01x01 - In The Beginning

[bunniefuu]

Current theories on the creation of the universe state that if it were created at all and didn't just start, as it were, unofficially, it came into being about 14 billion years ago.

The Earth is generally supposed to be about 4 1/2 billion years old.

These dates are incorrect.

Some medieval scholars put the date of the creation at 3760 BC.

Others put creation as far back as 5508 BC.

Also, incorrect.

Archbishop James Ussher claimed that the Heaven and the Earth were created on Sunday, the 21st of October, 4004 BC, at 9:00 a.m.

This too was incorrect, by almost a quarter of an hour.

It was created at 9:13 in the morning.

Which was correct.

The whole business with the fossilised dinosaur skeletons was a joke the palaeontologists haven't seen yet.

This proves two things.

Firstly, that God does not play dice with the universe.

I play an ineffable game of my own devising.

For everyone else, it's like playing poker in a pitch-dark room, for infinite stakes, with a dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.

Secondly, the Earth is a Libra.

The entry for Libra in The Tadfield Advertiser on the night our history begins reads as follows: "You may be feeling rundown and always in the same daily round.

A friend is important to you.

You may be vulnerable to a stomach upset today, so avoid salads.

Help could come from an unexpected quarter." This was perfectly correct on every count, except for the bit about the salads.

To understand the true significance of what that means, we need to begin earlier.

A little more than 6,000 years earlier, to be precise.

Just after the beginning.

It starts, as it will end, with a garden.

In this case, the Garden of Eden.

And with an apple.

Go on.

This apple will give you...

It was a nice day.

All the days had been nice.

There had been rather more than seven of them so far, and rain hadn't been invented yet.

But the storm clouds gathering east of Eden suggested that the first thunderstorm was on its way.

And it was going to be a big one.

Well, that went down like a lead balloon.

Sorry, what was that?

I said, "Well, that went down like a lead balloon." Yes, yes, it did, rather.

Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me.

First offence and everything.

I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway.

Well, it must be bad...

-Crawley.

-...Crawley.

Otherwise...

you wouldn't have tempted them into it.

Oh, they just said, "Get up there and make some trouble." Well, obviously.

You're a demon.

It's what you do.

Not very subtle of the Almighty, though.

Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a "Don't Touch" sign.

I mean, why not put it on the top of a high mountain?

Or on the moon?

Makes you wonder what God's really planning.

Best not to speculate.

It's all part of the Great Plan.

It's not for us to understand.

It's ineffable.

The Great Plan's ineffable?

Exactly.

It is beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words.

Didn't you have a flaming sword?

-Uh...

-You did.

It was flaming like anything.

What happened to it?

Uh...

Lost it already, have you?

-Gave it away.

-You what?

I gave it away.

There are vicious animals.

It's going to be cold out there.

And she's expecting already.

And I said, "Here you go.

Flaming sword.

Don't thank me.

And don't let the sun go down on you here." I do hope I didn't do the wrong thing.

Oh, you're an angel.

I don't think you can do the wrong thing.

Oh, oh, thank-- Oh, thank you.

It's been bothering me.

I've been worrying, too.

What if I did the right thing with the whole "eat the apple" business?

A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.

It'd be funny if we both got it wrong, eh?

If I did the good thing and you did the bad one.

No.

It wouldn't be funny at all.

Well...

Good Omens, being a narrative of certain events occurring in the last 11 years of human history, in strict accordance, as shall be shown, with The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.

It wasn't a dark and stormy night.

But, don't let the weather fool you.

Just because it's a mild night doesn't mean that the forces of evil aren't abroad.

They are.

They are everywhere.

Two demons lurk at the edge of the graveyard.

They are pacing themselves, and can lurk for the rest of the night, if necessary.

With still enough sullen menace left for a final burst of lurking around dawn.

Bugger this for a lark.

He should have been waiting for us.

Do you trust him?

-Nope.

-Good.

It'd be a funny old world if demons went around trusting each other.

What's he calling himself up here these days?

Crowley.

Here he comes now, the flash bastard.

If you ask me, he's been up here too long.

Gone native.

Enjoying himself too much.

Wearing sunglasses, even when he doesn't need them.

- All hail Satan.

- All hail Satan.

Uh, hi, guys.

Sorry I'm late, but you know how it is on the A40 at Denham.

I tried to cut up towards Chorleywood-- Now that we art all here, let us recount the deeds of the day.

Of course.

Deeds, yeah.

I have tempted a priest.

As he walked down the street, he saw all the pretty girls in the sun.

I put doubt into his mind.

He would have been a saint.

Now, within a decade, we shall have him.

Yeah, nice one.

I have corrupted a politician.

Let him think that a tiny bribe wouldn't hurt.

Within a year, we shall have him.

Right, you'll like this.

I brought down every London area mobile phone network tonight.

-Yeah?

-Yeah.

It wasn't easy-- And what exactly has that done to secure souls for our master?

Oh, come on, think about it.

Fifteen million pissed-off people who take it out on each other.

It's not exactly...

craftsmanship.

Well, head office don't seem to mind.

They love me down there, guys.

Times are changing.

So...

...what's up?

This is.

No.

Yes.

Already?

Yes.

And it's up to me to...?

Yes.

You know, listen, it...

...really isn't my scene.

Your scene.

Your starring role.

Take it.

Like you said, times are changing.

They come to an end, for a start.

Why me?

Well, they love you down there.

And what an opportunity.

Ligur here would give his right arm to be you tonight.

Or someone's right arm, anyway.

Sign here.

Now what?

You will receive your instructions.

And why so glum?

The moment we have been working for all these centuries is at hand.

Centuries?

Our moment of eternal triumph awaits.

Triumph.

And you will be a tool of that glorious destiny.

Glorious tool.

Yeah.

OK.

I'll, um, be off then.

Get it over with.

No, I want to get it over with, obviously, but, I'll be popping along.

Great.

Fine.

Yeah.

Ciao!

What's that mean?

"Ciao", it's Italian.

It means "food".

Crowley was all in favour of Armageddon in general terms.

But it was one thing to work to bring it about, and quite another for it to actually happen.

- sh*t.

sh*t.

sh*t.

sh*t!

sh*t!

- When Queen released "Bohemian Rhapsody"...

sh*t, sh*t, sh*t!

Why me?

...in 1975, it was because-- You earned it, Crowley, didn't you?

What you did to the M25 was a stroke of demonic genius, darling.

The M25?

Yeah, well...

Yeah, I'm glad it went down so well.

Here are your instructions.

This is the big one, Crowley.

Mmm.

-Mind if I join you?

-Gabriel?

What an unexpected pleasure.

It's been...

Quite a while, yes.

Why do you consume that?

You're an angel.

It's sushi.

It's nice.

You dip it in soy sauce.

It's what humans do.

And if I am going to be living here among them, ahem, well, keeping up appearances.

-Tea?

-I do not sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter.

Obviously not.

-Nice suit.

-Yes, I like the clothes.

Pity they won't be around much longer.

They won't?

We have reliable information that things...

are afoot.

-They are?

-Yes.

My informant suggests that the demon...Crowley may be involved.

You need to keep him under observation without, of course, letting him know that's what you're doing.

I do know, yes.

I've been on Earth doing this -since the beginning.

-So has Crowley.

It's a miracle he hasn't spotted you yet.

Yes, I know.

Miracles are what we do.

Meet Deirdre and Arthur Young.

They live in the Oxfordshire village of Tadfield.

Are we there yet, Arthur?

I'm four minutes apart.

It's definitely this way.

It's just the roads look all different in the dark.

The nuns said to come in when they were four to five minutes apart.

It's just an...

Oh, do we have any egg and cress sandwiches?

Oh.

Oh!

Meet Harriet Dowling and her husband, American diplomat Thaddeus Dowling.

Breathe, honey.

Just breathe.

I am breathing, g*dd*mn it, Tad!

-Why aren't you here?

-Honey, I'm with you.

I'm with you.

I'm just also here with the President.

Hey, Harriet, sorry we had to borrow your husband.

Birth is the single most joyous co-experience that two human beings can share, and I'm not going to miss a second of it.

Tad, if we could get back to the matter at hand.

I'll get back to you, honey.

You're meant to be with me, you useless son of a bi-- At some point this evening, Mrs Dowling will arrive.

She will undoubtedly have Secret Service agents with her.

You are all to ensure that they see nothing untoward.

Sister Theresa and I will deliver the Dowlings' child in room four.

Once he has been born, we will remove the baby boy from the mother...

and give her back our master's child.

Everything is ready.

Tonight, it begins.

Sister Mary Loquacious?

Yes, excuse me, Mother Superior, I was wondering where the other baby was going to come from?

Not the American baby.

I mean, that's obvious.

It's just the birds and the bees.

But, you know, the, um...

Master Crowley is on his way with our dark lord-to-be, Sister Mary.

We do not need to know more than that.

We are Satanic nuns of the Chattering Order of St Beryl.

And tonight is what our order was created for.

Sister Grace, you are on duty reception.

Sisters Maria Verbose and Katherine Prolix, you will assist Sister Theresa.

The rest of you know your duties.

Oh, it's an ambulance!

Places.

Excuse me, Mother Superior.

I didn't get a job.

Probably an oversight.

Yes, of course.

You could make sure there are biscuits.

The kind with pink icing.

I think we had a tin in the convent larder.

Clear.

-Breathe, dear, breathe.

-I am breathing.

Oh, God!

Excuse me.

Deirdre Young.

Contractions are now four-- four minutes apart!

Oh!

Welcome to St Beryl's, Mrs Young.

We weren't expecting you till next week.

Now, Arthur will be with me while I'm in labour.

I'm afraid not.

We believe that fathers just, uh, complicate the process for everybody.

We'll let him know when to come up.

Well, I'm not going to argue with nuns.

Nurses know what they're doing, Deirdre.

I'll see you when it's-- She'll be in room three.

Right.

Good-- Good luck.

It may help to understand human affairs to know that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people.

You've left your lights on.

Oh.

Well, that's clever.

-It is infrared?

-Has it started yet?

-Um...

they made me go out.

-Any idea how long we've got?

I think we were getting on with it, doctor.

Got it.

What room is she in?

-We're in room three.

-Room three, got it.

There's a trick they do with three playing cards which is very hard to follow.

And something like it, for greater stakes than a handful of loose change, is about to take place.

Deirdre Young is in delivery room three.

She has just given birth to a golden-haired male baby we will call "Baby A".

Harriet Dowling is giving birth in delivery room four.

She is having a golden-haired male baby we will call "Baby B".

Psst.

Sister Mary Loquacious is about to be handed a golden-haired male baby we will call "The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World and Lord of Darkness." -Is that him?

-Yup.

Only I'd expected funny eyes, or teensy-weensy little hoofikins.

Or a wittle tail.

It's definitely him.

Fancy me holding the Antichrist.

Counting his little toesie-woesies.

Do you look like your daddy?

I bet he does.

Do you look like your daddy-waddykins?

He doesn't.

Take him up to room three.

Room three.

Do you think he'll remember me when he grows up?

Pray that he doesn't.

Three babies.

Watch carefully.

Round and round they go.

Sister Mary, what are you doing here?

Shouldn't you be taking biscuits to the refectory?

Master Crowley said to take the baby to room three.

Well, get on with it, then.

Has it happened yet?

I'm the father.

The husband.

Both.

Oh, yes.

Congratulations.

Your lady wife's asleep, poor pet.

Twins?

What?

Nobody said anything about twins.

Oh, no, no.

This one's yours.

That one's...

someone else's.

Just looking after him.

No, no, this one is definitely yours, your ambassadorship, from the top of his head to the tips of his hoofy-woofies...

-which he hasn't got.

-Oh.

All, uh, ahem, present and correct, is he?

Oh, yes.

He's normal.

Very, very normal.

A boy!

Mr President.

I have the honour, sir, to report myself the father of a regular Y-chromosomed son.

Now, we just have to take him away for a minute to weigh him and the usual.

This father-of-a-male-boy-son is all yours, Mr President.

Harriet.

Yes!

Where's the baby?

Satan, give me strength.

Do you know where our master's child is?

Sister Mary Loquacious has him in room three.

Now, we call these biscuits.

But you'll be looking at them and going, "Oh, cookies." I call them biscuits.

As methods of human communication go, the human wink is quite versatile.

For example, Sister Theresa's meant...

Where the hell have you been?

We're ready to make the switch, and here's you in the wrong room with the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World, Lord of Darkness, drinking tea.

And as far as she was concerned, Sister Mary's answering wink meant...

This child is the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World and Lord of Darkness.

But I can't talk now, because there's this outsider here.

Sister Mary, on the other hand, had thought that Sister Theresa's wink was more on the lines of...

Well done, that, Sister Mary.

Switched over the babies all by herself.

Now, indicate to me the superfluous child, and I shall remove it and let you get on with your tea with His Royal Excellency, the American ambassador.

Extra baby removal.

But I'm wittering on.

Where were you before you took up this appointment?

Swindon.

Ohh!

Here's your little man back, all cleaned up and weighed.

Look, honey.

Our son.

He's beautiful, hon.

What a little tyke, huh?

Oh...

Seeing him makes me understand what's important in life.

It's not work.

I'm going to teach him to play baseball.

And on Sundays, we'll go fishing.

Tad!

Sorry, honey, we'll call you back.

You must name the child.

Well, we were going to name him Thaddeus, after his dad and his dad's dad.

Damien's an excellent name.

Damien Dowling?

Too alliterative.

Warlock, then.

It's an old English name.

A good name.

Hello, Warlock.

Damien?

No.

I'd always fancied something more, well, traditional.

We've always gone in for good, simple names in our family.

Cain.

Very modern sound, Cain, really.

Well, there's always...

I mean, there's always Adam.

Adam?

Hmm.

Adam.

Oh!

Ooh.

Come on, little one.

Do you know, Deirdre, um...

I think he looks like an Adam.

Oh.

Hello, Adam.

It would be nice to think that the nuns had the surplus baby discreetly adopted.

That he grew to be a happy, normal child, and then grew further to become a normal, fairly contented adult.

And, perhaps, that is what happened.

He probably wins prizes for his tropical fish.

Call Aziraphale.

Calling Aziraphale.

Sorry, all lines to London are currently busy.

I'm afraid we're quite definitely closed.

Aziraphale, it's me.

- We need to talk.

- Yes.

Yes, I rather think we do.

I assume this is about-- Armageddon.

Yes.

Everyone knows the best place for a clandestine meeting in London is, and always has been, St James's Park.

They say the ducks are so used to being fed by secret agents that they've developed Pavlovian reactions to them.

The Russian cultural attaché's black bread is particularly sought after by the more discerning duck.

Crowley and Aziraphale have been meeting here for quite some time.

You're sure it was the Antichrist?

I should know.

I delivered the baby.

Well, not "delivered" delivered, you know?

Handed it over.

An American diplomat.

Really?

As if Armageddon were a cinematographic show you wished to sell in as many countries as possible.

The Earth and all the kingdoms thereof.

We will win, of course.

You really believe that?

Obviously.

Heaven will finally triumph over Hell.

It's all going to be rather lovely.

Out of interest, how many first-class composers do your lot have in Heaven?

Because Mozart's one of ours.

Beethoven.

Schubert.

Uh, all of the Bachs.

They have already written their music.

And you'll never hear it again.

No more Albert Hall.

No more Glyndebourne.

Just celestial harmonies.

-Well...

-And that's just the start of what you'll lose if you win.

No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you.

No gravlax in dill sauce.

No more old bookshops.

We've only got 11 years, and then it's all over.

We have to work together.

No.

It's the end of the world we're talking about.

It's not some little temptation I've asked you to cover for me while you're up in Edinburgh for the festival.

-You can't say no.

-No.

We can do something.

I have an idea.

No!

I am not interested.

Well, let's have lunch, hmm?

I still owe you one from...

Paris.

1793.

Yes.

The Reign of Terror.

Was that one of ours or one of yours?

Can't recall.

We had crepes.

Mm.

That was scrumptious.

So, what are you in the mood for now?

Alcohol.

Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.

I have several very nice bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the back.

I picked up a dozen cases in 1921, and there's still some left for special occasions.

Not very big on wine in Heaven, are they, though?

Not going to get any more nice little Châteauneuf-du-Papes in Heaven, or single malt scotch, or little...

little froufrou cocktails with umbrellas.

Crowley, I've told you, I'm not helping you.

I'm not interested.

This is purely social.

I am an angel.

You are a demon.

We're hereditary enemies.

Get thee behind me, foul fiend.

After you.

That night, Arthur and Deirdre Young proudly took the baby they believed was theirs home to the quiet English village of Tadfield.

The Antichrist had been on Earth for 24 hours.

While in London's Soho, an angel and a demon had been drinking solidly for the last six of them.

So, what...

what exactly is your point?

My point is-- My point is, dolphins.

That's my point.

Big brains, the size of...

damn big brains.

Not to mention the whales.

Brain city, whales.

Kraken.

Ooh, great, big bugger.

Supposed to rise up to the surface.

Right...

right up at the end, when the sea boils.

Well, that's my point.

Whole sea bubbling.

The dolphins, the whales.

Everything turning into bouillab-- Bouill-bouillab-- Bouillab-- Fish stew.

Anyway, it's not their fault.

And that's the same with gorillas.

They say, like, "Whoop".

They say a lot of-- Sky's gone red.

There's...

stars crashing down.

And what are they putting in bananas these days?

They're All creatures, great and small.

And you know what's worse?

When it's all over, you've got to deal with eternity!

Eternity?

Yeah, it won't be so bad at first.

Although no Stephen Sondheim first nights in eternity, I'm afraid.

Although, I have heard rumours that your boss really loves The Sound of Music.

You fancy spending eternity watching that?

You could literally climb every mountain over and over and over and over and over and over and over.

I don't like it any more than you do, but I told you, I can't diso-- not do what I'm told.

I'm an angel.

I...

Oh, God, I-- I can't cope with this while I'm drunk.

I'm going to sober up.

Yeah, me too.

Harriet Dowling took baby Warlock to his new home, an official London residence.

Our mission is done, Lord Hastur.

The baby is in place, and his parents are none the wiser.

Well, no need for the convent any longer, then, is there?

- I'm afraid I-- - Dissolve.

-What?

-Your order is dissolved.

-We're what?

-Now hang on a moment.

We did everything that was asked of us.

What about our reward?

So irritating.

You never shut up, do you?

We are a chattering order.

We say what is on our minds.

And right now, what's on my mind is that you can't treat us like-- Would you like to tell them that the order is dissolved?

Or would you rather that they all perish in the fire?

What fire?

Even if I wanted to help, I couldn't.

I can't interfere with the Divine Plan.

Well, what about diabolical plans?

You can't be certain that thwarting me isn't part of the Divine Plan, too.

I mean, you're supposed to thwart the wiles of the Evil One at every turn, aren't you?

Well...

See a wile, ya' thwart.

Am I right?

I...

Broadly.

Actually, I encourage humans to do the actual-- But the Antichrist has been born.

But it's the upbringing that's important, the influences.

The evil influences, that's all going to be me.

It'd be too bad if someone made sure that I failed.

If you put it that way...

Heaven couldn't actually object if I was thwarting you.

No.

Be a real feather in your wing.

We'd be godfathers, sort of, overseeing his upbringing.

We do it right, he won't be evil.

Or good.

He'll just be normal.

It might work.

Godfathers.

Well, I'll be damned.

It's not that bad when you get used to it.

I understand you need a nanny.

They do say as you might be looking for a gardener.

Oh!

Young master Warlock!

You're growing fast.

You must be all of, um...

Five.

I'm five.

What's that?

Oh, that's Brother Pigeon.

And Brother Snail.

Oh, and Sister Slug.

Now, you remember, young Warlock, as you grow, to have love and reverence for all living things.

Nanny says living things are only fit to be ground under my heels, Brother Francis.

Well, don't you listen to her.

You listen to me.

Will you sing me a lullaby, nanny?

Of course, dear.

The gardener says that I must be kind and nice to everybody.

Even Sister Slug.

And not ever destroy the Earth.

Don't listen to him.

Listen to me.

There are many doors that will take you to Heaven or to Hell.

But when Crowley and Aziraphale report in an official capacity to their respective head offices, they take the main entrance.

Tell us about the boy, Warlock.

He's a remarkable child, Lord Beelzebub.

-But is he evil?

-Fantastically evil.

k*lled anyone yet?

Uh...

not yet, but there's more to evil than just k*lling people, eh?

I suppose.

But it's fun.

Have you encountered any problems from the...

...opposition?

They don't suspect a thing.

I am proud to say that on a very real level, the Antichrist child is now being influenced towards the light.

Very commendable, Aziraphale.

-Excellent work, as usual.

-Yes.

But, Aziraphale, we will be most understanding when you fail.

After all, wars are to be won.

Not avoided.

But I won't fail.

I mean, that would be bad.

Aziraphale, what you're doing is praiseworthy, but obviously doomed to failure.

Still, as the Almighty likes to say, "Climb every mountain." "Ford every stream." The boy's too normal.

Excellent.

It's working.

The heavenly influences are balancing out the hellish.

A no-score draw.

I hope you're right.

Only six years left to go.

-Crowley.

-Yeah?

I mean, if he comes into his full power, how do we stop him then?

I'm sure it won't come to that.

- He's big.

- -He's the biggest we've got.

Only the best for our young master-to-be.

Do you think he's hungry?

Only one way to find out.

You.

Get in there.

-Me?

-Yes, yes, you.

Watch out for his teeth.

Ooh.

It's not like you didn't tell him to look out for the teeth.

I think he was hungry.

Warlock, are you listening to me, honey?

Look what they used to think dinosaurs looked like.

-Whatever.

-They're old and educational.

-It's dumb.

-It's not dumb, sweetie.

-It's a dinosaur.

-Dumbasaur, more like.

Can we talk about my birthday party?

Why can't we have my party in an escape room?

Honey, for the last time, we've already hired a...

But, Mom...

Well, we've done everything we can.

All we can do now is wait for his birthday.

The Hell Hound will be the key.

Shows up at 3:00 on Wednesday.

Right.

You've never actually mentioned a Hell Hound before.

Oh, yeah.

Yeah, they're sending him a Hell Hound to pad by his side and guard him from all harm.

-Oh.

-Biggest one they've got.

Won't people remark on the sudden appearance of a huge black dog?

His parents, for a start?

No one will notice anything.

It's reality, angel.

And young Warlock can do what he likes with that, whether he knows it or not.

It's the start of it all.

The boy's meant to name it.

Um...

st*lks by Night, Throat-Ripper, something like that.

But if you and I have done our job properly, then he'll send it away unnamed.

What if he does name it?

Then you and I have lost, he'll have all his powers, and Armageddon will be days away.

There must be some way of stopping it.

If there was no boy...

then the process would stop.

Yes, but there is a boy.

He's over there, writing a rude word on a description of a dinosaur.

Well, there is a boy now.

That could change.

Something could happen to him.

I'm saying you could k*ll him.

I've never actually...

k*lled anything.

I don't think I could.

Not even to save everything?

One life...

against the universe.

Then, this Hell Hound, it'll show up at his birthday party?

-Yeah.

-Well, then we should be there.

Maybe I can stop the dog.

In fact, I could entertain.

No, no, no.

Please, no.

No.

I just need to get back into practice.

Oh, no, no.

Don't do your magic act.

- Please.

Please!

I'm actually begging you.

- You have no idea how demeaning that is.

Please.

-In your finger.

-No, it was in your ear.

-It was in your pocket.

-It was close to your ear.

Never anywhere near my ear.

You're no fun.

-Fun?

-Yes.

It's humiliating.

You can do proper magic.

You can make things disappear.

But it's not as fun.

Make you disappear.

Where has he got to?

Is he in here...

somewhere?

There he is!

Ha!

This-- We'll come back to that one.

You see, it's me old top hat.

But, wait.

What's this?

Could it be our old furry friend, Harry the Rabbit?

It was in the table.

You said there was gonna be a celebrity magician.

I had Penn and Teller at my party, and I had a silent disco, -and I got a-- -You're rubbish.

Excuse me, excuse me.

He's right, you know.

You are actually rubbish.

Five, four, three, two, one.

The time is upon us.

As soon as the boy names the Hound, Armageddon will begin.

Go.

Find your master.

He's not back yet?

He's down in Hogback Wood, playing with his friends.

I've told him to be home by teatime.

Right, well, give me a shout when he gets back, then we can light the candles.

That was the best 11th birthday ever.

It was all a bit of a disaster, I'm afraid.

Nonsense.

You gave them all a party to remember.

Last one any of them will ever have, mind.

It's late.

Comes of putting it up your sleeve.

No.

The Hell Hound.

It's late.

...Isle of Skye, and your time starts-- Hello, Crowley.

- Uh, hi.

Who's this?

Dagon, Lord of the Files, Master of Torments.

Yeah, just checking in about the Hell Hound.

He should be with you by now.

Why?

Has something gone wrong, Crowley?

Wrong?

No, no.

Nothing's wrong.

What could be wrong?

Oh, no, I see him now, yes.

What a lovely, big helly Hell Hound.

Yes, OK, great talking to you.

No dog.

No dog.

Wrong boy.

Wrong boy.

The right boy was playing in the woods with his friends.

After all, it was his birthday.

Hogback Wood was their Eden, where they could play unbothered by adults.

The children called themselves the "Them".

Pepper and Brian, Wensleydale, and the birthday boy, their leader, who found their den and invented the best games of all...

Adam.

It's my birthday.

Of course, I'm gonna get a dog.

You never get what you want.

I wanted a bike, and I asked for it.

And I told them I wanted a razor blade saddle, and 12 gears and everything.

And do you know what they got me?

A girl's bike.

With a basket.

But you are actually a girl, Pepper.

That's just sexist.

I want a dog.

Oh, right.

And your mum and dad are just going to get you a big old Rotten-weiler, then, Adam?

I don't want a big dog.

I want the kind of dog you can have fun with.

A little dog.

I want a dog that's brilliantly intelligent, and can go down rabbit holes, and I can teach tricks.

And I'll call him...

And this is the moment.

The naming.

This will give it its purpose, its function, its identity.

This is the moment that sets Armageddon into motion.

The Hell Hound growls a low, rumbling snarl of spring-coiled menace.

The sort of growl that starts in the back of one throat and ends up deep in someone else's.

I think I'll call him "Dog".

Saves a lot of trouble, a name like that.

And, what, this dog's just gonna turn up?

Maybe.

Here, boy.

Come on.

Armageddon is days away, and we've lost the Antichrist.

Why did the powers of Hell have to drag me into this anyway?

Well, don't quote me on this, but I'm pretty sure it's because of all those memos you kept sending them, saying how amazingly well you were doing.

Is it my fault they never check-up?

I'm to blame they never check-up?

Everyone stretches the truth a bit in memos to head office.

-You know that.

-Yes, but you told them you invented the Spanish Inquisition and started the Second World w*r.

So the humans b*at me to it.

That's not my fault.

Something's changed.

Oh, it's a new cologne.

My barber suggested it.

Not you.

I know what you smell like.

The Hell Hound has found its master.

Are you sure?

I felt it.

Would I lie to you?

Well, obviously.

You're a demon.

That's what you do.

No, I'm not lying.

The boy, wherever he is, has the dog.

He's named it.

It's done.

He's coming into his power.

We're doomed.

Well, then...

welcome to the end times.