Cricket slowly moves to put his feet on the ground, rather than on the arm of the couch where they just were. He's not going to make any moves other than that quite yet, though. There's something fascinating about the crackle and flow of the demon's patter. He can easily believe he was a radio announcer in life and afterlife. There's something a little like a carny there, too. Or maybe that's just the bright burgundy jacket that's making Cricket interpret it that way.

"Well, okay, hold on now--you can go to Hell and then just keep on doin' the job you did when you was alive? That sure as shit ain't what the preachers say. What happened to the weeping and gnashing of teeth and all that?"

He's not saying he wants to go there and find out, mind you, but being a bartender or dishwasher for eternity sounds less awful than burning in a lake of all-consuming fire.