Aziraphale’s phone rings. He answers, expecting it to be Crowley. But to his surprise, it’s a demon he’s never met.
“I’m Crowley’s replacement,” the demon says. “He’s not done anything impressive lately, and Downstairs doesn’t like how ineffective he is at keeping you in line. So now he’s shuffling paperwork and scooping up hellhound shit while I do his job for him.”
“Ah… I see,” Aziraphale says icily. “Well, I most assuredly do not look forward to working with you.”
The demon laughs. “Feeling’s mutual.”
Twenty-four hours later, the demon is very surprised to find himself discorporated in his sleep. He can’t explain what happened, he has absolutely no idea.
“Don’t let it happen again,” Beelzebub says, annoyed, and sends the demon back up.
After a mere three days, the demon ends up discorporated again.
A new replacement is sent up. This one lasts for a week and a day.
A third replacement is sent up. This one lasts for exactly four hours.
Three demons are sent up next time. Two manage to stay alive for at least five months. In that time, they botch four very important temptations, and the citizens of London inexplicably find their daily lives much improved in thousands of little ways. Traffic and pollution are nonexistent, injury and illness are miraculously avoided. Church attendance is up five hundred percent, and every politician and CEO is struck by the urge to donate as much money as possible to charity. There’s a general feeling of contentedness and goodwill in the air that wasn’t there before. It feels downright heavenly.
Suddenly, Beelzebub is having a very hard time finding anyone to take Crowley’s post. Bribes and threats make no difference. The rumors have spread and only grown more disturbing in the telling. Not one demon is willing to go up there and face the cold, calculated, merciless wrath of the angel known as Aziraphale.
Crowley absolutely loses it when someone gets around to telling him. “Y’know, I could’ve warned you,” he says gleefully. “Been working with him for thousands of years. I know exactly how much of a bastard he can be.”
After running the numbers and seeing how many souls they’ve lost to Heaven in the past year, Beelzebub gives up and concludes that trying to replace Crowley is a massive waste of resources Hell can’t afford.
After one year, Aziraphale receives another phone call. He answers, with bated breath, and nearly shouts for joy when he hears a familiar voice.
“Hi, angel. Lunch on me?”
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