Michael shoved his hands into the pockets of his large, brown trench coat as he passed another brightly-lit neon sign inside another dingy and filthy alley-way. Hong Kong was busy, sprawling, and working brilliantly at making money. People were milling about to ruin their lives, fine ways to enhance it, or simply burn away the time that made up their day-to-day. Michael was doing all of the above, and more. It had been 2 years, 3 months, and 6 days since he had made the deal with that demon Azazel. "You sure?" He had asked the demon. "I'll get everything I ask for, to a 'T'. No catches, no hidden charges or fees, no bite-me-in-the-ass twists of my words 'cause I forgot to add some caveat bullshit?" "You are correct, mortal," the demon hissed in it's otherworldly voice. The sounds resonated on several wavelengths, both high and low at once; tangible, and in his mind at the same time; so on, and so forth. The first time he had summoned a demon and had it talk to him, he keeled over and vomited and jabbered on for nearly half-an-hour. Now, he was eating a cheeseburger. Half-way done with it, actually. "Alright, then. Let's do this." And the deal was done, all for the small price of his Eternal Soul. The next time he saw Azazel, one year to the day--hell, right down to the very minute--of brokering the deal, Michael had no intention of paying up. He never had! A shame these buggers don't have proper mind-reading powers, despite the repertoire their tool bag of demonic goodies offered. "Fuck off," Michael had ended up telling Azazel. In his fury, the demon attacked, only to step on a holy amulet trap-bomb. Azazel was still licking his wounds, last Michael heard. The next demon to come to collect was bigger, meaner, had a greater reputation, had helped Genghis Khan give him his land Empire, so on and so forth. His name was Baash. He was outsmarted with clever use of a Michael look-a-like. The demons after fared no better in collecting Michael's soul. Lighting up a cigarette after stepping out of the rain, Michael stood underneath yet another neon sign. It spelled out gibberish, as far as he was concerned, what with that Chinese writing and all. 'Where's the fucking English?' he thought sourly. He supposed the sign didn't need English--there was a set of massive tits glowing right underneath the Chinese. He sucked in another lungful of disease-inducing smoke and stepped through the doors. He was immediately greeted by a stink that transcended stink; it was sweet, musty, sexy, filthy, pungent, sour, foul... Any and all smell-descriptors, and more. It made his eyes water for a moment, or maybe that was just the thick cigarette-and-drug smoke that hung in the air. Michael made his way to the bar, avoiding eye contacts with males and brushing past several pairs of enhanced Chinese tits. He made a point to tweak a nipple or two on his short journey to the bar. "Chang, gimme a beer," he told the bartender. He knew the guy; at least, he thought he did. He called him Chang, he answered to Chang. "Sure thing, ASS-HOLE." Chang called him 'Ass-hole'. A single word turned two, with a pause in between. "Thanks, Chang." The tall glass of amber-coloured beverage was set in front of him, a bit of the head dribbling down the side. Michael took a long drag of it before he sat it down, half-empty, and turned on his stool. He propped his elbows on the bar, and stuck his legs out in a lazy, inconsiderate pose. His long limbs were bound to bother or trip someone up, but he didn't care. He had a tall, six-foot-two body to accommodate, after all. He ran his hands through his blond-brown hair and blinked his blue eyes, and took in the crowd. "Any saps tonight, Chang?" He asked loud enough for half the bar to hear. It didn't matter; odds are, they didn't even care what he said, let alone deciphered.