“Why are we dressed like this again?” Jack stood in front of a massive barred gate across a driveway wide enough for a lorry. Huge manors with expansive grounds and high walls surrounded them, the smell of dew and freshly cut grass tickling their nostrils. There were even trees lining the pavement.

Behind the gate was a mansion big enough to house a village. Statues and fountains of marble adorned the path cutting through a swathe of green spotted by shocks of colourful flowers.

To his left was Sam, wearing a crisp white shirt with a black tie and an immaculate blazer. He seemed infuriatingly natural.

Aside from the sword at his waist.

On the right, fiddling with a keypad set into a stone pillar, stood Azure: he wore a set of green overalls, heavy boots, and a wide-brimmed straw hat.

“Because we have to look like staff,” said Azure, lips wrapped around a barley stalk.

Jack tore the stalk from his mouth, tossing it to the ground and crushing it beneath a shiny black loafer. In his own opinion, he looked like a rich and slightly paranoid penguin. “I get that, but I thought this was the end of the world? Why did we have time to see your tailor?”

“Well, it was a rush job.”

“That makes no difference! We were in there for three hours!”

“A good observation requires a good disguise.”

Squinting, he peered down at himself. “What are we meant to be, stock exchange samurai?”

“I believe we are supposed to be butlers,” said Sam, straightening his tie.

“What kind of butlers carry swords?”

Sam shrugged. “The combat kind?” He faced Azure. “Though I must say, I don’t think I’m at all comfortable with this deception.”

Waving it off, Azure glared at the keypad while repeatedly prodding it.”Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s for a good cause; God will understand.”

“Got him on speed dial, have you?” said Jack, scoffing.

“Yes, actually.” Azure bristled. “Funny old chap; we sometimes play cricket together on a Sunday.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

“Indeed,” said Sam, thrusting his shoulders back. “God rests on a Sunday.”

“That’s your issue?”

A buzzing emanated from next to him, and his attention snapped to the keypad.

“You don’t have to press the button so many times,” came an obnoxious American accent, “it’s a big house!”

Clearing his throat, Azure pressed a button and leaned in. “Aye, sorry ‘bout that.”

Jack sucked his teeth: in an instant, the man had gone from well-spoken southerner to West Country tractor salesman.

“It’s the gard’ner, back from me ‘olidays.”

“How d’you get back, combine harvester?” said Jack.

“About damn time!” blared the voice from the speaker. “We got fuckin’ weeds everywhere, man, get your ass in here.”

Another buzz sounded, and the gate parted in the middle with a clang, both sides swinging inwards.

“Was that the Antichrist?” asked Jack.

“His father,” said Azure, pausing. “The human one.”

Stepping through the gate, Jack said, “I see why the devil wanted his son here.”

***

A rotund man with thinning hair and a predator’s smile studied him. He felt the urge to whack him, sweat running down the back of his neck.

Azure had brought them through the grounds, depositing them in a drawing room and introducing them to Jim McCarthy - an American businessman Hell had apparently deemed the perfect fit to raise the Antichrist.

Beholding the man’s greasy pate, and having experienced a superior smugness rivalling even Lydia, he had to agree. He wore a chequered jumper and jeans probably worth more than Jack’s rent.

Azure had introduced them as ‘a pair o’ plucky young lads lookin’ for a bit o’ work’ before abandoning them so he could tend the garden.

Some bloody angel.

The drawing room was massive, black walls covered in paintings of landscapes that were likely originals by someone famous. Plush leather recliners sat on thick Persian rugs, facing each other by a bookcase taking up the full back wall; across from that was a window with heavy black curtains, a piano in front of it.

They were in the centre of the room. Next to him, Sam fidgeted, clearly resisting the urge to smite evil.

“So,” said Jim, curling his lip, “you two are butlers?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack, forcing a grin.

Sam bristled. “I’m not a butler, I’m a Pal-”

Elbowing him in the ribs, Jack took over. “Pal- pal- palindrome! He’s a palindrome!”

Jim’s mouth hung open, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Yeah, uh…” He scouted around, his mind grasping for an explanation. “He prefers to be called a buttub. It’s an identity thing.”

“Butt tub?” said Jim, eying him as one might a particularly large and smelly piece of dog poo on the pavement.

Stolen story; please report.

He held up his hands. “No, ‘buttub’. Two ‘t’s.”

“What the hell is a buttub?”

“It’s, ah…” His expression grew strained, a nervous chuckle escaping. “It’s… an ancient word for butler from an Anglo-Saxon dialect?” Studying Jim, it appeared as though he didn’t believe a word he was saying.

His lips were parted and his nostrils flared, his breath coming in aggravated rasps.

Jack pointed at Sam. “Real sucker for history, this one.”

His cadence relaxed, and he looked away for a second. He nodded.

“Alright,” he said, turning his gaze back to them, “then what’s with the swords?”

“Um…” Jack glanced at Sam, who stared into space and pretended not to notice.

Bastard.

Perking up, he said, “we’re combat butlers!”

“I’m not a combat butler,” said Sam, “I’m a Pal-”

Jack kicked him in the knee. “Sorry, combat buttub.”

Crouching down, Jim studied Jack’s scabbard, and prickling broke out against his skin.

“Why don’t you show me what you can do?” said the businessman, straightening and meeting Jack’s eyes. His were beady and soulless, like a shark.

“Sure thing.” Inhaling deeply, he steadied himself as he drew his blade. A humming in the air rolled across his skin, as though the enchantments carved into the blade were singing to him.

He skipped back, leaving plenty of room between himself and the other two.

Raising the sword above his shoulder, he pointed the tip straight forward.

And shot a stream of ketchup across the wooden floor.

Jim gesticulated, his face flushing red and his lips tight together. “What the hell are you doing?! That’s not how you’re supposed to use a sword! Why’s a sword even dispense ketchup in the first place?”

“It’s a magic sword,” said Jack.

“That’s the worst magic sword I’ve ever seen! What use is that in combat?”

Tilting his head, Jack noted him oddly. “But that wasn’t a combat demonstration.” He produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “I’m gonna show you how I clean this up.”

His face like a tomato, Jim strode up to Jack, shoving him away with a snarl. “Like hell you are! These boards cost eight thousand dollars each, do you hear me? If that shit’s stained, I will work you like a dog until your skin falls off your bones!”

Sam stepped in front of him, but before he could do anything, Jim jerked, collapsing into a heap.

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you.” Azure stood behind him, having returned to his regular attire.

“Did you confirm the boy as the Antichrist?” asked Sam, removing his hand from his sword.

Azure rubbed his head. “No, actually. I’ve just had a call from Crow: it seems we’ve been in the wrong place.”

***

They crouched in a bush on a suburban street, the smell of flowers and food drifting through the air and out of windows.

Across the road from them was a house. It was the same as all the rest, a small detached with exposed red brick and a white plastic door. All the lights were off, giving the house a gloomy feel against the backdrop of the setting sun.

It was quiet but for the muffled sound of televisions behind walls.

“We’ve been here four hours,” said Hannah, cracking her neck. “When’s something gonna happen?”

Crow sighed. “Be patient. Could be anything happening in there: virgin sacrifice, demon summoning, calling a Jaffa Cake a biscuit.”

“One of those things is not like the others.”

“Ah, well. Besides, can’t break in without a plan; didn’t you know the H*lk was originally supposed to be grey?”

“What does that have to do with anything?!”

Gesturing at her, he shrugged. “Always nice to have a superhero to identify with.”

She stared at him. “I wonder what demon blood tastes like.”

“Did you just stand up for yourself?” said Lydia, ruffling her hair. “Good girl.”

She didn’t believe for one second that Crow was a demon, or at least the biblical kind he claimed to be. Demons were creatures of a parallel plane, dark and shrouded in mystery.

They didn’t pop out of the fires for a quick jaunt to read books and drink wine.

And the idea of God was a laughable concept. Why would any designer create such a vast playing field for such insignificant players? It made no sense.

Unless the entirety of existence was one big joke, which was starting to appear more and more likely by the second.

“Listen,” said Crow, peering over his shades, “surprise is the only weapon we’ve got. If this boy is the Antichrist and he’s in league with his dad, we’ll be toast before- what the bloody hell are you doing?!”

The bush rustled as he popped out of it, gaping at Lydia.

Crossing the road, she approached the cheap door, rapping hard. She tapped her foot.

After a while, the door opened a crack, a young face peeking out. “Yeah?”

“Hello,” said Lydia, trying for a reassuring smile. She was sure she failed when the boy grimaced. “Are your parents at home?”

“No. What’s it about?”

“I’m from the BMA.”

He flung the door open, eyes wide and jaw loose. Short and skinny, the boy had a spotty face and a greasy tousle of brown hair; he wore a pair of ripped jeans and a t-shirt with the logo of a rock band.

“The British Music Awards?” he said excitedly. “Did you find my demo on SoundCloud?”

Smirking, Lydia held up a hand as the other two caught up. “No, the Bureau of Magical Affairs.”

His face dropped. “Oh. That’s disappointing. What do you need?”

“Can you tell us your name?”

His gaze shifted between the three of them, weighing them up. “Alex.”

“Unfortunately, Alex, we fear it’s possible that you may be the Antichrist.”

Crow and Hannah slapped their foreheads.

Blinking, Alex scrutinised her before snickering. “This is one of those hidden camera things, right?”

She wondered.

She’d only come to ensure Jack could afford her hiding place from her cousins; she didn’t know where to go from here.

A sharp yapping invaded their hearing, and a clattering of feet brought a panting Jack Russell to the door. Its head snapped between the newcomers, tail whipping.

“Aw,” said Hannah, crouching down to pet it. “What’s his name?”

“Buttons,” said Alex, regarding Hannah with a smirk. “You like dogs?”

Crow balked, swallowing. “Careful, Hannah. That could be a hell-hound, for all we know.”

Lydia and Hannah laughed. Hannah said, “what part of this looks like a hell-hound?” She turned back to Alex. “Okay then, what’s his favourite food?”

“Narrators,” said Alex.

Wait, what?

No. Why are you looking at me like that? Good dog. Good do-

“What on Earth just happened?”

“No idea.”

“Something feels different.”

“Where did the speaker tags go?”

“Oh, that’s just a word economy thing. They’ll come back when we need to know who’s speaking.”

“We don’t know who’s speaking now!”

Lydia: Perhaps this will help.

“Don’t recycle jokes from the beginning of the volume!”

Lydia: But look how far we’ve come since then.

“That makes no sense!”

Lydia: Come now, have you never heard of a running gag?

“The only thing running is the readers, away from this story!”

Crow: She’s right, you know, this is very convenient.

Alex: At least now we know whose line it is.

Buttons: Woof.

“Why does a dog get a spoken line?! And how are we supposed to have a story without a narrator?”

Lydia: I’m sure we’ll find out on Monday.

“This is the worst cliffhanger yet!”