Notes:

Inspired by this post post/187559223273. Because I needed some general hijinks with Crowley, Adam, and Warlock. XD

"How much do you want for this here picture frame, ma'am?"

"Oh! I'm so sorry, dear. It should be marked." Wilma pulls her reading glasses down from her white crown and examines the ceramic frame. She actually knows how much she's asking for it. It says clearly on the front – five pounds. But this man more than likely wants to haggle. So she procrastinates parting with that information, slowly fixing her glasses on the bridge of her nose for show. She's had 20/20 vision since childhood, and at seventy-seven, that hasn't changed a whit. But she milks this moment, making herself seem more infirm than she honestly is in the hopes of getting a few pity pounds out of this poor schlub who happened upon her yard sale on this fine Saturday morning.

To be honest, she bought this God awful picture frame on her disaster of a third honeymoon. The whole marriage was ripe for the rubbish heap about four months in and yet she stayed with her darling Henry till the man died of sepsis a year ago – a week before his life insurance policy matured.

This frame is all she has left to remember him by.

Well, this frame, a house, a vacation property in Belize, and a ten million pound inheritance.

If no one buys the stupid thing, she's going to toss it into the air and shoot it with an air rifle.

"I'm … I'm having a bit of trouble reading this, love," she says in an appropriately quavering voice, pointing to the tag in the corner. "Does this say five pounds? Or fifteen? It's been such a long morning out here in the sun. I can't seem to tell …"

"How about I give you twenty and we call it a day?" the man holding the frame, a soon-to-be-present for his new wife, offers with a smile.

"Oh!" Wilma feigns astonishment while inside her head she pats herself on the back for playing him for a sucker. God, she should have been an actress! She squandered so much of her long life as a common housewife. "That's so gracious of you! Thank you, my dear!"

"You're more than wel-"

The end of his sentence gets severed by a vintage car screeching up to the curb and stopping with a jerk. The doors fly open and three people race out – a tall, lanky man with flaming red hair and sunglasses, dressed all in black like an undertaker, accompanied by two young boys around twelve – one with straight black hair, the other a curly dirty blonde. The curly-haired boy hugs a black-and-white terrier to his chest, whispering to it as all three plus dog race over to Wilma, sitting bewildered at her card table beneath a large oak tree.

And they look in a panic.

"Excuse … excuse me," the curly-haired boy begins, "but we need to see any cursed amulets you may have for sale!"

"Wh-what?" Wilma asks, eyeing the three suspiciously, the dog especially. "What are you going on about?"

"Please!" the dark-haired boy begs. "It's a matter of life or death!"

The dog barks. The curly-haired boy hugs him.

"It's all right, Kevin," he coos. "We'll get this curse reversed. I promise you."

"Is this some kind of a joke?" the man buying the frame asks incredulously.

"I can assure you it isn't," the tall man says seriously. "We've had a bit of a run in with … with … well, uh …" He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, looking down and to the side, hard to tell through the dark lenses of his glasses.

"Well, spit it out, mate!" the man says. "A run in with a what?"

"A … a …"

A demon," the dark-haired boy finishes, a peculiar twist to the corner of his mouth that makes the man with the frame suspect he might be lying.

"Right," he says, moving in front of Wilma to guard her from these three hooligans trying to pull a horrible prank on this poor old woman.

The dog whines, sounding for all intents and purposes desperate, and the curly-haired boy sighs. "I know it sounds unbelievable, but we're telling the truth!"

"It won't be Halloween for ages, young man, so I suggest the three of you climb back in the car you road in on and get out of here before I phone the authorities!"

"Don't do that!" the black-haired boy cries. "We're not trying to cause trouble! Honest!"

"No! No, do!" the tall man says as if the man with the frame just came up with the best solution ever. "Maybe they can help! Do you happen to have the phone number of a local priest perhaps? Maybe a shaman?"

"You should be ashamed of yourself," frame man scolds, turning on him with venom in his voice. "Encouraging these boys to participate in this reprehensible behavior!"

"Reprehensible!?" the man in the glasses scoffs. "Right! And what do you expect me to tell Kevin's mum when we bring home a dog instead of her little boy? Hmm? Sorry, ma'am! We could have helped him out, but we didn't want to disturb the neighbors! They have a right to sell their tacky goods in peace, your son be damned!"

"Are you mad!?"

"Oh, I'm sure she'll be pleased that the wretched animal appears to be potty trained at least. And uni? No need for that! Think of all the money she'll save!"

"Look, young man," Wilma interrupts finally, having tried this entire time to figure out if there was anything on her table that she could pass off as a cursed amulet. Unfortunately, the only thing that might have sufficed walked away for seven pounds over an hour ago. The man in front of them, going on about demons and dogs like a nutter, might be insane, but if she's right, that watch he's wearing is worth a pretty penny. And driving an antique Bentley in mint condition? He could at least afford a hundred pounds or more for some useless bauble. "I don't know what you're playing at, but could you please move along? You're scaring away paying …"

The dog in the boy's arms growls, long and low, a menacing curdle that stops all conversation dead, everyone within a hundred feet suddenly fearing for their lives.

"Uh … Kevin?" the boy says while everyone but the tall man takes a step back, eyes glued to the animal as if expecting him to explode. And he does in a sense, letting loose with the loudest, angriest bark ever to come from an animal, his mouth opening wide, unhinged, revealing seven rows of razor sharp teeth.

And for a split second, his eyes glow red.

"Saints preserve us!" Wilma mutters, crossing herself with a shaking hand and standing so quickly, her chair topples backwards.

"It's getting worse!" The boy carrying the terrier looks to the man in the dark glasses for help.

"I was afraid of this," he says. "Get him back to the car, boys! I don't think an amulet can save us now! Best to get him away from these God fearin' people before … you know."

"Before … before what?" Wilma calls after them, too terrified to follow for an answer.

"You don't want to know," the boy with the straight black hair says.

"I recommend you all go inside, find your crosses and your Bibles and start to pray," the man in the glasses says, holding the door to his car open for the boys and the dog. "I feel … judgement day a'comin'." He looks skyward, examining the clouds, frowning at something that only he sees. The man clutching the frame and Wilma look up, too, trying to see it, but all they see are clouds. Nothing more threatening than that.

But Wilma in particular, as devout a Christian as her Christmas and Easter attendance can attest, isn't about to admit that.

"Oh dear Lord! Everyone! Get inside! Quickly!" Crowley hears as he climbs into his Bentley and peels away, trying to restrain his laughter until they're completely out of earshot. Once they turn the corner and tear up the following block, Warlock and Adam crow.

"Did you see the looks on their faces?" Warlock snickers, putting out a fist for Crowley to bump.

"I know!" Adam giggles, wrapping his arms around Dog's neck. "That was even better than the last one!"

"How's about we call it a day and go get some ice cream?" Crowley suggests. "I think that guy with the frame might actually call the police."

"Sounds like a plan," Adam says. "I think Dog's had enough. Or should I say Kevin."

"Oh, all right," Warlock agrees, even though he was really hoping they'd hit one more yard sale before the day was up. But ice cream is cool, too. Less of a chance of getting him dragged back to mom and dad by the police.

Of course, that's never been too big an issue since Nanny is always there to bail him out.

"And remember, darlings," Crowley says, merging on to the M40, "what's the most important thing to keep in mind about today's little adventure?"

"Don't tell Aziraphale," both boys say in unison.

Crowley peeks into his rearview, beaming at the two boys with pride. "Brilliant."