» the city network

[Crowley flips on the camera before sitting back in an office chair in his usual slouch. Behind him is the backdrop of one of the labyrinthine office buildings, the shades of beige and grey a sharp contrast to his black clothes and red hair. There is a peculiar tension about him, something about the way he's square his shoulders, and the considerable supply of unopened bottles next to him suggests there is some need for the liquid courage.]

Right then. The mall here, yeah? Only marginally worse than the normal kind. And hey, at least we'll never have to deal with the Boxing Day rush, eh?

...That'd be analogous to Black Friday for all you Americans. I don't know if there's a Canadian equivalent. Never stuck around long enough to find out. Saw a moose once and decided that place could just be someone else's problem.

[He shuffles uncomfortably.]

Okay. Yeah. Enough small talk. Time to rip the bandaid off.

[Deep breaths, Crowley.]

So the thing I was worried about happening? ...Happened. For the exact reason and in the exact way I thought it would happen. I'm sure I'll look back and laugh about it one day, but right now I'd like to get ahead of it happening again. No more fun little surprise exorcisms. At least none that I won't see coming.

So, here we go. Let's get this over with.

I'm a literal demon from literal Hell - yes that one - and their former operative of Earth, presently retired.

Ask me anything.

[He's already popping the top off the tequila. He's going to need it.]

On a professional level:
unless it's an emergency, I'm not currently handling patients at this time
so if you have a general check up or you're worried about a rash or something seek out one of the other doctors
great we've got that squared away

Non-professional question:
what's waiting for you back in your home?
Family, friends, saving the world, a hot date?
just a bit of curiosity on my side
Cheers

[ good morning city-folk, how's your day? today's broadcast is brought to you by our sponsors Fuck This Place, in partnership with Fuck Heine Especially. the video begins after the phone's owner sets it on the ground, so the camera angle is a little strange, but he never claimed to be some marvel of photography here so you get what you get okay.

badou also plunks himself on the ground in what appears to be the sidewalk in front of some nondescript convenience store. the shelves of which he'd just raided if the plastic bag he sets down beside him is of any indication. within its contents one can find a bright pink energy drink, a generous helping of cigarette cartons, and what appears to be a family-size bag of off-brand twizzlers. #bachelorlife, amirite?

there's bruising on his neck that's only just begun to fade, and a splint around his left wrist that's already got various crude drawings on it, all courtesy of mr. artist himself. he works on fishing himself out and lighting up a brand new cigarette before even addressing the camera (made all the more difficult by that fractured wrist) so enjoy five minutes of nicotine addict ASMR. ]

Hey. 'Sup. How ya doing. Have y'all seen my dog? Lost him a bit ago, about yea high, real pale, red eyes, no eyebrows, answers to the name Heine or Fuckface.

[ for ease, he's provided a supplementary visual, which he holds up to the camera with all the flourish of a child's first finger-painting. BEHOLD his uncanny portrait! yes, his commissions are open. ]

( cut for image :') )
[ he crumples the paper with perhaps a lot more ire for someone supposedly "missing" his ""dog"" but a deep drag of his cigarette quickly calms him back down. there's a beat-up lighter in his hand he can't seem to stop fiddling with. ]

Thought about putting some signs up and slappin' 'em on some milk cartons but who knows what the fuck whoever's-in-charge-here considers """vandalism""" and I ain't about to go around testin' it like some of you can't seem to stop yourselves from.

[ a-hem. ]

Speakin' of — that survey we were given here. How many of ya answered that honestly? Shit's startin' to get real personal, though I think I'd remember if I'd been asked about the worst fuckin' day of my life.

[ which begs the question he's sure everyone's already thought about by now: how the fuck do these people know them that well? ]

---

( EDITED: because someone (me) forgot to include injuries.... smh )

[Given the fantastic angle staring up the stem of a half-full glass of wine accompanied by a fat green bottle with a pair of gangly, denim-clad legs only partially in view, it's very clear this was probably meant to be an audio post. Crowley is outside somewhere - likely the park or graveyard given what little scenery is in focus, and the reason for his mistake becomes more apparent when he speaks with an evident, wine-drunk slur.]

Right. Summer is infinitely better when there aren't dozens of insects trying to eat you alive at any given time. Point in favour to the city. Well done. No idea how you're going to get any of these plants pollinated but I'm assuming it's the same way you get all the food here. Magic, probably, or something like it.

Still, nothing like going out and it's just you, the sun, and nice bottle of Tempranillo and an afternoon basking. There's a nice flat boulder in the park; catches the morning sun brilliantly, lovely and warm, 10/10, if that's anyone's particular vice.

[A hand comes into view and lifts the glass out of frame. There's a pause, and when it's returned, it's nearly empty.]

Of course there are still a boatload of points not in favour of the city; no art. No music. No shows. No actual nightlife to speak of. Not even books or programs on the telly! All those tubs of icecream for the taking and no re-runs of the Golden Girls to eat them to. Terrible.

[There's a rapid series of clicks that sounds like he's fiddling with a ballpoint pen.]

Anyway, those of you familiar with old Billiam the Bard; got a question. Taming of the Shrew -- is it 'methinks the lady doth protest too much' orrrrr 'the lady doth protest too much, methinks'? Sss'been a while and I'm a bit too squiffy to remember properly right now.

[ The camera fumbles and pans across the foyer of one of the supermarkets before focusing on Johanna Constantine's face. She's headed into the store, it appears, looking over the shelves for something specific. ]

Have you noticed there's no religion here? [ Her tone's conversational, like she's just FaceTiming a friend as she shops. ] No churches or temples or shrines. What do you suppose that means? --Ah, there we are.

[ The camera swings to point at the ceiling as she reaches to grab something. It looks like she's in the spice aisle. ]

Anyway, before you all start arguing about whether God's abandoned us, real point is: anyone here have it in them to consecrate some water and oil? Give us a ring, we can barter or something.

---

[ ooc: Threadhopping is fine by me if characters do in fact start arguing religion. Just know Constantine is watching anything that's not marked private! ]

I would like to pose a question for everyone. Consider it curiosity, or a thought exercise.

What is your understanding of God? Or experience with, if you prefer to answer that.