"The Guy in the Glas"

Go to https://www.fotojet.com and choose Make a Collage

2. Click Photo Grid under Classic Collage

3. Pick the very first Layout option - the blanc canvas (auto size is 1200 x 1200 px)

4. Go to the Background side tab

5. To choose a custom colour click on the blanc circle with a cross

You can change the canvas size at the bottom. 1200 px works well for Tumblr dividers.

40 px is the minimum height you can choose here. It creates a thicker divider.

6. For colour picking you can enter a hexa code or move the small dot in the colour field and the white bar in the colour range.

7. Now click the Download tab on top of the page in the middle. You can type in a name for the file. Click Downlaod to well download.

8. This is the pop-up you'll see in the free version. Just click on Download for Free Now

9. Open the Collage dropdown and select Edit

10. Click “Yes” on the confirmation popup. You will get to the Photo Editor. In the Photo Editor, click Open and upload your downloaded base image.

11. You will automaticly start in Edit Mode. Here choose the first option under Basic Crop. Set the values under Freeform to 1200 by 10 px and you get a thin line divider.

12. Now you can download and create a thicker divider by setting the cut out value higher.

As there are plenty more editing options you can absolutly customize dividers with text, effects & overlays. Like this little fellor under here.

“Nnngh.” The witch stretches blinking owlishly.

“Ah, we’re here.”

“Yes, my Dear.” Both get out of the car.

Looking at the uneven pair Crowley lets them know, “I’ll be back in the morning. Give my best to Henry,” before folding himself back in the Bentley and driving away.

They move over the remnants of snow towards the bookshop.

Under the shine of the Victorian streetlamps Aziraphale unlocks the front door and turns on the lights to the melodious chime of the charm.

Turning to the witch, he points to a windowsill over a heater, where Henry lies coiled on his towel.

“Look who's been waiting.”

The witch rushes past him and stops an armlength in front of Herny swaying slightly. His tongue flickers out—a tiny black question mark—before he slithers willingly into trembling hands.

“Hey Henry. I’m back my friend.” With that he gets carefully draped over the witch’s shoulders like the world's most exclusive scarf.

Aziraphale locks the door with a satisfying click.

“Let me show you your accommodations. The spare bedroom I mean. So, you can get some sleep.”

He offers, picking up the dropped backpack.

“Yes, please.”

And so the odd procession—angel, witch, and serpent—ascends into the bookshop's warm heart.

The next morning’s sunbeams find Aziraphale in his reading chair. He looks up as the witch comes down the stairs with Henry over her shoulders.

“Good morning, my Dear. Have you slept well?”

“Good morning, Aziraphale. Yes, thank you. It’s really peaceful here. And Henry even already found his breakfast.”

“My apologies? What breakfast has Henry found?”

“Oh, just a mouse,” the witch caresses Henry’s snout.

“A mouse?? Are you sure?” He sits up painfully straight.

“Henry is.”

Aziraphale swallows and closes his eyes, mumbling something that sounds like, “Mice you may stay, if you leave my property intact and your waste outside.”

Then he looks at the serpent, “Well, thank you Henry for your...attention to my mouse problem. Please refrain from eating anymore of them though. They are guests here too.” And makes a small wave with his right hand.

The soft chime of the charm carries from the front door, alongside the soft steps of Crowley. The smell of baked goods spreads into the air.

“Morning. I thought we should do your council over breakfast. I’ve got a nice juicy mouse for Henry too.” He holds up the bag and taps one of his coat pockets.

While the serpent’s tongue flicks out on cue, the witch snorts and Aziraphale gives a small cough. “Good morning. Henry took care of his own breakfast. Apparently, my bookshop is hosting mice.”

Crowley laughs out loud, “I could have told you. But I didn’t want to offend you.”

Aziraphale gets up and states, “I’m going to start some tea.”

“Morning, Crowley. It seems now we all managed to offend your partner this morning. Henry is rather interested in your mouse though.”

“He’ll get over it—eventually,” the reply is soft and quiet. “You set the table. I’ll take Henry out the back—so he can get his second breakfast without riling my old friend up any further.” Then he extends his arm to Henry, who takes the invitation and slithers over onto it. The witch’s eyes stay on them until they’re out the backdoor.

 No sooner is the table set and the tea ready than Crowley returns. He moves over to the windowsill and puts Henry down on his towel. The witch follows, running a hand over his scales.

“They’re warm...Isn’t it cold out?” A puzzled look accompanies the inquiry.

“I would never let a serpent freeze,” he replies and heads to the table.

Once they’ve taken their seats Aziraphale serves the tea.

“Did you take the note with you?” the witch asks Crowley, reaching out a hand.

He nods, ignoring the gesture, “Of course, it might prove useful.”

The witch’s lips compress into a thin line.

“So, what is going on with you and this so-called King of the Streets of London?” Crowley asks, while the witch takes a croissant from the basket.

“I wish I knew. I’ve lived in the cottage for 15 years without any trouble. Then the fear came.”

“Ugh?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows.

“I know...I know, it sounds silly. But it was as if fear was our new neighbour. Everybody ducking down, mistrusting others, worried over what little they had to lose.”

“When did that start?” Crowley adjusts his sunglasses.

“About two...maybe two and a half years ago.” There is a soft hiss from Henry. The witch leans down and picks him up carefully. As he coils himself up against the warmth of the witch’s belly, trembling hands stroke his smooth scales.

“The thing with the knives started only three months prior. Suddenly everyone had one and then the fights started—over everything and nothing. So, I had to do something.”

“And you came here to stop the knife fighting,” Aziraphale nods.

“And it worked! Only...he came by two days later. With his...offer...” the witch spits out. The memory of their last encounter hung unspoken in the air.

“Does he have a name besides his silly title?” Crowley prods.

“Of course—Jack Donovan. That’s his legal name. No idea how he ended up in the backroads of London.”

“So, he’s really just an ordinary Jack. And how big is Jack’s kingdom?” Crowley’s voice drips with irony.

“A handful of streets between the railway arches and a canal cut-through in the old industrial district. No one dares to go up against him there.”

“Well, I’ve seen bigger kingdoms fall.”

The witch gives him the side-eye.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interjects. “Surely there’s no need for violence.”

“So, you think we should just ask him politely to play nice?”

“I think diplomacy is always worth a try.”

“Fine—for now.”

“We can try. He’s not powerful—just good at posturing. I wonder if he’s related to those blowfish. You know, the ones that can blow themselves up to many times their actual size.” The witch preps the croissant with bacon and cheese. The words came out braver than they felt.

Aziraphale's snort was gentle, sympathetic. Crowley's laugh held an edge of protective anger.

“So, where can we find this inflated Jack?” the demon wonders. Sipping from his tea.

The witch finishes the bite.

”Close to Joe’s garage, that’s his hideout. He makes it a point to greet newcomers in person.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard then. We invite ourselves to an audience. I wonder what the Bentley is going to play for the occasion.” He smirks.

“It is a little rude to show up unannounced. But given the note he left—appropriate.” Aziraphale nods reassuringly. “But let’s finish our meal first. No reason to rush.”

As Crowley finishes his tea, Aziraphale puts his neatly folded napkin down. The witch looks at Henry, “You should stay here where it’s warm.”

The serpent hisses and shakes his head, pressing closer to the witch's hand.

“You’re so stubborn... But you stay on me! No, excursions. It’s too cold for that.”

The foursome climbs into the running Bentley—Crowley and Aziraphale in the front seats and the witch with Henry in the back. The half hour drive through the streets is quiet except for the Queen songs coming out of the radio. It starts with “Don't Stop Me Now” followed by “Killer Queen”. As they leave the busy streets for back alleys “Princes of the Universe” echoes in the car.

Crowley stops the Bentley in a narrow passage, barely big enough for the cars driving by not to touch the parked ones. Across from them are a number of back entrances to shops and warehouses. Where the main streets were free of snow, here it still lies in dirty patches of mush. A harsh wind whips through the tight and seemingly empty alley, distributing the smell of urine. The camera under the floodlight is well hidden. The shadow figure with the glowing cigarette ember ducking behind the garage—not so much.

When the demon unfolds from the Bentley, the first lines of “We Will Rock You” blast out of the speakers:

Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise

Playing in the street

Gonna be a big man someday

Crowley chuckles and taps the car’s hood, “Thanks for the announcement.”

After he scans the area, he nods to Aziraphale. The angel opens the backdoor and extends a hand to help out the witch. Carrying Henry carefully, the witch slides out. With a little help, Henry wraps around the witch’s waist and sticks his head out of the coat’s collar.

Together they approach Joe's garage. Curtains move in the windows they pass. The air around it seems cleaner. As if London's infamous pollution can't quite touch this space. The bay doors slide up 6 feet in front of them.

A man steps out, wearing a bowler hat and a long black coat that tried very hard to look important. A red beard framed a smile that wasn’t friendly.

“What an honour to greet the infamous Crowley, the heavenly Aziraphale and my most precious witch on my doorstep.” He bows his head mockingly.

Crowley whispers something about an aura and borrowed power to Aziraphale, who raises his eyebrows. Then he shifts his position to stand slightly in front of the witch.

The garage's graffiti begins to animate and shift as Jack touches the wall. They’re displaying hidden messages for his followers. While they stay hazy scribbles for everyone else. A radio on a shelf in the garage comes to life. Cycling through stations until finding a song that seems to make the garage's tools vibrate in resonance.

“Are you done displaying the power you borrowed from every corner of this city’s rich history, Jack?”

Crowley yawns theatrically.

Jack tilts his head, “Why are you here, gentlemen?”

“To find a civil solution to your and our witch’s...neighbourhood dispute,” Aziraphale states calmly.

“A neighbourhood dispute? That is what you think this is? That...” He runs his eyes over the witch.

“...exorbitant little practitioner has messed with MY people in MY territory.”

“I think you are overstating the matter at hand. Making people see serpents, when they draw knives on one another, is just a minor magic trick. One...”

“A minor magic trick?” Jack cuts Aziraphale off. His shadow flickers. Crowley’s brows furrow.

“Do you take me for a stupid man? I know exactly how difficult precise illusions like this are. The power and knowledge they take.”

“And yet it is still just an illusion. It does not hurt...”

“Do you know who I am? I am the King of the Streets of London! The King of these very streets!” He raises his arms. Aziraphale presses his lips together and shakes his head softly.

The witch notices that Jack's shadow moves independently, stretching toward the garage's tools as if assessing weapons. While Henry rises his body beside the witch’s head.

Jack’s hands reach his ears. All the parked vehicles start to honk in perfect harmony, creating an eerie urban symphony. Flames start to flicker to life alongside his coat. The heat is melting the snow at his feet. Henry hisses and the witch takes a step back.

Crowley snaps his fingers. The horns cut off mid sound the quiet lingers until a pigeon chirps.

The demon addresses Jack, “I’ve had enough of you, King JACK Donovan. Let’s go. There’s no talking to this blowup figurehead of a man anymore.”

He stares at Jack. Aziraphale escorts the witch back to the Bentley. As the witch and Henry are safely inside, he opens the passenger door.

“Your people better stay where they are, or they will get to know real fear,” Crowley hisses. Then he turns. He and the angel fold themselves into the car simultaneously.

Another One Bites the Dust... Another One Bites the Dust...blares through the small alley as the Bentley pulls away.

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

Comments and asks are welcome.

He calls himself the King of London’s streets.

No one else does.

His territory isn’t grand. It’s specific. Railway arches. Back entrances. The bits of the city people pass through quickly and forget on purpose.

He doesn’t rule with spectacle. He rules with pressure.

Favors. Access. Protection — all conditional. Fear, carefully maintained.

And when someone starts reducing that fear in his patch?

He doesn’t see kindness.

He sees sabotage.

Chapter 3 drops on March 10th.

You chose subversion.

Let’s see how that plays out.

Place your bets.