#papierkrieg

'noch nie hat ein Diktator seine Volksabstimmung verloren' - 'never has a dictator lost a referendum'

A 1990's Through the Ages story set pre-Antichrist. Crowley and a keen new manager are getting deeper into a battle of paperwork while Crowley's been cut off from most of his demonic powers due to an Accountability drive in Hell. Aziraphale and other new Whickber St characters help out. (Terry Pratchettesque banter and hijinx)

Dave looked up from the bar where he was polishing a glass and pointed his chin to the kitchen when Crowley walked in. The hungry demon made a big plate of pub fare and polished it off before putting his dishes and the dirties from the bus bins into the industrial washer. He set about cleaning the kitchen since it wasn’t yet time for his shift out front.

After a while Dave came into the kitchen looking for Anthony, eyebrow raised at the unrequested industry of his unlikely new hire.  Freshly washed and shaved, the lad still sported his kilt and heavy soled boots, knobby knees and elbows poking out so the redhead didn't look completely filled out yet, despite his lanky broad shoulders.

“Good job, lad.  I like the initiative,” Dave set down an official looking employment form on the only dry, clear space in the kitchen pushing the paper and a pen towards the lad. “Just fill these out for me, so I can hire you officially.  Just the usual stuff,” he explained.

Anthony picked up the form like he’d never seen one before, reading it quickly, then glancing up at Dave, an awkward smile that seemed to be trying for shifty on his face.

“Do we have to be so ‘official’?  I’m happy to save you the extra paperwork and just take cash?” Anthony offered hopefully.

Grabbing the other kitchen stool, Dave sat across from the lad, “Sorry, Anthony, I don’t employ people under the table.  I’ll need these filled out with your National Insurance Number and copies of your birth certificate or passport, to prove you can work in the UK.  It’s a bugger, paperwork, but it keeps me open an’ operatin’, you understand.”  

Mouth open, the kid came up with a plausible lie on the spot, “I understand, Dave, I’ll fill it out.  I just don’t have my ID on me.  An’ I don’t have me National Insurance Number memorized, yet…”

Dave fixed Anthony with a measuring look, the lad was fairly vibrating with keen, terrible hope.  The kid obviously needed the job badly, surreptitiously scrounging leftovers while bussing the tables last night.  And he was making a good impression so far…

“Fine, lad. I can pay you cash until you can get your IDs sorted,” a relieved smile broke over the kid’s newly shaved (and nicked) face.  Dave held up a hand, “I can’t run it that way for long, two weeks, tops.”  

Anthony popped up from his seat and grasped Dave’s raised hand, shaking it vigorously. “You’ve got a deal!”

The next few days fell into a new rhythm.  Crowley slept in the Bentley, sometimes in alleyways, sometimes on the street in the Whicker neighborhood, sometimes as the Bentley moved around the neighborhood.  For some reason, the car didn’t seem to want to venture past Soho.  Crowley hadn’t walked to his Mayfair apartment, since the doorman wouldn’t let in the unfamiliar young Scottish kid.  Plus, there was no point.  Crowley didn’t keep any documents.  He’d never needed real, actual documents before, always pulling the appropriate official paperwork by miracle for whatever situation was needed.  Anyways, he’d always thought all that paper just cluttered up the place and didn’t go with his minimalist aesthetic.  Shame.

Everyday he went into the bookshop, which started a rumor that the new barkeep liked history, and was writing a book.  He certainly had some colorful stories to tell of historical events and left the bookshop everyday with an ever enlarging stack of computer printouts.  In reality, Crowley was running reports for Usher’s requisitions.  Waging a war by form, now with the additional Daily Standard Requisition for official identification documents needed for holding a job, and energy or monies to run a body.  Aziraphale was a canny help suggesting new requisitions, but Crowley couldn’t ask him to miracle documents for him, too obvious.  Unfortunately, Usher didn’t seem likely to break before the two week deadline was up. 

The regulars at the Dirty Donkey were taking a shine to Anthony, which allowed Dave to step away from the bar to pop upstairs to help his wife. If the lad didn’t have to work under the table, he’d truly be heaven-sent.

***

Shax collected another sheaf of reports from a less harried Furfur.  “Your department seems to have grown considerably, Furfur,” she observed.

“Yeah, lookit them all!  Workin’ away like maggots on a carcass,” Furfur looked proudly over the demons at ranks of desks with inkwells and fountain pens at the top.

“I see you found a solution to the pencil problem,” Shax said.

“Usher understands an empty ink bottle, and they stay put on the desks,” Furfur smiled at the inkwells locked into the desks, fingering a shiny new key.  A demon with a strange contraption attached to his back went around filling the inkwells.

Shax looked at the new ‘Inbox’ which had been turned into a chute that fed into a huge hand cart, like the kind for industrial laundries.  Sheets of paper with regularly spaced holes on either side and attached to one another on their short sides were continuously feeding into the pile while pieces of paper, scraps of receipts, scribbles on envelopes floated around them.

“Did Usher get more demons to manage?  There’s considerably more coming in from Earth.” Shax observed.

“Nah.  Actually he’s got less demons reportin’ in.  There’s more coming in by the reincorporator, and they tend to lurk around until they’re forced to go back out,” Furfur said, going over a report that one of the demon clerks handed him.

“They were discorporated? By angels?” asked Shax, an edge of anger in her voice.

“Some of ‘em,” explained Furfur, “But some of them by humans more often now.  Also,” Furfur looked shifty.

“Also, what!?” hissed Shax. 

“Some of ‘em have been goin’ quiet for days or weeks, then pop down here in the re-incorporator.  Said they lost the ability to move and just laid there til they dissolved,” Furfur shuddered a little.

“Why would that happen?” Shax asked.

“Dunno, but one demon’s making up for all the others and then some, an’ ‘e’s been asking for energy to run his corporation. He’s the one sending down the reports on that funny connected paper,” Furfur indicated the nearly continuous fall of white connected paper landing in the handcart.

“Who is it?” asked Shax, noting that Furfur seemed negatively disposed to whomever was managing to oppose Usher.

Face distorting in dislike, Furfur said, “Crowley.”

Ah, thought Shax.

“So Usher is giving Crowley energy to run his corporation and all his other requisitions?” asked Shax, thinking that any preferential treatment of Crowley was sure to pull Furfur’s tail.

Grudgingly, Furfur admitted, “Nooo.  Usher actually gives Crowley the least of all of ‘em.   Though he’s started giving some of the discorporated demons part of the “Standard Daily Requisitions” that Crowley requests.”

“The what?” Shax asked and Furfur handed over a piece of paper from his clipboard.

Shax looked down the list.

“Usher is giving the other demons requisitions, but not Crowley.  And Crowley’s still operating?”

“Bugger me how.  I’ve checked for help from,” Furfur pointed over their heads, “After catching him with that angel in 1941, but he’s not registering any angelic support,”  Furfur said.

Shax looked up from the reports at a sudden outburst.

“I won’t go back!” a demon with spider legs extending from their back came through from the reincorporator accompanied by a slender demon with hair raised into two vague horns. “You’ll be fine,” Demon Eric encouraged, “Lookit all the stuff we get to have this go!” 

“That’s the spirit, Eric!  Get up there and give ‘em hell!” said Furfur.

“Oh, I didn’t requisition for all of Hell, sir,” Eric said, walking by towards the transporter, “Imagine me requisitioning all of Hell,”  he said, shaking his head.

Eyebrow raised, Shax said, “I’ll take the reports.” 

Furfur turned back to his desk and handed her a full banker’s box, “Here ya go,” dropping it into her outstretched arms.

Shax easily took the weight of the box and clicked away efficiently.

Walking until she didn't feel any eyes on her, Shax ducked into an unregarded corner to read the reports.  Maybe there was a clue to how Crowley was doing it?  This was information that was sure to help her get ahead!