennis ball. With an expression of deep concentration, pursed lips, and tightly pulled together eyebrows, Classyalabolas pulled back his cupped hands. The spinning orb continued to grow to the size of a basketball. Then, with a thunderous shout, Classyalabolas stepped forward He thrust his upper body and arms forward. Flattening his hands at the last moment. With a turbulent whoosh the fiery sphere shot forward. Its flames crackling loudly, as it accelerated toward Pyriel.

Amateur. Pyriel thought. She smiled inwardly as the projectile hurtled toward her. She shifted her weight, turning her torso away and to the side. Simultaneously she raised her sword. Feeling an immense heat, she swung. Sphere and sword connected with an explosive bang. The object changed direction and accelerated sharply. With an emotionless gaze, Pyriel watched the comet-like projectile hurtle toward Balberith. It struck him squarely in the chest, ripping effortlessly through flesh and bone. Leaving behind a smouldering, gaping hole before continuing its destructive path.

Out of the corner of her eye Pyriel saw Asmodeus cowering under a table. He was staring wide-eyed at Balberith with an expression of incredulity and terror. Knowing how much he likes his Westerns and Sci-Fi movies, she wondered how he felt being so close to some real action.

Without taking her eyes off Classyalabolas, Pyriel squinted as an effulgent light emanated from Balberith’s torso. Arching back, Balberith threw his arms in the air. He let out a blood curdling scream as bright blue flames engulfed him, incinerating his body in a bright flash.

‘What have you done? You bitch!’ Classyalabolas shouted He gazed with an expression of disbelief at the small scorched patch where his friend had stood only moments before.

Much to her surprise, Pyriel felt no remorse. A little hollow perhaps, with a dash of pity, but not the gut-wrenching contrition she had felt when her sword found its mark with Tzaphqiel. What is happening? she wondered. Was she more hardened against killing her own kind? Or had her overall outlook on the new normal changed? Did necessity justify her actions so far that it no longer carried the same weight of remorse? She decided it was an inopportune time to ponder such moral and philosophical conundrums.

With hatred oozing from his eyes, Classyalabolas shifted his attention back to Pyriel.

‘You will pay for this,’ he snarled through gritted teeth. ‘And when I’m done with you, I will tear apart your pet monkey over there,’ he growled, pointing at Asmodeus who was still trembling.

Hmm, pet Monkey? That’s a new one. I haven’t called him that before. Need to remember that one. Pyriel chuckled internally while Classyalabolas continued grimacing and spewing hatred.

With an evil twinkle in his eye, he changed his stance. He adjusted his leg and shifted his weight backward. Twisting his upper body, he raised his arms. With a flash, a bright blue and white flaming sword appeared in his hand.

That’s more like it, Pyriel thought to herself. Surprised to feel her lips twitching and widening into a skirmish smile.

Classyalabolas, gripping his sword double handed, raised his arms. Screaming like a medieval Viking berserker, raging bloodlust in his eyes, he charged toward Pyriel, who stood ready. An imperturbable expression on her face.

Sword raised above his head, Classyalabolas launched himself into the air.

At the last moment, Pyriel sidestepped, leaving Classyalabolas’ loud crackling sword to rush past her harmlessly.

Using Classyalabolas momentum to her advantage, Pyriel stepped back. She twisted about, and swung her sword, double handed, at waist height. The blade found its target. Cutting effortlessly, with surgical precision. Classyalabolas torso launched upward. It twisted and spun in mid-air, before falling to the ground with a meaty thump. His legs also collapsed, whilst the sword, twirling in mid-air, disappeared.

Pyriel stood unmoving as bright lights and blue flames engulfed the body parts, Classyalabolas screams echoed and died. Only two small scorched patches remained as the light and flames extinguished.

With piercing, darting eyes, Pyriel assessed her surroundings. She found no other prowlers lurking in the shadows. All was quiet. Only the jukebox continued to play. Satisfied that they were alone, Pyriel relinquished her sword. With an expression of shock and fear Asmodeus peeked out from under the table. It had been a long time since he had last seen the Punisher in action.