Within the pulsing, writhing white and pink sea of human life ebbing it's feverish way down the famed Oxford Street of London strode an unremarkable figure. Dressed to go unnoticed in a city where anything goes, the unremarkable man has purpose.
Nobody speaks to him as though he is an unknown spirit meandering it's way through the frenetic city life. Yet everybody knows him. Everybody has seen him, everybody has read about him and most of the people have seen him illustrated symbolically, periodically through the past millenia.
There are myriad references, fables and anecdotes where his mythology and reality clash upon thousands of scrolls and pages wrought of belief and fiction. But the man is very real, he is solitary, and this is just how he wishes it.
He is sporting an subtly aggressive, rugged patch of stubble upon his face. His green eyes suggest he is friendly, but to never be trifled with. The figures white arms, though not bulging with a legion of tightly knitted muscles, show definition. His chest underneath the black tank top, have definition, and his legs, hidden beneath a British-Army style pair of combat trousers, have definition.
The female human may regard him handsome, attractive, or desirable in his enigmatic strong pensive look. But not so desirable that he is not, as he would wish it, overlooked.
The stranger has a face. The stranger has a name. The stranger is called Belial.
The city streets smell of exhaust fumes and left over fast food, a pungent yet familiar smell to all those who traverse down the throbbing street. Belial hears the whines of dogs, the honking of horns and the vulgar endless chatter of high heeled women and grumbling teenage boys. Needless to say the ancient master demon of lies, who looks no older than twenty five, finds this human existence and pollution repulsive.
There is no concept of conflict here, the planet on which these ignorant dreamers dwell on is not unscathed, but it's humanity is untouched by the knowledge of their ignorance. Another teeming anger steadily boiling in the 'Belial Encyclopedia of Frustrations'. But today he has purpose. Today he is going for a drink.
Belial steps into the Wax Bar. A dimly lit trendy bar, encased in it hubbub of endless idle chatter and seedy Soho Business deals, all in all a very atmospheric and educational place to be on a Saturday lunch time.
This was a favourite place to stop and play the silent anthropologist for Belial, a place to wonder at the inane revulsion that Humans seemed to omit from every pore. Ignorance and Arrogance should rarely go hand in hand, but it seems to be the centre of the feeding pool for this virus like species.
It was here that Belial heard a rampant argument about the existence of God, or Jehovah the Christian God. The argument was filled with ignorant statements and uncomprehending miscalculations that it took almost all of Belial's reserve not to walk over to the table and demonstrate exactly what Divinity, and all of it's misgivings can actually perform. For all humans are creatures, as Belial is a creature, and God is nothing but a creature, still caught in the same web of evolution as the rest of them. But Belial and God and many others are further advanced in this scheme.
Belial today is not interested in futile misbeliefs, he is here to meet a friend. Like many others, he is simply here to meet a cohort of sorts.
Belial sat down with his pint of Guinness. He hated the liquid, alcohol made him feel physically sick, just the bitter acrid taste touching his tongue wrought a silent wretch inside his gut, but appearances must be kept at all times.
He sat down in a corner by a small round wooden table, smelling of bleach and lemons and watched the maggot like writhing bustle of the crowd outside the window and awaited his friend silently. He wouldn't have to wait for a very long time.
A tall pallid man with long ebony hair strode to the table. Another story would have made this man a vampire, just in the way he dressed and moved. Black leather trench coat, sallow sunken eyes, leather trousers with a silver skull buckle on a black leather belt. Thigh high boots made of (guess what) leather with tassel like straps wrapping them to his calves. This was Lucifer, this was his oldest friend. He was simply having a drink with a very old friend, nothing out of the ordinary.
"You've been sorely missed B, sorely missed." Lucifer's bouncing London accent always made Belial smile.
"Lies Lou, easy to decipher when you know how, so lets just cut to the chase. Why the urgent meeting." Belial didn't even lift his eyes from the rings of old ale in front of him.
"Nice to see you too mate, lets just cut straight through the pleasantries then huh? No hello Louie nice to see you, how is it all going. The children alright mate..."
"Hello Louie it's tremendously groovy to see you me old mucker, how is it all going? Are you going to tell me what's so ruddy urgent now?" A passerby would have thought this tone of conversation familiar and jovial if they happened to walk by, no frustration was evident in their voices and small like-able smiles played subtly on their lips.
"Look B, Satan is getting itchy waiting for you to return. Word has it Michael is mounting an attack tonight but nobody knows where or when this is going to occur. The only thing we know is that it is going to be stationed at one of our London Clubs mate. You have precisely, or around about eleven hours to find out where." Lucifer didn't smile this time, talking of Michael always brought a tiny strained furrow to his smooth brow, his silver eyes averted from Belial to his drink.
"The sabbatical is over then huh? Back to the grind." Belial didn't smile at his own irony.
"It's about time B you are needed." Lucifer down his drink and stood up at the table. "By the way I wasn't lying B. Some of us have missed your jovial brand of macabre back home."
Belial looked up but Lucifer was gone