Game for a laugh?

His fight or flight response was set to flight as a default, so he hightailed it the hell out of there - or at least he would have if he hadn't already been sent there.

Bertie Zebubb screwed his face up, trying to find inspiration. Thirteen pages written and he needed at least three hundred before the end of the day. Or at least the end of what passed for a day here.

Bertie - or B L Zebbub, as his agent marketed him - was in a fix. He'd got a screenplay for a lame English sitcom to write and a strict deadline to meet. With severe consequences if he didn't manage to produce the work on time.

And all his muses had been reassigned to Government duties. There was an American presidential election coming soon and he doubted he’d ever see any of them ever again.

"Maybe you need to introduce a talking bird," Quoth urged, pacing impatiently up and down his perch. "There's lots of opportunities for comedic lines I could suggest if you did that."

"No. No. And again, no!" Bertie snapped. "Just because you think you're Azgaroth's gift to comedy, it doesn't make it so.

Of course, Quoth grumbled. “Just because you wouldn’t recognise a witty remark unless it bit you on the ass, it doesn’t mean everyone else is similarly afflicted.” He rocked agitatedly from one foot to another for a few moments. “Besides, it’s quite obvious you weren’t given this job for your writing ability. I mean, who else would pair a gay policeman with a monumental mason? It’s hardly comedy gold, is it?”

“It’s genius,” Bertie bridled, angrily. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. Lucifer himself watched the pilot show and immediately commissioned it for a full thirteen series’ run. And that was before he’d even reached the end of the opening title sequence.”

“That was roughly as far as I got too,” Quoth retorted, tucking his head under his wing and making ‘sleepy-time’ snoring noises. “It’s as plain as the beak on my face that it got picked up because it was so bad. The first five series are currently showing on a satellite TV z- list channel, screening every day at eleven in the morning. Lucifer must really hate college students.” He shook his head pityingly and added a few guttural ‘cacking’ noises. “I mean, Jesus wept!”

Bertie was just about to separate his raven from its breath when the doorbell went. “Oh damn,” he said. “I’m betting that’s Crowley here early. He never gives me enough time. I’m creating art, dammit. He should know you can’t hurry an artisan when he’s creating a masterpiece!”

“Artisan, fartisan,” Quoth laughed, ruffling himself up to twice his normal size. “I’m just glad he’s not here to see me. That guy gives me the creeps.”

The inner door burst open, rebounding against the laths of the wall, its handle hitting the midget agent directly in the face.

“Doh,” Crowley moaned, clutching his already blossoming nose. “Why the hell does this always happen to me…”