“God dinged it with a thunderbolt. I put a few bullet holes in it. It gives it character. Like scars.”

“From what I hear, you must have some new ones. Did striking yourself with the Gladius leave a mark? Did King Cairo shoot you in the face? Are you terribly disfigured?”

“I’m not Lucifer anymore. I thought that would get me off the hook with your bullshit.”

“You hurt me. You’re not on the hook. These are fireside chats while I bring you news from far away.”

“Thanks, but you can shove your news. I’m done with Hell. I don’t care anymore.”

“I hear you broke the priest. Poor thing. They’re so delicate, aren’t they? So confident in your world but they come apart so quickly down here. Still, it’s nothing for you to worry about. A mad priest. It’s like a gothic romance. Add his to the list of lives you’ve ruined. But the priest is still walking the Earth, isn’t he? So he’s only half a demerit. God must be very proud of you. You keep filling our houses with new playmates.”

“Here’s my final thought to you. Kill yourself. All of you Hellions should kill yourselves. Or murder each other. You’re Muninn’s problem now.”

“How long will it take you to break your new girlfriend? What’s her name? Something sweet and simpleminded. Does she know how gruesome you can be?”

“I told her all about what happened in Hell.”

“And she’s still with you? She must be an exceptional woman.”

“She is.”

“So was Alice, I suppose. You do seem to go through a lot of them. Exceptional women. Murder isn’t your greatest sin. It’s being as careless with others’ lives as you are with your own. You need to watch that or sooner or later all that will be left are women who’ll run from the very sight of a monster like you.”

“If you’re calling to threaten me, hurry up. I’m going inside and I won’t be able to hear you being scary.”

“I’m getting better with bodies in your world. I can do more than talk now. Soon I’ll walk and drive and look just like anyone else and I can pay you a visit.”

“You better get to it, Merihim. When the Angra come back, you’re as fucked as the rest of us.”

“Clever guess.”

“That’s exactly what it was. Don’t make me tattle on you to Muninn.”

I hang up and head back inside.

Candy is dancing to Les Baxter’s “Balloon Waltz” with Vidocq. I cut in and he graciously takes a powder just like a real Frenchman. I have no idea how to waltz but I can count to three and I can rock back and forth, and with the bar so packed, that’s pretty much what everyone else is doing too.

It’s been raining on and off for the last couple of weeks. Not fish rain. The regular stuff. Between the storms, the sky is even blue sometimes. Catalina is back and no one has reported any floating streets or volcanoes in days.

Sometimes I step back and look over everything and wonder how the hell I got here. According to Uriel, my real father, I was always destined for this land of bloody laughs. I’m not human or angel or Lurker or demon. I’m just a natural-born killer. What I don’t know is if I’m attracted to places where the worst things are happening or if I bring the shitstorm with me. Until I know, all that matters is that I’m still breathing and I’m dancing with a pretty girl.

The world is going to end when the Angra Om Ya come back. They’ll eat the planets and stars. When they hit L.A., they’ll get a movie deal with points and a percentage of the merchandising. They’ll learn to surf and practice Transcendental Meditation. One of them will OD in the bathroom at the Whisky a Go Go and another will be on the cover of People, caught having an affair with the new mayor. The others will develop depression and go home to their gloomy universe. One more set of suckers. One more one-hit wonder. It’s a nice little universe you built but what have you done lately? Leave your head shots and our people will call your people. This is L.A. There are so many Apocalypses around here that most don’t even make the paper, so be happy yours got any press at all. By the way, Strawberry Alarm Clock is a cool name. Angra Om Ya sounds like a brand of Chinese dog food.

With luck, the Angra won’t pass through these parts for another million years. I don’t usually get that lucky but I’ve got Candy, a place to crash, food, and the Key. L.A. might be a tourist-trap province on the outskirts of Hell, but that’s okay. At least in this Hell, I’m not alone.