“Good evening, and welcome to Gabriel’s Got News for You, I’m Faust, in the news this week: In central London the last of Verrine’s X houses sign sponsorship with the newly hyphenated house Gremory-Morax” the screen cut to a blue-green algae superimposed abandoning a lemonade stand. Propped on its surface read a sign 250ml: sponsorship one millennia

“In Tokyo speculations have risen over the identity of Amon’s final living apostle” a perturbed barn-owl perched on a neon daisy of the Tokyo city skyline revolved its head twitchy with anxiety

“and in Pandemonium representatives gather for Parliament with a typical head start in discussions as to the fate of humanity minus disease” the back bench of a parliamentary pew clamped with an A4 helvetica printing of Out for lunch. Closed between 2pm - 1pm.

“On Nostradamus's’ team tonight is the producer and playwright of Level six Heresy’s Taperway’s Wino? Why-yes. Please welcome Dionysus. And with Rasputin tonight re-joining us after his rock rally of public pressure to join the Separatist political party against Lucifer, it's the one, the only Elvis Presley. And we start with the bigger stories of the week. Take a look at this”

“Mammon, Berith, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, it's his retirement. Mammon has filed for retirement from the hierarchy” Nostradamus narrated

The camera cut to Faust “Correct. Do we, do we know why though?”

Rasputin, co-owner of The Damned Times lent forward stroking the wiry black curls at his jaw disengaging several chunks of his dinner to the counter-top “Mm. We wired his therapy sessions. Nine months of divine neurosis on transcript. Internship program, by recent law we have to give the voracious leeches something more than fetching Styrofoam cups of brewed hymen. We lock them now in the basement, producing all transcripts in Braille”

“Why, why Braille, now?” Elvis interrupted

Rasputin’s bulbous lower lip jutted out matter of factly “Never wired the basement with electricity and on the list of stationery expenses candles abdicated to paper clips. Anyway Mammon feels under-appreciated and has a jeopardised sense of self-preservation. Mammon will be renouncing its IC some time next week to corporealize on Dwingerloo 2 to pursue a supernaturalist theory of self-actualisation”

Nostradamus shook his head “Under-appreciated, how can one feel under-appreciated if they’re a god? This is like an incubus complaining itself desolate of post-coital cuddling”

Dionysus injected “Two millennia I was active in the POOF polls and not once did I get sent up a ‘cheers mate nice one’ When in the last twelve millennia did someone fail to inform Mammon being a deity isn’t about appreciation for a prayer well answered. It's about the free allocated parking on levels two through to nine” Dionysus looked thoughtful "And never appearing on a spam mailing list, only incoming messages I get these days are promotional deals from Amazon and Capital One. Further up my boot than the cult of souls"

"Should have gone to Dwingerloo 2. Rubbish wifi" Rasputin suggested deadpan

“Wha' sora pension do retired deities get?” Elvis asked

“None, for a satanic god he’s being very Buddhist about the whole thing and forfeiting the lot” Rasputin clarified

“Alla his IC?”

“Most of it. He's still keeping physical form. All so it can down a toga, sniff kale incense and gutturally chant codswallop on the outer rings of a vacated galaxy. It's been a god for long enough you’d think it’d reached the higher planes of consciousness by now”

“Or not. Would explain its theological manifesto” Dionysus scoffed

“Okay teams. Fingers on buzzers. How did Gabriel interpret the news of Mammon's retirement?”

“Evidence of god” Nostradamus replied dryly “This a question, how? Gabriel could interpret the leprechaun lifetime ISA scandal as evidence of divine salvation”

“Ah, but, next question: How has Lucifer been reported to interpret the news of Mammon’s retirement?”

“Evidence o' God” Elvis declared thumping a fist on the table top

“Exactly. Reportedly in light of the catastrophic state of level three of the hierarchy there is statistically almost a third less non-human in existence and God’s POOF value, in the progressive and significant decline of human disease, is looking the healthiest it has since fifteen thirty one and the Our Lady of Guadalupe miracle. Fingers on buzzers, who reportedly paid a visit to Level 0 to quell Lucifer in his time of need?”

“Mammon’s therapist” Elvis laughed

“Beezlebub” Rasputin clarified

“Correct. Four legions reported a sensed Beezlebub presence on Level 0 this past week. The caveat being sometime in the last three decades. Really, why do we pay them? Headlines from ITO Weekly reported today GODD Reaches Record High as Pardon Peaks at Fifty. Exactly what Lucifer was aiming for with that one we’re certain”

Faith paused the clip no less horrified on her tenth viewing than she'd been on her ninth. Polls of Faith. Number of faithful a god has. She thought. Plus ten to minus ten. God? Most erratic, bounces 'tween plus seven 'n plus one. Lucifer, to its endless delight, steady at plus seven. Deity drops to minus ten. No disciples. Struck off to a Beelzebub singularity for IC recycling. POOF. Verrine dropped to minus ten. But Verrine had disciples. Like eight noble houses of the 69 and the legions they commanded. So, Tens of thousands dedicated to it. How? Why?

Mammon had seen Verrine peg it, Verrine more powerful in the godly pecking order than Mammon, and done a runner. This, in Faith's cynical opinion, was a very, very smart move on Mammon's part. She gazed at the white block subtitles on her Samsung screen. ITO Weekly is the the Infernal Trade Organization's magazine. GODD is Gross Oblivion of Damned Determinant. How many people killed by the damned per day, and the Pardon is Lucifer's 10 percent pardon. Or now fifty I guess. Meaning no Verrine, means no disease, means damned can eat more so Lucifer's increased the pardon.

The Ten Percent Pardon was put down by Lucifer after a series of consultations with Freud who diagnosed him to be of a deprived anal typology. To pacify his anal-ness Lucifer implicated the pardon as a control of how many humans may be killed by the damned and in that imparted more goodwill upon humanity than any other act by God. A very good fact to raise with Lucifer if one wishes to spend an eternity closely admiring an unrelenting procession of anus inflicted with Irritable Bowel Syndrome whilst being introduced intimately to an axe.

I guess Lucifer suspects Verrine falling is by God's hand Faith concluded mopey. With Verrine gone God's strength in POOF had turbo boosted. Dyin' of cancer one minute, picture of perky health the next. I imagine a few people are sending that 'cheers mate nice one' up to the great divine, she mused.

Faith lifted her tumbler of spiced rum wetting her lips with the sharp alcohol and holding the cool glass against them.

"Is it burning yet?"

Faith stilled scanning the back bar. In a slither of filthy mirror between two liquor bottles Faith's left eye peered back at her bloodshot and foreignly insidious. Blair.

"House of holes. Whore. Worthless, existing juust for them. For him. Is that all you are? He'll hurt you. Face no face. Fool! Let's all watch. Watch now. Float away. Leave your body behind connected on a string. Puppet. Look at you"

Faith glowered at the demon trapped inside her.

"Pumped full o' chimera rearing crap. Slush puppy mind. Your ball's burnt 'n broiling. DocV? Doctor, doctor I think I'm a vegetable. How'd you known ma'am? I'm in love with a demon whose chemically lobotomising me!"

Faith opened a palm and the bottle from which she'd been served shot from the shelf into it "I don't understand" she suspected Blair was foreseeing, had forseen, the future but it was hard to tell as Blair was absolutely unintelligible and homicidally mental.

Blair leaned forward in Faith's reflection her single visible eye twitching "Future" she spat. Faith toasted her satisfied.

"Weak. Short sighted" Blair seethed each word "stunted" Faith slammed her hands over her ears ducking slightly "whore!" there was an almighty chime as glasses and liquor bottles throughout the bar rattled in a violent wave.

Faith peeked up, straightened, sucked in an exaggerated breath of air clogged with stale cigarette smoke, smiled icily at Blair and kissed Amon, the owl's, feathered head.

Amon had not two weeks ago sat just above Mammon and Verrine in the Hierarchy. He is now the god at the very bottom of the hierarchy. He is most commonly found in the form of a plump, perpetually damp owl. His feathers resemble serpentine scales and wielding the self-proclaimed title of The Deity of Free Love, or so it is believed, downs a pair of purple tinted monocles.

Amon after Adramalech and God is the third and last omnipotent creature in existence. Relatively early in the dawn of time God concluded it had made a mistake, sadly God only recognized one of the many. The mistake God noted was that it should really be the only thing in existence which was omnipotent. Whereas Adramalech had enough IC to say stuff you to God, Amon didn’t, and was struck, then stripped, of most mechanisms of communication.

This is a real pity because unlike most of the Hierarchy Amon is very helpful and likes nothing more than to dish the gossip, although, an endearingly wacky character he is so bleakly bad at relaying messages to his apostles most are forced to hire professional lunatics by the hour to get on the same wavelength. Faith, who'd spent the larger proportion of her company post puberty with Blair and can be decidedly unhinged herself, does not have this problem. Sadly most of Amon’s previous POOF quota did and in the climate of fear brought about by the loss of Verrine and following Mammon's lead, Amon's houses had switched allegiances to higher rungs in the hierarchy.

Faith had a soft spot for Amon who had always been first on hand for any kind of support she might need. Amon had a soft spot for Faith as, having foreseen her to be the only living creature who would remain loyal to him, her existence was preventing him going POOF.

Beneath Faith's fingertips Amon’s reptilian feathers fluxed from an oily onyx to a glazed cobalt oxide. No apostles and nowhere else to be Amon had been keeping his health insurance policy good company. Amon jerked his beak at the TV set hissing a snake-like tongue in the direction of Blair in Faith's reflection.

The tone of house Barbas' speaker had an energy deprived decline signalling the end "And so in review, seventeen of the jeopardized sixty nine including houses Andras, Vuall, Stolas, Andrealphus, Vapula, Aym, Cimeries, Amy, Flauros, Balam, Alocer, Saleos, Haagenti, Caym, Orbas, Phoenix and Stolas are to be, eh, in the best way, eh, demoted to as, eh, as, can we, can we get back that slide? The tree? The one with the colour coding and the, yes, that one, to, as you can see here under blue, sub, votary, status. This will mean as noted here that these houses must acquire sponsorship-

"Subordination!"

The elected senator swallowed looking a doughy paste at the collar and cuffs "by any of the remaining fifty two houses, of their choosing, of the, of the, of what was, the eh sixty nine. Corporate Restructuring. We enter a time of revisulation. Abandoning the archaic for the pragmatic. To emerge powerful into the twenty. First. Century"

"Theey're goonna lyynch hiim. Theey're goonna lyynch hiim" sang Blair giddily

Faith shrugged "They're gonna lynch him"

"Board of directors, Senior Partners, Sub votary. It's a westernised Lucifer-i-cation! It's the Infernal Dream people! Respect. Loyalty be gone: we've got power suits. Clap! Clap! Clap with me Faith. Dress it up. Dress it up. Dress it up. Disadvantaged? Here's a demotion. Sponsorship! Pick your house. Don't forget the blindfold and shot o' benzo otherwise its grab one get one free on lynches" Blair's eye vanished to a mirror vibrating ring of hysterical cackling.

In short the noble houses who had been in allegiance either with Mammon or Verrine had been demoted. Rather than re-associating with a higher deity of the Hierarchy, none of which wanted to take them on, they were being told to fall into subservience to an unaffected noble house. It was outrageous.

Faith blew out her lips and shoved a hand through the hair at her temple. She'd drank so heavily since the news on Verrine and Mammon gristly semi-moons were suspended from the aqueous pink of her inflamed lower lids and her once porcelain complexion had a sour sheen.

With his protruding globes of eyeballs Amon gazed at Faith and then decidedly, the decision being he wanted to perk her up, chirped his beak at the air around her nose. Faith gave him a weak half smile which made her cheek ache and began wading through her rum-fogged thinking for a question Amon couldn't mess up. Something rather aloft popped into mind. Faith kicked it off. Decidedly, it popped right back. Faith’s nostrils flared. The question erupted scuttling crab-like and draped in fluorescent bunting across her mindscape. Faith rolled her eyes leaning in to the owl to ask in a hushed tone “which house do you reckon' I'd of belonged to?”

Amon’s beak really is not very much of a beak at all. It has sapien sophisticated muscular interconnections. His eye socket tendons were the first unaccredited prototype for trampoline elastics. Meaning when Amon capitalises on a necessary grimace at one of those unfortunately convenient coincidences the higher gods of this world so enjoy it resembles a caricature Disney’s Archimedes re-specialised as an outright offensive facial contortionist. It did not want to do this. Doing this, it knew, would lead to a collapse of healthcare policy faster than Faith could say Obamacare.

A greater, godly, distinctly lucerferian palm flicked it chastising at the back of the skull inflicting Amon with the divine equivalent of an information laxative. Amon fought shaking his head violently. Amon’s egg shaped body roiled up on itself quivering. His flat, circular face concaved. Its beak knotted back to a twisted, two inch cone. It began a traditional irish jig from claw to claw. Amon popped.

Faith, mouth ajar, bat Amon debris, billows of peach and coral potpourri, out of her immediate radius of atmosphere. Blinking she found in Amon's place a single buzzing fly. Faith hoisted her upper half forward, screwing her face in bemusement to study the dizzy black speck. The fly’s honeycomb of inwardly lit scarlet eyes fixed on her.

Faith blanched “Beelzebub?”

In a mix of insect instinct, the fly beelined her.

A disembodied majestical laugh echoed around the bar rustling and silencing patrons. The fly knocked itself stupefied against an invisible wall not an inch from the tip of Faith's nose and landed twitching on the bar top. Six fury legs fist pumped the air in a dying hail to its almighty lord in eager anticipation of an infinity in a honey jar heaven on a neglected shelf somewhere in the suburbs of Cumbria. The fly burst in a puff of inky smoke.

Something pinged. Faith's hand hovered mid-air, dazzled by the odd, godly three way and also, slightly, by the early stages of a riot breaking out on the TV screen and Pandemonium above them.

Her fingers met the cool gorilla glass of her Samsung.

New Message: Maybe: Lucifer.

Hello Faith.

The muscles of Faith's face, which thought they'd met the bar for hysteria, began quivering. Faith, out of WhatsApp practice, opened the message. Kicked herself. Tried to think of something to say, gave up and lowered her phone hoping it would grow a pair and trot off.

Faith, received an SMS.

New Message: Definitely: Lucifer

Ding. Ding. Ding. Your phone's got it. Let’s talk Faith you and I. Get to know each other. We’re to be the best of allies. Don't believe all you hear. I'm lovely. Lonely, Faith. Let’s be friends. Always wanted a witch. Not just any witch. No. No. One as pretty as you. Ha. Ha. I lie. You look like death. No matter. Time heals. I lie again. Time won’t heal. Time will kill you. Not unique. But you especially. Precious Morax.

Faith looked as though she may lose her rum. She made a high pitched squeak gripping the vinyl back of her stool. What does Lucifer want with me? I'm mortal. Mostly. Enough. Go away, you've the wrong number.

New Message: Lucifer

Spice. Sugar to sweeten. Vanilla. Half a teaspoon. You’re ingredient list is all sugar. You must have been all spice. Dried unripe berries. What a taste. My taste. My witch. Faith. You’re fascinating. I want to ask you a question. May I ask you a question? Here’s the question. Faith: God. Let’s talk about God. On which square does our little Faith perch in the playpen of God?

Faith plucked her phone. She should never have gone to communion. I choked on the wafer surely that counts for something! She should reply. What if she got punished for not saying anything? Was Lucifer telepathic?

“God’s gone-

New Message: Lucifer

Liar. Don't lie to me. You lie to them. You know you do. All secrets you. I’m so pleased you’re mine. Do you realize you do it? I never do. Ping. Pong. Bingo. Lies move play pieces on the board of God. But we are not the only players and we must be careful in case strings are sewn in our backs. Tell me of God. What do you know of God. On which square Faith. Pick a square. Pick a side. Pick my side. Break a bolt. Break a latch. Without you. Nanny dearest goes bye-bye.

“I don-

New Message: Lucifer

Lie, lie. We're all liars here! Lie little Faith. Lie. Lie. So very sweet. Shall I lie to you. Listen up here’s a lie: You’re my witch. Blair. Blair Morax wants. The devil inside you. Oh Blair. Pre’tty Blair. I put her there. Blair Witch. Nineteen ninety nine. Good year. Armageddon. Or not. Ha. Ha. Blair witch, remake, twenty sixteen. Donald Trump wins U.S presidency. Good fun. Fun when nanny’s left the nursery. Into the toy box we go. Play with me.

"No" Faith spat tartly at her phone straightening herself to neck from her rum bottle. Cringing Faith spluttered “I have no god. I'm neutral. Grey. I don't bat for sides" she slammed a hand down to the bar top pleased with her next statement "I'm a shop clerk"

New Message: Lucifer

Anarchist then. Daddy’s little girl. Daddy’s little girl is going to die. Faith is going to die. Time. Time. About time. When faith is gone, what will there be? Take a look. What do you see? No God. I lie. Candy cases of gods. Pick a scoop. Latch on. What a noxious ride. Me. Me. Me. Nothing greater. Only the self and in only the self there is mayhem. Blair. Pre’tty Blair. Stand for what’s left. Let’s play Pre’tty Blair.

“Oh I think I'm gonna pass out” Faith moaned dropping her temple into her palm

New Message: Lucifer

Just like daddy. That boy drank himself to the puddles of the gutter's piss. Old dog's bred a clever kitten. Will you run little kitten? You will. Run little kitten. Run. Run. I gave you claws. He'll give you more. Scratch for me. Scratch for you. I need a play piece. A witch of my own. A Queen for my king. Did you like that? Queen. He liked that. King. I think you like that. I'm trying to cheer you up. Crack a smile for me. Ha! No. Don't. I play, you've very English teeth. Agree? Sign with me? Take advantage of my dental plan. I do enjoy orthodonture

Faith, struggling to keep up, looked afronted at her phone "I've lovely teeth"

New Message: Lucifer

Apocalypse, Faith. Abracadabra, presto, a bibbidy, bobbedy, boop. Do you know why I bore the damned cross-eyed, Faith? Because there isn't anything more entitled, more volatile, than a demon. Once human? They think they're gods. Don't we all? Cusp of climax with our own power. The sixty-nine are en route to self-slaughter, humanity re-purposed as free-picking on the cavalry's lunch cart. War's a wonderful way to cut population numbers and that's exactly what nanny wants for Revelation. Needs to check in reserves for the big R. Dilute where it's most locked up. What has the most God, Faith? The Hierarchy and the sixty-nine. What's on the conveyor for slaughter, Faith? The Hierarchy and the sixty-nine. What happens when they go poof, Faith. God, whole and powerful once more.

Faith shook her head. Oh dear. This is bad. She gulped. Lucifer knows.

New Message: Lucifer

Revelation. The unveiling of profound truth. To humanity by God? No. Lab rats scuttling up and down a maze's flimsy card alleys. This truth is the truth bled from those rats to God. Something it's trying to discover with the game of life. Or: everything being scraped back to its fundamental state. What's the fundamental state of existence, Faith? God. I'm making this too easy for you. What exists in all of us Faith? God. God. Take us all back. Rattling up the almighty womb. In-existent once more. But then, wait. Golden question, coming up, ready? Excited? I'm excited: why is God trying to save the world and trying to destroy it, Faith?

Faith had a reasonably well informed answer for this but decided Lucifer liked the sound of its own, uh, text message.

New Message: Lucifer

God, Faith, is mad. Exists in everything. Dispersed. Contradicting itself. Schizo. Imagine: you're every living thing, every Godly representation, every stone, stick 'n Harry. Three's a crowd. God's a calamity. All this, Ying Yang. Balance. New age sherbet dips for chaos. In chaos daddy was born. In chaos it lives in us and in chaos it will try to end. What's the name of your familiar Faith? Khaos. Son of Anarkhos. Khaos the son of Anarkhos! Daddy's Anarkhos. Daddy's anarchy. We're to save the world together Faith you and I

"'S fucking conspiracy" Faith whimpered not believing her own lie

New Message: Lucifer

Metaphor is the tongue of god

Faith shook her head at her phone like a wet cat "No. Symbolism is the tongue of God"

There was a long pause. Faith's phone shuddered.

A voice recording bar popped up in her message feed. Faith heard the blood rushing in her ears. Uncertainly she touched play holding the phone gingerly to her ear.

"We could be the Gods, capital G, you could answer to nothing. Rule this world. Let's slay the big G together. For your mother. For your brother. Gremory would answer to you. Imagine. He had you on your knees. He could be on his. Wiped. For all the time your Gremory's dog you'll never be the man she needs. You'll never be enough for her. Face the facts. You'll never be decent. Gallant. Never kind or righteous. No one could love you. Catherine? Gremory? That's just a curse. Why not give her something real?"

Faith frowned. Lucifer had a musical voice. Gremory. Count Gremory. House Gremory of Astaroth?

"Morax" Faith muttered eyes ping ponging side to side. She stilled "Oh shit"

New Message: Lucifer:

The last generation of nobles has been called, Faith-y. You've been served. House Morax. You're mine.

"No" Faith's eyes widened. There hadn't been any new mortals damned to the noble houses in over a century. The calling of the last generation was the first sign of the end of days. Faith glanced anxiously around the bar feeling as though a siren had been propped above her head.

She had to hide.

There was a ricocheting crash from the television set. Someone had lobed Paymon's coffin at house Barbas. Dialectically set back in a state of fizzy emotion some had started to chant something short and Lucifer-oriented in Sumerian. Suited backs were rising in front of the camera as people shook fists or picked up projectiles. The musky red vinyl seat top of the bar stool hit the back of Faith's upper thighs as she got to her feet gaping horrified at the screen. War.

Not her. She was no one. She'd made damn certain of that.