Heaven Can Go To Hell

A faceless angel and a faceless demon stood back to back in an unlit alleyway between a casino and a brothel.

The papers were tucked beneath the folds of the trench coat. A swift motion of the hands; a quick flick of the eyes; a gentle nod and reciprocated actions. A mutual exchange. Two strangers in the dark, giving each other something the other wanted. For the demon, it was information — the angel didn't care for that, but what was in demand was eventually supplied.

As for the angel, it was cash. Plain and simple.

The meeting was brief; it had to be. Confidential information wasn't easy to pass around, and the first rule in the business was that the less attention you draw to yourself, the better. Every minute that passed was another minute that drew suspicion from someone, somewhere, somewhen. Maybe not now, maybe not ever — but the risk was too great to be loitering for nothin'.

The angel turned around. In the glow of a half-ruptured neon sign, it could see the demon's pale complexion and unmistakable (but mostly hidden) horns. It smiled, holding up a few wads of hundreds for the other party to snatch, slipping the documents into its jacket. The angel didn't hesitate, and counted them — twice — to make sure everything was as promised.

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