As I understand it, Loki is a trickster, he thrives on the "tricks" he plays on others, and regularly takes forms of other creatures/people. He thrives on being able to convince others of a truth that isn't real, and I think he probably also enjoys the attention he gets from it, regardless of the repercussions. It seems like entertainment is a great way to accomplish all that with flair.

Honestly I think the best job for Loki would be a movie star.

"Get Fucked""

The angel looked at me incredulously, before stammering out "I'm sorry?" Its voice was like a light tinkling bell coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once, truly beautiful and terrifying. It had many eyes and several wings, and honestly was frightful to look upon, but I glared at it with all the animosity I could muster.

I felt like a trembling mouse before a tiger.

"You heard me, shitbag, go get fucked in the ass, or cloaca, whatever it is you shit from, like I'm sure you fuckers enjoy"

Its color changed, and I knew I hit on something there, but that wasn't the reason I was cursing out the divine being.

"I'm not sure you heard me, I am here to carry you forth to a better pl-"

"I know why you're here," I interrupted, "and I don't want it. I'd rather sit here in the muck and mire with the 'sinners'. My people. You inhuman, unnatural, poor excuse for a sapient, you have no clue. Go fuck yourself and tell your friends about me, too."

I glared at it, and its many eyes stared, back, unblinking. It slowly raised a marble tablet and, maintaining eye contact, proceeded to scratch a long line with some sort of wing/arm thing. They don't precisely have a topology which lends itself well for description. When the angel was done, I felt something cold in my guts, and I knew that I'd be left alone again on Earth 7 for at least another 50 years.

In a terrifying burst of heavenly light and a loud thwip, the being disappeared, and I was left, again, in the dark disease and muck of this horrific world.

I breathed out a ragged breath - the temptation for a better life was always there. Every 50 years, I would get a chance to go to a better earth. To be among those, who, I admit, were like me. I remember my family, my parents, my brothers. I'll admit, I cried a little.

But no, I had no time to self pity. I had work to do.

Outside my office, fire and brimstone lit the hallways, through broken windows. Ash littered the floors and caked the walls, floating on eddies and currents of alternatively too hot and too cold drafts of wind. Demons rampaged the streets of melted tar, cackling and spitting bile as they passed by. People lined the floor, crying, wailing, dirty and diseased, with broken bones, painful cysts, and blood coming out of their ears and eyes, fingernails torn off from their wretched attempts at whatever salvation they thought they could muster.

I looked at all the pain, all the suffering. These people surely deserved it, after all, a god had made this decision, and who was I to question the all-knowing? Still, I couldn't leave this world behind - instead, I left my office, and changed into my scrubs.