I just got bored and wrote a short diary to pass the time. It's only one entry but nevertheless, here it is. Extremely unpolished. It's written by a sort of mischevious demon type thing:

I decided to go for a light walk down the shadier parts of New York during the night to amuse myself with some theives. To help attract them - as if I really needed to, they'll rob anything - I took on the appearance of an old lady. I don't bother with genders. It's a stupid mistake of human evolution, really.

There I was shuffling down a shady alley when I feel an arm clench around my neck, as I feel a man's stinking breath rolling over my neck and grinding against my nostrils, a foul concotion of burgers and alcohol mingled together. Hurray, I thought - I've got a bait.

Why was I doing this? Well, I find human-baiting to be a most amusing task. If you had an old lady in an arm lock, would you expect her to do what I did next? And what would your reaction be?

I strolled a step away from him, passing through his body like some sort of heavy mist, turning round to face him. He was about to run away, but I had already taken care of that. He pulled his weight forward to begin sprinting off down the alley, screaming all the way, and nearly collapsed onto his face when he found himself knee deep in the tarmac, as if it had been quicksand.

He began to flail, screaming loudly and giving me much amusement as he did so. He clearly expected death. Suddenly, he stopped and fumbled under his shirt, pulling out an cross. It reminded me much of vampire hunting. Under his breath - I'll try not to mention how disgusting it was again - he mumbled alsorts of prayers. It was then I decided to speak.

"Shut up, please," I said cheerily. He simply glanced at me fearfully, faltering in his torrent of prayers for a moment before continuing on, mentioning alsorts of saviours and pearly gates. "I find it most amusing how it is as this moment you decide to call upon your god, Harold Shanks."

Once again he faltered in his prayers, before stopping and looking up at me, his palms glistening with sweat generated by his mortal fear. "How did you know my name?" he screeched. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

I simply laughed in his face, before reaching into my handbag and pulling out a small vial of liquid. It's called Victorium, for no reason other than that's what I like to call it. Basically, it burns holes. Really large holes. Holes the size of your fist for one drop, for example.

Promptly explaning this to dear old Shanks in front of me, he looked at me once more. Then laughed. "Bullshit." I raised an eyebrow. It was rarely that human beings decided to give me some lip, espcially after I had told him his own name, one that he had almost forgot himself, and made him sink knee deep into the ground. "Oh really? Let us try it," I said. And thus I began to do so. Uncorking the small vial, I was about to pour some onto his skull for the hell of it - the eye is usally my favourite pain-causing-spot - when I was knocked to the floor.

I looked up, revenge in my eyes. Nobody ever knocks me down and gets away with it. But who had knocked me down? It certainly hadn't been the thief. He was still stuck in the ground, and in no state to hit me. Then it struck me - an angel. Those dastardly angels... Ah, yes, I should explain that there is no god. Well, sorry. There's just a bunch of rules that we can't break no matter how hard we try. We can only assume somebody put them there, but we've had many trillions of years, us immortals, to look for an god - you'd know when you had found one, I doubt they're very good at keeping their mouth shut about being all powerful - so I can only expect that there is no god. It's not like it matters, anyway.

But back to the angel. He was towering over me with a solemn face. I relaised I was still in old lady form, a short dumpy wrinkled old woman. I sneered at him before melting away. Harold would have to wait until later. As I melted away, disappearing before the pair's eyes, the vial dropped to the floor out of my rapidly disappearing hand, and promptly spilt its contents all over the angel's left shoe. While angels are also immortal and cannot be hurt, it dosen't mean they cannot feel pain. This angel certainly did, because when the victorium swamped his foot, he swore to the high heavens.