Hoom was an enormous man. He dominated the desk he sat behind. Perhaps six foot eight, and easily five hundred pounds, with the complexion of a rhinoceros. He had a perpetual snarl, but not the kind of snarl that one accepts and moves on; his snarl grew consistently more surly and vicious, so that, if you took his face at any moment as a base-line, at the next moment, it would look, the next moment, like he had just started snarling.
He gestured wit a grunt for me to sit. As I sat, he stood up, slapping a huge manila folder in front of me.
"Angels!" he shouted at me.
I looked at him blankly, and began to pick up the folder. He put a meaty finger on top of the folder and glared at me. "There's one hundred and forty-seven of them in here. All Grigori! And just wait until you see the folder for the Nephilim!" He face grew red, and a vein on his forehead bulged. Something in my spinal cord decided he was going to punch me in the face, and I felt my skin go cold and my feet tense to spring away.
"Okay. I'm prepared for that."
His sweaty face hung over me, glistening in the dusklight which heated up the room through the bay windows. After a few seconds, he nodded, satisfied, and sat back down.
"Okay, you've got the job," he mumbled.
I sighed, relieved and delighted. I'd been unemployed too long.
"But I need one more thing," he added, with renewed angry vigor and an accusatory finger.
References. He needed two references.
I listed you as one of them. I hope that's okay.