Catholic Hell... hmm...
Nah, too obvious to go on my list of band names.
You are welcome to link to this piece, as with anything on my blog, as long as you provide proper credit.
My gratitude again to my friends James "the Letterpress Sasquatch" Quigley, Darren Goldsmith, and the fabulous Javier Grillo-Marxuach for being kind enough to read this and give me feedback. Some advice I took, some I was too full of myself to take, and some I didn't know how to use without making myself crazy.
Gratitude to all the magazines that rejected this and provided some colorful words of disdain, as well. "Awful" and "juvenile" this first try might be, but it makes me want to work harder to prove you wrong!
So, here goes nothing.
The Recruiter
June smelled the demon before she saw him.
She had been in deep slumber, dreaming of a slow stroll through a Wal-Mart,
shopping for lawn furniture with some generically handsome basic cable actor,
when the stench of rotten eggs jolted her awake. Gagging, she sat up in bed,
only to discover she could not move her legs. There was a heaviness holding
them down, and in the darkness, she could see cat eyes glowing yellow, hovering
at the foot of her bed. The feline eyes blinked.
With a shaking hand, June reached for the
lamp on the bedside table and clicked it on. She clapped one hand over her
mouth, stifling the scream she felt welling up. Don’t wake up the neighbors. Don’t wake up the neighbors! She took
some shallow breaths, then rubbed her eyes, blinked, and looked again. The
thing on her bed was still there, just watching her.
“Oh my god,” June said, fumbling for her
eyeglasses on the table. “What the hell are you?” With trembling hands, she
pushed her glasses up her nose and focused on the unmoving figure at her feet. “Jesus
Christ,” she whispered, squinting at a leathery creature hunkered down at the
foot of the bed.
“No,” came a ragged chuckle from the beast.
“Definitely not Jesus Christ.”
“Three biblical references in under thirty
seconds! That may be a new record!” The thing chuckled, holding up three
gnarled digits. “I’m a demon, June. I’ve come from Hell to chat with you.”
June tilted her head to one side and
half-smiled. She glanced at the collection of pill bottles on the table. Helluva cocktail, doc. She squinted at
the hideous thing at her feet.
It was maybe two feet tall, with dark leather
hide clinging to knobby bones and a pair of goat legs covered in a shabby pelt,
stretched out under a distended belly. The skin was so tight, it creaked like a
saddle with each breath the demon took. Streaks of slime and waste coated its
limbs and torso, and it released great waves of brimstone-peppered flatulence.
“Okay,” June nodded, crossing her arms,
wincing slightly at the tenderness under the bodice of her gown. “Riiiiiiight.
What do I call you, then, demon? Baal?
Beelzebub? Azazel?”
“Alan,” it said matter-of-factly, folding a
set of stunted wings against its knobby back.
“Alan?”
“Yeah,” the demon replied, shrugging his
shoulders. “Alan. My name is Alan. Problem?”
“Well, no,” June scoffed. “But it makes you
sound more like an accountant than a demon.”
“It’s the name I chose for myself,” Alan
sniffed, looking down at the scabby flesh on his hands and inspecting his
filthy nails. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing, I guess,” June said, amused by her
hallucination. “I just expected something more… demonic.”
“Ah! But you see,” Alan said, dragging his scrawny
carcass up the bed, closer to June’s face, “that’s the point! No one expects an
Alan to be a demon. It’s so deliciously… mundane.” He found a nice spot on
June’s soft belly, and pressed down on her a few times through the quilt, like
a cat finding the perfect perch. He tucked his greasy tail under his haunches
and stretched out one hairy leg toward June’s face, so a cloven hoof, crusted
with what looked and smelled like manure rested on the flatness of her chest.
Damn,
these are good drugs, June
thought. She plumped a pillow and propped it behind her shoulders so she could
better study her hallucination. All the
better to see you, my dear. “Alright, Alan…” June decided to embrace the
moment. “Just what sort of Hellspawn are
you?”
“Low-level,” Alan replied, resting his scabby
head on a fist of claws. “Mostly sports injuries.”
“Sports injuries?” June’s brow knitted. “What
do you mean?”
“Oh,” the creature chuckled, waving one hand
around his face, “you know, wannabe Olympic sprinters who tear a ligament right
before a qualifying heat, or the football kicker who gets turf toe and is gonna
be out all season? That’s where I come in! They trip up, they say, ‘I’d sell my
soul, yadda, yadda…’ and—boom—there I am, contract in hand. Admittedly, I don’t
get the big stars or the showy stuff, but a soul’s a soul. And every one I get
is a step to bigger and better things.”
“I’m sorry. What’s ‘turf toe’?” June asked. “That doesn’t sound real.”
“Ah,” Alan said cheerfully, sitting up and
releasing another noxious blast from his backside. “It’s a metatarsal-phalangeal joint sprain!”
June shook her patchy head, a few tufts of fine
hair floating as she moved. “I’m pretty smart, Alan, but…” She waved her hand
at industrial strength pharmacy on the table. “Could you please speak in plain
English?”
“Ah. Certainly, June,” the demon answered, nodding
his head. “I get that. Sure. So… turf toe…” He framed the air with his gnarled hands,
as if lecturing to some invisible classroom. “It happens to football players on
artificial turf. Some guy gets tackled, another player falls into the back of
that guy’s calf while he’s got his knee and tips of his toes on the ground.
Toes get hyperextended, and BAM!” He knocked his knuckles together, making them
crunch. “That joint is messed up, and that guy is down for the count for a
while. Toes… so small, yet so important.” Alan looked down at his own cloven,
toeless hooves and the corners of his mouth fell. “Little miracles of balance,
no?”
June rolled the demon off her torso like an
oversized cat and slowly sat up on the edge of the bed. Purell, she thought, looking at her hands after touching the fiend.
She slipped her feet into an old pair of scuffs and appraised the creature intently
looking up at her from an unpleasant smear across her bed. “That bedspread is
gonna have to be burned, you know,” she said with a measure of irritation. She
sighed. “I think I want some tea. How about you?”
Alan uncurled his tail and sat up, his wings
rising slightly on his shoulders, waggling like misplaced dog tails. “Really?”
He responded with more enthusiasm than was probably dignified for a hellbeast
and clambered off the bed. His eyes fell on the rows of pill bottles across the
nightstand, and surreptitiously snaked a hand toward them, but June swatted his
hand. “Hey! Not for you!” Alan flinched and growled.
June studied her dirtied palm. “Eh, what the
hell,” she shrugged, wiping it on the ruined quilt. “So,” she said, rising
stiffly, “you cause these injuries and then what?”
“Well,” Alan said, hovering in June’s path,
“I arrive, tell them I’m there to help, I can save the season, save their
career, make sure they don’t get dropped from the roster… keep the family fed
and living in the style to which they’re accustomed—or better… all I need is…”
“A soul,” June finished. “You come for that
man’s soul.” June collected a cane from next to the bed, shoved past the demon,
and shuffled down the hall toward her kitchen.
“Not immediately!” Alan defended himself,
following at the woman’s heels. “I come for it in ten years, twenty… sometimes
a whole natural lifetime. They pay with eternal hellfire, certainly. But I
leave their families alone, and they live on with the pride of a champion’s glory.
It’s win-win, don’t you see? I make my quota, they live a dream.”
“And then they burn forever, right?” June
flicked the lights on in the kitchen.
“That is the way it works, June. You play,
you pay.” Alan brushed a fly from his face and clambered up onto a farm chair
at the kitchen table, balancing on his hooves, wrapping his tail around a chair
leg. He looked across the counters, strewn with more pill bottles, and at the
refrigerator festooned with reminders for doctors’ appointments and tests. Crayoned
cards and children’s collages were pinned to the walls. “Get well soon, Miss
Clark!” was scrawled under a rainbow on pink construction paper. Alan frowned.
“You know, I’m actually a little hungry,” June said as she flicked the switch on her electric kettle. She turned to her increasingly real hallucination. Can you smell a hallucination, she wondered. “Would you like something to eat?”
“You know, I’m actually a little hungry,” June said as she flicked the switch on her electric kettle. She turned to her increasingly real hallucination. Can you smell a hallucination, she wondered. “Would you like something to eat?”
Alan’s pointy ears pricked up, like a cat that’s
heard the can opener turn. He offered a hideous smile of rotting fangs. “I
could eat,” he said, trying to hide his eagerness.
June studied the fairly bare shelves. “Doc
says it really doesn’t matter what I eat now, of course. Sweet’s pretty much
all I can sense…” June paused. “I guess if you’re going down, might as well go
down in flames, huh?” She pulled a package from a cabinet and shook it at him.
“Oreos? I mean, unless you don’t eat cookies. Please don’t tell me you eat
babies or something like that…”
“Naaaaah,” Alan growled. “Most of the time, I
feed on anger and hostility, fear and loneliness, pain and misery. Bitter tears
are delicious, you know, and the sorrow of cancer tastes like a champagne
truffle.” (He refrained from noting that infant flesh was considered a delicacy among his comrades.)
June just stared at the creature planted at
her table. “Wow… well, that’s, uh… quite profound. Me? I can’t taste much these
days. Chemo fried my taste buds. Except for the little bits of sweet stuff, I
don’t eat much anymore, and if I did, I think I’d want some barbeque ribs.”
“Oh, plenty of barbequed ribs in Hell!” Alan
grinned. “Of course, they’re human, and barbeque is a particularly cruel form
of punishment. Agony makes for an exquisite sauce…” He drifted off, drooling a
little, and raised one tufted eyebrow at her.
“I’ll pass. Oreos?” She shook the bag at him
again.
“Oh yes!” The demon reached out with
lightning speed, snatching the crinkling plastic wrapper from his host. He
clawed the bag open and hooked the cream center of a cookie with one filthy
claw. June realized she wasn’t going to be eating out of that bag again.
She went to the freezer and pulled out a
sleeve of Girl Scout Thin Mints she’d been saving for the right moment. This
was probably it. She was talking to a demon in her kitchen, and in the morning,
a nurse from the hospice was coming to talk to her about pain management and a
morphine drip.
She laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Alan spewed black cookie
dust as he spoke.
“Oh, nothing. It’s just… this isn’t how I
figured things would end.”
“Things rarely end the way people expect it,
June,” the demon said. “Life’s not a made-for-TV movie. Endings just come. Que serĂ¡
serĂ¡.” Alan
shrugged with a rustle of stubby wings.
“Wow.
A demon who quotes Doris Day songs.” June chuckled as she eased her way into a
chair across from her visitor. “Who couldn’t love that?”
“It’s a Jay Livingston and Ray Evans song,
June. Doris Day just sang it.”
June raised her eyebrows.
“Hey, I’ve been around,” Alan sniffed, a
tinge of insult in his tone. “I know the Great American Songbook.”
“Bully for you,” June said.
“I’m no Philistine,” Alan said defensively.
“Alright,” June said in the voice she usually
reserved for calming children. “So… how do you convince your victims to sign on
the dotted line? I mean, don’t you scare the beejezus out of them with this
get-up?”
“This is no get-up, June. This is simply who
I am. What you see is what you get – true form and all that. And these people
are no victims. None of them are forced to sign any contracts or take any
deals. They choose. Free will.” He swallowed another Oreo whole. “And when I
manifest myself to them, I take on a much more terrifying form, believe me.”
“Good lord,” June whispered. “What form is that?”
“Sports agent,” Alan replied. “Slick suit,
scent of overpriced cologne, mirrored shades, manicured, manscaped, and teeth
veneered to the nth degree... Bluetooth headset…”
June sucked air through her teeth. “Ooooh,
the Bluetooth thing. That’s the worst.”
“I know,” the demon chuckled. “Total
douchebag. But they buy it. I offer them the world, and they buy the gates to
Hell. Yep. They buy it all. Fame is fleeting. Perdition is forever.”
“Words to live by. You should have that in a
counted cross-stitch on your wall. Or on your business cards, at least. So, if
your sports agent guise works so well, why do I get this scabby, flatulent thing
with horns and a tail?”
“Hey! Be nice!” The demon hissed, insulted. “This
is my true form. You should be flattered. And you were raised Catholic, no? I figured a fairly traditional form—all
hellfire, brimstone, and pea soup—would make a better impression. It’s actually
nicer than the sports agent, trust me. Less sordid. Less… overtly sleazy.”
June nodded. Probably couldn’t argue with
that.
“But if your portfolio is filled with
athletes, why are you here with me?”
The demon sighed. “I’ve been watching you for
a while now. I came for a pro bowler down the hall. Bad wrist. Drinking
problem. Gambling debts. Straight out of some bad movie. Wants his moment in
the sun. He’s going to get it now.” He stopped to sip his tea and looked at his
mug. World’s Best Librarian.
“What happens to him?” June asked, genuinely
curious.
“Oh, he’ll make a miraculous comeback, win a
few trophies, make his estranged children proud… then he’ll die of a heart
attack in his La-Z-Boy in about a decade—”
“Could be worse,” June interjected.
“—and spend eternity in flames. No strikes.
Definitely no spares.”
“Wonderful,” June’s nose crinkled. “You must
tell these people the most spectacular lies to agree to damnation.”
“Not at all, June,” the demon said. “I never
lie. I cannot lie. A contract based on lies cannot be enforced. What I leave
unsaid—and what they fail to read in the fine print—is something altogether
different. They choose their dreams, and they willfully ignore the
consequences. It’s so easy to do.”
“So, again…” June said. “Why me?”
The demon took a deep, wheezing breath. “I
saw you at the elevator one day. I could smell the cancer in you. I could feel
life slipping away, bit by bit. But you seemed so… serene. I had to see if you
had any regrets.”
June offered a wan smile. “I had regrets,
Alan, but I let them go.” She shrugged. “It’s been a good life.” She gestured
to the photos that filled her walls. June on a mountaintop. June at the
pyramids. June surrounded by laughing people on a beach. “I’ve traveled the
world. Made some money. Made a lot of friends. Loved some. Been loved... what
more do you need?”
“But you have no one now, June,” Alan
answered. “No husband, no lover, no children. And where are your friends?
You’re only 43. Don’t you feel angry? Aren’t you bitter about the legacy you’ve
lost?” The demon laid his left hand over hers, the heat of his flesh almost
searing the paper-thin skin of her fingers.
“Come with me and live forever. Exact revenge
on all who abandoned you or wronged you. You can spend the years doing the same
for everyone like you, left behind by fate!”
June tilted her head back and howled at
Alan’s drama, eliciting a knock on her ceiling from her upstairs neighbor.
“You could take care of that one, for
instance,” the demon snarled, pointing a claw toward the tiles above their
heads.
“No, no, no, Alan,” June continued to laugh.
“I have no intention of consigning my neighbor to the abyss. Listen,” she said,
“I was really angry once. When I recognized I was going to die, I went through
my own modified stages of grief: one stage of shock and denial, followed by six
stages of anger. I was pissed off. Really pissed off. Had I known the chemo was going to fail, had I
known a double mastectomy wasn’t
going to do jack squat, I wouldn’t have gone through it. Could have kept my
hair and my boobs and left a pretty corpse. But I fought the cancer tooth and
nail, and the thought of victory was worth it.” She paused. “Too tired to be
angry now. No point. It only drains what joy is left. No regrets.
“And I wasn’t abandoned, Alan. I sent my
friends away. I wanted them to remember me when I was better. Stronger. They don’t need to see how I am now,
so close to my end. I have my books for when my eyes are clear, I have the
phone when I have the energy to talk, and my music keeps me company. A nurse
drops by once a day. I am content.”
“But what about him?” The demon pointed to a
photo of June, beaming, healthy, golden hair past her shoulders, pressed
against a handsome man, his arms wrapped around her waist. “The one who ran away
when he realized you were terminal? Wouldn’t it feel good to see him in pain?”
“No, Alan,” June spoke quietly. “There’s no
hate, no anger. Only pity. He was weak and insecure. That can only be pitied.”
She sipped her tea and smiled like the Cheshire Cat. “Besides, he was in such a
hurry to depart, he left his MasterCard behind. I hope he’s enjoying his Fruit
of the Month deliveries, that subscription to Highlights for Children, and his very generous donation to the Cancer Society.” The demon’s eyes
brightened with admiration for the dying woman. “I told you, I have no regrets.
Not anymore.”
“Oh, June,” Alan positively glowed and even
farted loudly in approval. “You are a woman after my own heart. If I had a
heart. You have it in you. Why not come with me? Watch the history of the world
unfold. Cull the herd of the weak-willed, desperate, and greedy. No more pain,
June. At least, not for you.”
“Well, thank you, Alan,” June said, as if
wrapping up a job interview. “But I don’t see being Satan’s minion as a viable
career path.”
Alan looked genuinely disappointed, a crooked
frown on his face exposing one long, stained fang over his lower lip. He
drummed bony fingers on the table. “I see. Well, you can’t blame a guy for
trying, right? Perhaps I can come back another time. You might change your
mind, you know.”
“Oh, I doubt that. I’m pretty sure I don’t
have a future in torture or coercion.” June said. “I’m dying, Alan. Very soon. I
should be gone already.”
The demon set down his mug, his awkward grasp
spilling orange pekoe on the tablecloth. “I know, June. That’s why I’m here.”
He stretched one grubby arm out to her and touched the small scar above her right
elbow where her chemo line had once been inserted. It had all been too late.
The cancer that flowed through her body was like a steamroller—unstoppable— and
it hadn’t mattered where it had started or how many drugs the doctors pushed
into her. It wasn’t going to stop. “I want you to know you have choices.” Alan
sat back and looked at her, oozing demonic sincerity, a fist of claws under his
chin. June halfway expected him to push a brochure over to her. The Afterlife: Know Your Options.
“Milk with your cookies?” June ignored the
sales pitch, stood stiffly, and shuffled to the refrigerator. She pulled out a
quart of milk in a plastic jug labeled with a smiling cow, wreathed in flowers
and cursive script: If it’s daisy fresh,
it’s Daisy Dairy! It all seemed so incongruous with everything around her
now. She took two fresh mugs from a shelf and returned to the table. “Ever dunk
an Oreo, Alan?”
“No, I haven’t. I’d like to. Do you like
Scrabble, June?” Alan vanished into thin air, then reappeared a few seconds
later with a scuffed box, rattling with tiles. “My clients aren’t big word
guys. A lot of ‘hundred percent,’ ‘this is for the fans,’ and ‘push through the
pain’… It gets tiresome. Shall we play?”
For hours, the demon and the dying woman talked
and played word games, sustained by milk and cookies like children on a
sleepover. Alan had a player’s advantage over June, with millennia of words in
his head. Yet, he cheated himself now and then to let her win. June knew he was
giving her the upper hand.
Alan played “QI” at every opportunity,
snatching high points from June, who raised eyebrows at his ability to place those
same two tiles together again and again for ridiculous values. “Qi,” June
pondered. “Do you even know what it means?”
“It’s Chinese,” Alan said, his eyes fixed on
the board. “Means ‘energy’ literally. But it’s more the life force running
through you like currents. The Force,” he said, looking up. “You know, surrounds
us, penetrates us, binds the galaxy together? Use Google, young padawan.”
“You speak Chinese?” June asked.
“Of course,” Alan replied. “Sports agent,
remember? Ever seen those Chinese basketball players? Giants! And people
trapped in repressive regimes are more than eager to make a deal.”
The edges of June’s mouth turned down.
“That’s cruel.”
“It’s my job, June,” Alan said without
hesitation. He shrugged and his wings squeaked against the slats on the chair
back. “If I didn’t do it, someone else would. I’m not in charge. I do what I’m
told.”
“Only following orders, right?”
“No,” Alan shook his head and fixed her with
a gaze that intensified the yellow of his eyes. “Humans have a choice. They have
free will. They can decide to be good or evil. Sometimes, they die for their
choice. Sometimes, they surrender to evil to save themselves and live another
day. Either way, it’s their choice.”
Alan pushed away the board and tiles bounced
across the table. He crossed his arms and glowered, the scent of burnt coal
rising from his shoulders. “I am outside those rules. All demons are. I have no
free will. I am beholden to fallen angels who, in turn, are beholden to God.”
“God?” June leaned in closer to the demon until
she felt his hot, rancid breath on her face. “You are beholden to God?”
“We are all God’s children, June. Even the
worst of the fallen are his creations. But most of us are not granted the
rights his most favored children have. You live, you die, you make your way in
the world according to your own design, for humans are beloved of God. You’re
your very own ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ book come to life.
“You have the right to have faith in God or believe
he is a fiction, or think God is a dog-headed dancing girl for all that
matters. He doesn’t care because he designed you to think for yourself. And he
relishes seeing what humans do with that freedom.”
“And you?” June asked. “Why can’t you live by
your own design?”
“I am merely a servant, June. A low thing. I
am immortal, tethered to the darkness and to my task to tempt and try the will
of men. I am bound to a list of names that never ends, and my path cannot
deviate.”
June leaned back and chewed her lip. “I think
that’s a cop-out, Alan. Have you ever tried to stand on your own two feet—“
“Hooves.”
“Fine, your own two hooves. Have you ever tried
to refuse an order? Divert from your assigned tasks?” The demon shook his head.
“Then how do you know you don’t have free will? Throw out the list! Take a day
off! It’s summer, Alan. Do something I’d love to do again—go to the beach and
just listen to the ocean. Take the sports agent so you don’t scare the
children. Get some baggy shorts and flip flops and coat yourself in sunscreen.
Have a hot dog. Dig your toes into the sand.”
“I live in Hell, June. Sunscreen isn’t an
issue.”
“Fine,” June said. “But go, take a break. Be
your own man. Or… whatever you really are.”
“They smite those who abandon their tasks,
June. They find you, and they strike you down with righteous wrath, and you are
gone forever. Or so I’ve been told.”
June stared deep into those feline eyes. “But
would you rather live forever as a slave, or die a free man? Freedom’s not
easy, of course. So many choices and so many mistakes to make.” She sipped her cooling
tea. “Ever see Little Big Man, Alan?”
“Of course,” the demon answered. “Dustin
Hoffman, Faye Dunaway, Chief Dan George… good movie.”
“Well, remember when the elderly man Old
Lodge Skins decides it’s time for him to shuffle off this mortal coil?” The
demon nodded. “He says, ‘Today is a good day to die.’ For me, Alan, after this
remarkable—and frankly bizarre—night, today is a good day to die.” She patted
his hand. “May you someday find a good day to die, too, Alan. Die a free man.”
The corners of Alan’s mouth pulled up into a
big grin that showed his rotted gums and threatened to crack the hide on his
cheeks. “You’re feisty, June. I like that.”
“I feel good, Alan,” June replied. “I feel
better than I have in weeks. Hell, better than in months. God, it’s good to
feel this way.”
Alan’s face fell. “You know what you’re doing
now, right, June?”
A tear rolled down the woman’s cheek. “I’m
rallying, aren’t I? They say some people rally just before the end, don’t they?
Dammit, I feel so good.”
The demon looked back down at the Scrabble
board, not wanting to see the growing wetness on her face. Seeing his
discomfort, June patted his forearm with her fingertips. Alan could feel the
fragile quality of her skin, abused, like all her body, by disease and the
courses of alien chemicals forced into her cells with no success.
June smiled and collected the tiles scattered
on the table. “Let’s just keep playing, Alan. Before I get tired again.”
So they played and talked some more in the
quiet of the night. She asked him about things he’d seen (and less about things
he’d done) in all the ages of man on earth. She sat breathless at his
eyewitness accounts of the great and the awful and the remarkable events that came
before. “Human history,” Alan said while pondering the board, “is a patchwork
of war and famine and filthy disease, all stitched together with improbable moments
of inspiration and invention that propel the world forward and keep everything
from falling apart.”
Alan fixed June with a piercing look from his
narrowed, yellow eyes, reached over, and tapped her chest. “That you—or any
human—are here today is a miracle, considering how many times you’ve brought
yourselves to the edge of destruction. The forward momentum of humanity never
fails to amaze me. Then again, your backward falls never surprise me, either.”
He bent his head down to the board. “Ah, there we go.” His claws brushed the
word LADYLIKE onto the board. “Triple word score. More tea?”
They spoke in Russian and French (“For every
one Russian or French tennis sensation,” Alan told his host, “there are dozens
of simply awful players, but they all want to be Martina or Bjorn Borg.”) They
pondered why so many girls were named April, May, and June, but so few
Februarys walked the earth. The demon shared secrets with June: what happened
to the Lost Colony of Roanoke, what’s really out in Area 51, the true location
of the island of Avalon. He knew she would not tell, nor did she have the time
left to share these whispers. No one would believe her anyway; they’d blame it
all on the drugs that sustained her in decline.
He told her how demons came to be, born of angels
and human women, whom the angels coveted from high above the earth. They called
the children Nephilim, and they were
once giants among men—champions and heroes—but fell from God’s grace through
hubris and violence. “In the great flood,” Alan explained, “While Noah counted
animals, most of us perished, but some were left to roam the earth, sentenced
to tempt man for seventy generations, until the great time of slaughter and
destruction. And that, dear June,” Alan paused to sip his tea, “is where we
find ourselves now. Won’t all the atheists have an ‘I’ll be damned!’ moment
when the Apocalypse finally comes? Oh—and for the record? Some of them will be damned… but, hey—they’ll have
plenty of believers for company, trust me. More cookies, please?”
Alan’s matter-of-fact pronouncement of the
coming end didn’t faze June. Que serĂ¡ serĂ¡, indeed, she thought. “I guess you get what
you earn, no?”
“That you do, June. That you do.”
“You’re not a hallucination, are you, Alan?”
“No, June. I’m very real.”
The dying woman sighed. “Alan, I’m tired.
Very, very tired. I think I want to go back to bed.”
“Alright, June. I’ll help you.” The demon
hopped down from his chair and extended one hand to the woman, curling his
claws under as to not cause her harm. June smiled and reached out to lean on
him. She did not mind the slime and waste. He did not mind her scars or
baldness or lack of breasts. The dying woman leaned on the demon as they
walked, and the demon purred at the warmth of the human body against his.
“Alan,” June whispered as she fell back into
her bed. “You know what you’ve done tonight?”
“Other than fail to recruit you to our ranks?
No, June. What have I done?”
“You’ve given me hope. If there are demons in
Hell, there must be angels in Heaven, right? An up for your down.”
“True,” Alan agreed. “There is a Heaven. And
despite my best efforts, I know the truth that you are bound for it.”
“That’s nice, Alan. I wasn’t sure before, you
know. I wanted to believe, but rational thought being what it is…”
“Free will, June. Keep thinking for yourself.
God admires that.” The demon pulled the stained quilt up over the woman and
smoothed the wrinkles with his awkward hands, making the awful smears even worse.
“June?”
“Yes, Alan?”
The creature dipped his head, almost
sheepishly. “May I come call on you again?”
“Now why would you want to do that, Alan?”
June asked, weary amusement in her voice. “I’m not changing my mind about your
job offer.”
“It’s just… it’s just that it’s pleasant to
spend time with you, June. You’ve been decent to me,” Alan said, sadness in his
tone. June could hear his sorrow, and her heart broke a little for the hideous
creature. She knew, just as well as he did, her time was done. And if it was
true—that there was an up for his down—June wouldn’t see the demon and his
triple word scores again. But Alan was right. It had been pleasant, and there
was no reason to ruin the moment with the bleak truth.
“Alright, Alan. You may come back to visit.”
“Thank you, June.”
“Alan?” June conjured all the cheer she
could. “If you’re coming back…”
“Yes, June?” Alan’s ears perked up.
“You’ve got to do something about your
farting. My god, it’s like a mustard gas attack.”
“Yes, June.” The demon giggled a little.
“And Alan?”
“Yes, June?”
“Be your own man. Or… whatever you are.” Yellow
eyes glowed, and June could see a jagged smile fading into the darkness. Weary, the dying woman closed her eyes.
“I’ll try, June.”
Tucked beneath the covers, June looked almost
translucent, and her breathing became shallow. Alan watched and listened to her
heart race and slow, race and slow. Gingerly, he climbed onto the foot of her
bed and curled up into a ball, his tail wrapped tight against his torso. The
demon stayed there, silent, listening, until he felt the first rays of sunlight
on his back and vanished into the brightening air.
In that space between what is seen and
unseen, the demon Alan paused on the stoop of June’s building. Even dressed in
the skin of the sports agent, he hunkered down, as if on goat legs. He was
merely a shadow passed without note or comment by the Salvadoran man delivering
papers to the apartments along the street. A slippered man pulled his jacket
tighter around his shoulders as he walked his dog past the building, but he had
no clue as to why there was a sudden chill in the air. The dog barked and
pulled toward the steps, but his master tugged him away with a shush.
Alan shook out his wings and nibbled on one
of the last Oreos he’d palmed from June’s kitchen. As he chewed, a bright beam
of light cut through the colorless sky and landed on the step above him.
“Hello, Amon.”
“Hello, Karl.
And it’s Alan now. You know that.” The demon spoke without looking at the
sharp-dressed man who had appeared over his shoulder at the end of that beam.
Tall and handsome in that generic basic cable actor sort of way, he had wings,
too, but they were broad and strong and matched the gleam of his ice cream
white linen suit.
“I’ll call you Alan if you stop calling me Karl,”
said the angel.
“Fine, Karael.”
“So… got yourself a girlfriend, huh, Alan?”
The angel smirked.
“It was just a recruiting call,” the demon
said defensively. “And besides, she didn’t seem to mind me being there.” He looked
up at the angel with sadness. “I think she liked me.”
“No one likes demons, Alan.”
“She did.”
“Go to Hell, Alan.”
“Very nice, Karl.”
“No, Alan. Really. Go to Hell. Sun’s rising. Shift
change. Punch. Out.”
Alan found angels smarmy, but, just as he
did, they served a purpose.
“Please,” he pleaded in a whisper, “Watch
over her. She’s going soon.”
“Yes, she is, demon.” Alan and the angel
looked at the figure who had appeared at the bottom of the steps.
“Death.” Both angel and demon bowed heads
toward the Grim Reaper, today dressed as a dour, obese woman in scrubs, a
hospice ID badge clipped to her shirt, and a rolling stand for a morphine drip
in one hand. “Work to be done here, boys. And why are you here, demon? She was never on your list.”
“Alan thinks he made a friend,” the angel mocked.
“No one likes demons, Alan,” Death sniffed
matter-of-factly. He turned to the angel. “And Karael, no one likes a smartass,
either. Very unbecoming for the heavenly host.” The smirk faded from the
angel’s face. “You have tasks, demon. Go about your business. You have none
here.”
“Yeah,” Karael said, waving a hand
dismissively. “Don’t you have some broken down Field of Dreams pitcher with a
bad rotator cuff and shattered hopes waiting for you?”
Christ, Alan thought, angels are assholes. He reached into his suit pocket and ran his
fingers across the page of parchment that never left his side, a list of
desperate names and crushed ambitions. The paper felt like a lead weight. It
always did.
But then, his fingers brushed against the
last Oreo he’d stolen from June’s kitchen. He pulled it out and started to pop
it into his mouth. Then he stopped and slowly turned the two cookie sides apart.
He studied the filling, and his face brightened.
Before his puzzled colleagues, Alan slowly licked
the cream side dry. “Yep. That I do.” He stood up and adjusted the sports
agent’s tie. “Not today, though. Know what I’m gonna do?” Alan pressed a
fingertip into Karael’s chest and tapped him. “I’m taking the day off! I’m gonna
ditch this suit, get some baggy shorts and a pair of flip flops and slather
myself in sunscreen. I’m going to the beach, Karael, and I’m gonna eat a hot
dog and watch some pretty girls. Dig my toes into the sand and listen to the
sea. Hell’s not going anywhere. Hell can go screw itself.” The demon cocked his
head and saluted Death and the angel.
“You don’t actually have toes, Alan,” Karael sneered
as the demon turned and walked away. “He doesn’t really have toes,” the angel
repeated to Death, who shrugged.
“HEY!” The angel yelled at Alan’s back with
the realization he wasn’t joking. “HEY! You can’t do that! They’ll smite you,
Alan!” The angel taunted the fading figure. “You abandon your post and they
will find you, and they will smite
you, demon!”
“Perhaps,” Alan said as he vanished into the
sunlight, a measure of June’s serenity on his face. “But I think it’s a good
day to die.”
3 comments:
BOM DIA E MUITO LEGAL...
I really enjoyed it! Funny and poignant. I am not a regular consumer of fiction, but I could see this story developed into an indie short film.
Thanks! I feel very rusty with fiction. I should post some of the more amusingly cruel rejection messages from various magazines. It's painful, but funny.
Post a Comment