Neil Gaiman, probably: Crowley is a cool, suave, powerful prince of Hell. He is somewhere in London sipping whisky and staring mournfully into the middle distance while "Pale Blue Eyes" spins on the record player.
Me: So the Bentley is refusing to play anything but "My Happy Ending" by Avril Lavigne on repeat and Crowley has been lying in the back seat for three days straight. He has consumed half a dozen gallons of ice cream right out of the carton while ugly crying so hard that his corporation manifested smudged eyeliner in sympathy.