Death is a funny, funny thing. It is the end of all things living, we all know this, yet even though we know it's the exact endpoint to where the happiness of life/all your grief associated with this physical world ends, many of us really do not know just when or how it exactly happens. It could be that one unfortunate moment where your burger just happens to lodge itself in your throat for too long, or when you end up taking the wrong pills in a fit of a migraine, or pulling out of the school parking lot then getting hit by those two people drag racing in their Porsche cars, ruining you, them, your car, and their cars in ways science mostly cannot explain. Anyways, the whole point is that when the time comes for you, it usually comes at an unexpected moment and is either long or slow, painless or excruciatingly painful, sensible or senseless, but the general consensus is that you sir/madam/sirs/madams/sirs and madams are screwed beyond all sense of being saved.

But this does of course pose this rather special question: what happens if an agent of the Big Guy Upstairs (AKA as God, the Creator, the Lord, the Father, or any other term used for His iconic Omnipotence) or that of the Big Guy Downstairs (AKA as Satan, the Dragon, the Punisher, the Demon Lord, Lord of all Evil, or any other term used for His iconic Omnipotence's Polar Opposite) gets their physical body destroyed beyond the saving of Miracles/Curses wrought upon by their comrades? We can of course be pretty sure that the soul goes either up or down depending on the allegiance, but still, what becomes of the physical form?

We will personally witness an example of this, or at least the death of a celestial agent's physical form, in Soho, England as provided by the ex-Angel of the Eastern Gate Aziraphale, two would-be bank robbers with a very fast car, and the local Police Force of Soho.

Starting off, we will first travel to the scene of the example which is Mr. A.Z. Phale's Antique Bookshop (really more of a storage house than a bookshop, really since the atmosphere is musty and old, the rats are plenty and the hours are quite erratic) in Soho, England where we see Aziraphale exiting his shop, a flier for a local school's reading program in his hand and his speech about the importance and happiness you can derive from reading in his mind (not that it would make much difference to the school population, but the school liked having a speaker who was free for once). For him, all seems as normal as it can get in his district of Soho as he prepares to cross the street to hoof it all the way to the school he was going to give a speech to, the sounds of distant cars honking to get the guy in front of him/her to get the guy in front of that person to move faster and so forth, people conversing casually about the day's business, and of course the usual shady dealings occurring in broad daylight, and the sounds of police sirens and burning rubber somewhere around the neighborhood.

Unbeknownst to him however, those sounds of police sirens and burning rubber came from two wannabe bank robbers and the local police force weren't as distant as he thought it was. They were actually quite close to his position, more precisely right in the next street over where he was and the criminal newbies were actually deciding to take a turn right into the street Aziraphale was currently crossing at a slow, enjoyed pace as he took in the relaxing morning ambiance of his neighborhood.

The resulting effect, though quite obvious, will be described here: the two would-be bank robbers now well and truly screwed made a fast turn into the lane where Aziraphale was. Seeing the man in the middle of the street and faced with the choice of running over a guy and getting incarcerated with another charge of homicide or bodily harm, or stopping themselves from running over a guy then getting incarcerated, or speeding up, impacting the guy and hoping he clears the roof from the speed of the impact, they screamed and choose the third option as the driver put the pedal to the metal and hoped for the best. Aziraphale, hearing the sounds of burning rubber much closer than usual, turned to the source and let out a scream as he saw several hundred pounds worth of metal, rubber and glass came at him.

The impact was quite the sight as the car impacted with the screaming Aziraphale, and with such a great force actually made him clear the roof and land on the other side of the car, stunned and bruised, but otherwise fine. Aziraphale blinked and thanked God for having him clear such an event relatively unharmed.

Then the police cars came screaming along next, and for the sake of not having to describe what happens when several pounds of metal and fast moving rubber collides with a downed, living body, the end will be the only thing analogically described as putting a large fire cracker in a pot roast.

A nearby passerby shouted “Holy Shit!” and this was, indeed, a Holy Shit! Moment.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and found himself staring at clear blue skies with traces of golden mist in the air, angelic music and one of the most familiar choir pieces he has ever known ringing in his ears. Pulling himself up, he found himself staring once more at St. Peter and the Golden Gates of Heaven. St. Peter looked up at him and smiled. “Ah, Aziraphale! Welcome back! We didn't really expect you to be back again after you lost your sword, but welcome!” He greeted gaily.

Aziraphale could not feel the same.

A/N: Please do not expect frequent updates. This is only an experiment with a new writing style and a challenge to see if I can actually finish a large story for once.