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Summary
"Terribly sorry, but you're late," said the Metatron, tapping its wrist. "I do regret pointing that out."
Beelzebub bristled, regarding the bench with blank, yet tired eyes of flame. "There wazz much congezztion in the Fifth Circle. It could not be helped." It looked at the Metatron. "Apologiezz."
"We had better get on with this, and I have orders to make it quick," the Metatron sighed, dubiously taking a seat on the bench. The rain-slick wood hissed and smouldered. "Sit down," it said.
Beelzebub shrugged, but stiffly, as if this were a gesture in which it did not often indulge. Between the two of them, they now had the bench smoking profusely. "Parley. What are your termzz?"