The last vision Micky Malone had was of an angel. “Tell me’ father I was sorry about the car,” he said, as the 1989 Daimler folded itself around a the horse chestnut he used to throw sticks at for the conkers.
Azazel climbed up into the branches to wait while a demon he vaguely recognised from Dante’s Seven, a night club in Dis, and an angel he’d never met materialised. They waited for several moments until Micky shuddered for the last time, then the demon reached into the body and hauled the soul out.
“Michael Patrick Malone?” said the angel. “Welcome to the afterlife. Oddly you weren’t due for another three days but we were in the neighbourhood already so here we are.
“I’m going to Heaven?” The man was clearly pleased. “My Da always said I’d spend eternity stealin’ the tyres off Old Nick’s Bentley.
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” said the demon. “Old Nick hasn’t got a Bentley. You read too many trashy novels, lad.”
“I’m not going to Heaven?”
“Certainly not,” said the angel. “You’re well into the negative on karma.”
The demon nudged him. “You should have nicked some of that,” he said, opening a portal. “Only I bet you couldn’t get it jump-started.”
Azazel waited for all three to vanish before he dropped down. He pulled oped the car door and wound the window down halfway. He pulled Micky’s arm trough and snapped it off. Missing limbs were a regularity in car wrecks. A bust of flame melted away the remaining flesh and her threw the ulna and hand away. He sat on the bonnet and began whittling, heedless of the approaching police car.
They couldn’t see him anyway and they were soon kept busy when they found the brake line Azazel had cut,