Good Omens

Crowley gave up. He tried to read a novel, but couldn't concentrate. He tried to sort his CDs into alphabetical order, but gave up when he discovered they already were in alphabetical order, as was his bookcase, and his collection of Soul Music.
    [He was very proud of his collection. It had taken him ages to put together. This was real Soul music. James Brown wasn't in it.]
    Eventually he settled down on the white leather sofa and gestured on the television.
    "Reports are coming in," said a worried newscaster, "uh, reports are, well, nobody seems to know what's going on, but reports available to us would seem to, uh, indicate an increase in international tensions that would have undoubtedly been viewed as impossible this time last week when, er, everyone seemed to be getting on so nicely. Er.
    "This would seem at least partly due to the spate of unusual events which have occurred over the last few days.
    "Off the coast of Japan-" CROWLEY?
    "Yes," admitted Crowley.
    WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, CROWLEY? WHAT EXACTLY HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?
    "How do you mean?" Crowley asked, although he already knew.
    THE BOY CALLED WARLOCK. WE HAVE BROUGHT HIM TO THE FIELDS OF MEGGIDO. THE DOG IS NOT WITH HIM. THE CHILD KNOWS NOTHING OF THE GREAT WAR. HE IS NOT OUR MASTER'S SON.
    "Ah," said Crowley.
    IS THAT ALL YOU CAN SAY, CROWLEY? OUR TROOPS ARE ASSEMBLED, THE FOUR BEASTS HAVE BEGUN TO RIDE.. BUT WHERE ARE THEY RIDING TO? SOMETHING HAS GONE WRONG, CROWLEY AND IT IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. AND, IN ALL PROBABILITY, YOUR FAULT. WE TRUST YOU HAYS A PERFECTLY REASONABLE EXPLANATION FOR ALL THIS ...
    "Oh yes," agreed Crowley, readily. "Perfectly reasonable."
    ... BECAUSE YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE YOUR CHANCE TO EXPLAIN IT ALL TO US YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE ALL THE TIME
    THERE IS TO EXPLAIN. AND WE WILL LISTEN WITH GREAT INTEREST TO EVERYTHING YOU HAVE TO SAY. AND YOUR CONVERSATION. AND THE CIRCUMSTANCES THAT WILL ACCOMPANY IT, WILL PROVIDE A SOURCE OF ENTERTAINMENT AND PLEASURE FOR ALL THE DAMNED OF HELL, CROWLEY BECAUSE NO MATTER HOW RACKED WITH TORMENT, NO MATTER WHAT AGONIES THE LOWEST OF THE DAMNED ARE SUFFERING, CROWLEY, YOU WILL HAVE IT WORSE..
    With a gesture, Crowley turned the set off.
    The dull gray.. green screen continued enunciating; the silence formed itself into words.
    DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT TRYING TO ESCAPE US, CROWLEY THERE IS NO ESCAPE. STAY WHERE YOU ARE. YOU WILL BE ... COLLECTED ...
    Crowley went to the window and looked out. Something black and car.. shaped was moving slowly down the street toward him. It was carshaped enough to fool the casual observer. Crowley, who was observing very carefully, noticed that not only were the wheels not going round, but they weren't even attached to the car. It was slowing down as it passed each house; Crowley assumed that the car's passengers (neither of them would be driving; neither of them knew how) were peering out at the house numbers.
    He had a little time. Crowley went into the kitchen, and got a plastic bucket from under the sink. Then he went back into the lounge.
    The Infernal Authorities had ceased communicating. Crowley turned the television to the wall, just in case.
    He walked over to the Mona Lisa.
    Crowley lifted the picture down from the wall, revealing a safe. It was not a wall safe; it had been bought from a company that specialized in servicing the nuclear industry.
    He unlocked it, revealing an inner door with a dial tumble lock. He spun the dial (4.. 0.. 0.. 4 was the code, easy to remember, the year he had slithered onto this stupid, marvelous planet, back when it was gleaming and new).
    Inside the safe were a thermos flask, two heavy PVC gloves, of the kind that covered one's entire arms, and some tongs.
    Crowley paused. He eyed the flask nervously.
    (There was a crash from downstairs. That had been the front door ...)
    He pulled on the gloves and gingerly took the flask, and the tongs, and the bucket.. and, as an afterthought, he grabbed the plant mister from beside a luxuriant rubber plant.. and headed for his office, walking like a man carrying a thermos flask full of something that might cause, if he dropped it or even thought about dropping it, the sort of explosion that impels graybeards to make statements like "And where this crater is now, once stood the City of Wah.. Shing.. Ton," in SF B.. movies.
    He reached his