Nisroc started to feel hungry. Angels technically have no need to eat, but Nisroc, like many agents of Heaven who have spent altogether too much time on the Mundane Plane, had developed some bad habits. One of these habits was eating when he was nervous. He eyed Christine’s sandwich grill and remembered the block of cheddar in the fridge. A grilled cheese sandwich might be just the thing to calm his nerves.

He had to plug the grill in to make it work; someone, it seemed, had carelessly left it unplugged. As he set about making a grilled cheese sandwich with the defective sandwich grill, it occurred to him that the cross could rather easily be made into a swastika, which he vaguely remembered was the emblem of some very evil group of people, like the Nazis or ABBA.

Munching on his sandwich, Nisroc lengthened the shorter legs of the cross and then drew new lines extending them at right angles to the left. Perfect! Or… bloody hell, did the swastika spin to the right or the left? Jiminy Crickets, this was turning out to be a huge pain in the ass. It spun right, didn’t it? Yes, he thought it did. And anyway, the carpet’s owner would still want to replace it, even if the swastika were facing the wrong way, wouldn’t they? And what the hell was that smell?

Nisroc gasped as he turned to face the kitchen. Flames were licking up the curtains beside the kitchen window. Now what? Pangs of guilt and fear struck his heart. Had Heaven found him out? Was this the fire of divine retribution? As he watched it slowly begin to tickle the cabinets, he reflected that if Heaven were punishing him, they were taking their sweet time about it. No, this was not the terrifying Fire of Divine Justice; it was the less frightening but still dangerous Fire of Defective Kitchen Appliances. Still, it would behoove him to leave quickly. He had to assume that if the possibly mis-oriented swastika didn’t do the trick, the fire certainly would.

Nisroc finished off his sandwich and left.

FOUR

There is never a good time to find out that your condo has been vandalized and nearly burned down by a demon, but immediately after Mild Disappointment Number Eighteen is a particularly bad time.

The first indication Christine had that something was wrong was the smashed door frame: someone had forced their way into her condo. Christine pushed open the door and walked inside. The condo smelled like burnt plastic and one wall of the kitchen was badly scorched. A backwards swastika, drawn in what looked like blood, graced the floor of her breakfast nook.

“Damn it,” Christine sighed, feeling completely defeated. “Now what?”