I ripped the duct tape off Azraal’s mouth.
“I have no interest whatsoever in helping you and your band of merry men,” he announced immediately.
“Really?” I replied. “So you also didn’t have any interest in being reunited with your body?”
He narrowed his eyes and glared at me. It was one of the few threatening gestures he had left in his arsenal. “Don’t fuck with me, boy, I’ve had my head removed and I am in no mood to be dicked around.”
“I’m not dicking you around,” I said. “It’s completely practical—we don’t like each other, but I need something from you. The only way I’m going to get it is if I give you something that you want even more.”
“You’re promising to return me to my body if I tell you how to kill Lucifer’s Firstborn?” he clarified suspiciously.
“Yes,” I said. “If you tell us that and provide any other relevant knowledge we may need.”
“No,” Azraal said flatly.
“Boss,” Gus said quietly, “Did you ever play tee-ball?”
This did not seem like the appropriate time for such a question. “What?” I said petulantly.
Jorge, it seemed, had caught Gus’ drift. He picked up a wooden chair, broke it roughly over his knee, and withdrew a length of wood from its remnants. Brandishing it like a baseball bat, he approached the desk and said, “May I?”
I nodded. He took a massive swing and knocked Azraal’s protesting head off the desk, propelling it into a bookshelf. The head landed on the floor, nose down. Azraal cursed violently, but it was hard to take him seriously when his words were muffled by the thick carpet and his voice was comically nasal from his squashed nose.
“Boss,” Gus said quietly, “Did you ever play golf?”
Jorge grinned at me. “May I?”