Brigit's Flame, November, week #3
Title: The Day the Devil Gets the Blues
Author: keppiehed
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1666 (how about that?)
Prompt: “Shell”
A/N: Written for week #3 at brigits_flame. There is a story behind this one. lacombe was kind enough to tell me about a dream he'd had, and he gave me permission to use the idea in a forthcoming contest. I couldn't believe my good luck, because as I often complain to you guys, my problem comes with finding ideas for stories, and here he'd given me a gold mine. The idea was of the devil visiting him while he slept to make a Faustian bargain that stood when he woke and hence cheated him out of his soul. He told me it was chilling, and he wanted nothing to do with the writing of such a story, though I was welcome to it. I felt a little guilty for taking a fully formed story idea, but it was too good to be true! Although as I sat down to write this week, that old devil wouldn't be still. I've written about the devil before and I'm ever so fond of him; I just seem to have a special soft place in my heart for the character. Anyway, this story turned out to be NOTHING like what lacombe detailed in essence, it contains just the elements, but I'm afraid the devil wanted to have some fun this turn around the page. Jacques, I hope you like the finished product, and I hope a laugh or two chases off those nightmares. Thank you so much for letting me borrow your muse this week. I enjoyed this challenge immensely!
It was three pm on a Wednesday when the Devil noticed something: He was bored.
It had taken him some time to come to this realization. The last time he'd suffered ennui had been … well, he couldn't rightly remember. It certainly didn't happen very often, as Hell was a busy place and it kept him occupied most of the time. When he wasn't meting out punishments or overseeing the torture of the Damned, he was wreaking havoc on Earth. That was a full schedule, the Devil found. In his spare time he was an avid stamp collector, so he wasn't used to feeing bored and that made him cranky.
“Smee!” he bellowed, already irritated that his second-in-command hadn't anticipated this unwelcome occurrence. When Smee didn't so much as bat an eyelash at the summons, the Devil picked up his trident-he'd taken to carrying it in the last few decades after seeing images of himself emblazoned on tins of canned ham spread (he had to admit it gave him a certain panache)-and poked the man standing to his immediate right.
“Ow!” the man shouted, rubbing his arm. “What did you do that for, sir?”
'Well, I'm the prince of darkness, for one thing. Also, you didn't answer when I called for you.” The Devil gave him another poke for good measure. It was more satisfying to poke people than he would have thought. He considered it a major perk of the job.
“Ow! But my name's Hank. Hank Weaver. I've been assisting you for nigh on three decades now.” Hank continued to rub his arm, which had begun to bleed.
“That's not important. You're Smee now. So, Smee, I was reading this book from my Amazon wish list, and the Captain is this dashing fellow who has a sidekick with that very name.” The Devil held up a copy of the book in question. “Fascinating story! It should be a classic.”
Smee blinked. “It is, Capt-er, sir. How did you find out about Amazon?”
The Devil waved a talon. “Come on. It isn't the dark ages anymore. Do you know they have two-day shipping? Even to the ninth level of Hell? And for free, if you're a member. Delightful!”
Smee sighed. “I cannot believe that you qualified for credit. At any rate, I believe there is a man by the name of Jonesy currently residing in … let me see. The sixth level, if memory serves. Jonesy is also a popular name for a servant, and the flaming sepulchers have reduced him to a shell of his former existence, which renders him an ideal candidate for servitude for your lordship! I could retrieve him … ?”
“No. I want a Smee, and that's final. Now to the matter at hand: I'm bored. What are you going to do about it?” the Devil asked, politely ignoring the fact that Smee was bleeding all over his best Persian rug. He might be Lucifer, but he wasn't a pig. He knew a good rug when he saw one. Smee had better hope that blood didn't stain.
Smee tore open a Band-Aid with his teeth. Due to it being the ninth ring of Hell, it was a My Little Pony one, but Smee was used to such indignities and he applied it with stoicism. “Stamps lost their appeal?”
“I can't get a Blue Mauritius no matter how hard I look!” pouted the Devil.
Smee nodded in sympathy, having heard the complaint many times before. “You just need a break from it, sir. You'll be back to hunting for the Blue Queen in no time, you mark my words.”
The Devil crossed his arms in a huff and didn't answer.
Smee scratched his head. “Have you taken a tour of the fourth ring, lord? Seeing the lusty sinners always cheers you up.”
“I'm not in the mood,” the Devil said. “And before you ask, I've already been down the River Styx. It stinks there, did you know that?”
Smee avoided the question. “You could always wave a red flag in front of the minotaur or use the harpies for target practice on the seventh level. You haven't done that for some time.”
“Don't you understand, Smee? I'm dying here. Of boredom. How are people supposed to live here without being depressed if there's nothing to do?” The Devil didn't want to whine, but he would if it came to that. This was serious.
“All right.” Smee snapped his fingers. “I know! What about a good old-fashioned soul-stealing contest? You haven't been up to the living world in ages! I never know you to be in a better mood than when you make a bargain with a mortal. That's the stuff, sir. I guarantee it.”
“Maybe,” the Devil said, considering. “But it hasn't gone well the last few times. The humans have caught wise to me. Remember Bearskin?”
“Bad luck,” Smee said.
“What about Daniel Webster? That wasn't luck,” the Devil said.
“That wasn't fair. I still say that trial was stacked against you,” Smee said, shaking his head.
“How about that Johnny fellow in Georgia? He won a gold fiddle from me, the little punk!” the Devil said. “I've always prided myself on my mad fiddle skillz, too. That one stung, Smee. It really stung.”
“Now, now. It's just like you to remember the ones that went wrong when all the rest went right. Let's focus on the positive, okay?” Smee said.
“Okay.”
“Good!” Smee clapped his hands to clear the air a bit. “Who's the king of the underworld?”
“I am.”
“That's not the Devil I know. Say it like you mean it. Who's the king of the underworld?”
“I am!” the Devil shouted. He swung the trident around and beheaded a hapless soul in a font of blood. It restored his spirits a bit, but no amount of viscera could make him ready to face sure defeat. “But I need a plan. It's true these mortals today are savvy, Smee. Did I tell you they have Amazon wish lists?” He held up his book as a reminder.
“You may have mentioned it.” Smee raked his hand through his hair. He was beginning to suspect that the Devil had ADHD.
“Well, I'm just letting you know because my birthday is right around the corner. And it's free shipping and all-”
“Right. Anyway, I was thinking that you should approach this from a new angle. You should catch people unawares,” Smee said, trying to get the discussion back on track.
“It's like you're in my mind, Smee! So, I need an alias,” the Devil said as he twirled his moustache (of which he was inordinately proud). “The old ones won't do.”
“Huh?” Smee asked, looking a bit confused.
The Devil began to pace as his idea took shape. “I mean, people already know me by 'Mephistopheles' and 'Beelzebub' and I've never liked 'Old Scratch'. It just sounds so ...”
“Old?” Smee supplied helpfully.
The Devil frowned. “Yes. And age is, as we know, just a number. I've never felt better! You know who looks old? Gabriel. Gabriel looks old, that's who.”
Smee blinked. “The arch-angel? When did you see him?”
The Devil sniffed and dug a hoof into the ground. “Oh, I don't know. Word gets around, though. I heard his feathers are receding. Ha!”
Smee forced a chuckle.
“So I was thinking that I could go by 'the Seton.' What do you think?” The Devil puffed his chest out.
“Yes. That's fine. Now, for the actual plan-”
“You see, it's kind of like 'Satan' but with a little more formality to it. Do you like it? I had a dream about it. My dreams have been so weird lately,” the Devil said. “Do you ever have that thing where you think you're falling and then you jerk your leg and wake yourself up?”
“Yes,” Smee said. “Now, for the plan. Can you focus for a minute, lord?”
“What were we talking about? Souls, that's right. Go on,” the Devil said. “I'm listening now.” In truth, he was thinking that he was kind of hungry and a burger with fries sounded excellent. He wondered if Smee's plan involved a White Castle.
Smee closed his eyes for a moment as if wrestling with his patience, then he began. “When you mentioned dreams, it made me wonder if you could appear to someone while they slept. A person is still themselves in their subconscious, right, just more suggestible? Maybe you could make a deal with them in their dreams. A bargain made while sleeping would still hold true upon waking. It's genius!”
The Devil tapped his talons together. “Very interesting.”
Smee waited.
The Devil waited.
Smee waited.
“Don't you get it? I was doing Freud!” The Devil laughed. “Because Freud and dreams go together.”
“Oh.” Smee, to his credit, didn't comment further.
“I guess I need to work on my German accent. It's kind of hard to do with these fangs, you know. Let me try again. Verrrry interestink. There. How was that?” the Devil asked.
Smee breathed audibly. “I totally got it that time. But what about the plan?”
“Oh, it's good. I'm sure it will work perfectly. The main thing here is that I'm not bored any more.” The Devil reached forward and poked Smee through the Band-Aid.
“Ow! If you're happy, then what was that for?” Smee asked.
“Prince of darkness here, duh. And for not thinking of a plan involving curly fries.”
As Hank/Smee wondered what he did in life to deserve assignment as the Seton's right-hand man, the Devil just smiled and thought of (in no particular order) the nature of pixie dust, burgers and fries, the solubility of bloodstains, the definition of the word soluble (he suspected it wasn't what he thought it was but Smee was insufferably superior sometimes and he wasn't about to ask) and of kittens, because he'd kind of been wanting a pet.
He wouldn't be bored again for a very long time.
Author: keppiehed
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Word Count: 1666 (how about that?)
Prompt: “Shell”
A/N: Written for week #3 at brigits_flame. There is a story behind this one. lacombe was kind enough to tell me about a dream he'd had, and he gave me permission to use the idea in a forthcoming contest. I couldn't believe my good luck, because as I often complain to you guys, my problem comes with finding ideas for stories, and here he'd given me a gold mine. The idea was of the devil visiting him while he slept to make a Faustian bargain that stood when he woke and hence cheated him out of his soul. He told me it was chilling, and he wanted nothing to do with the writing of such a story, though I was welcome to it. I felt a little guilty for taking a fully formed story idea, but it was too good to be true! Although as I sat down to write this week, that old devil wouldn't be still. I've written about the devil before and I'm ever so fond of him; I just seem to have a special soft place in my heart for the character. Anyway, this story turned out to be NOTHING like what lacombe detailed in essence, it contains just the elements, but I'm afraid the devil wanted to have some fun this turn around the page. Jacques, I hope you like the finished product, and I hope a laugh or two chases off those nightmares. Thank you so much for letting me borrow your muse this week. I enjoyed this challenge immensely!
It was three pm on a Wednesday when the Devil noticed something: He was bored.
It had taken him some time to come to this realization. The last time he'd suffered ennui had been … well, he couldn't rightly remember. It certainly didn't happen very often, as Hell was a busy place and it kept him occupied most of the time. When he wasn't meting out punishments or overseeing the torture of the Damned, he was wreaking havoc on Earth. That was a full schedule, the Devil found. In his spare time he was an avid stamp collector, so he wasn't used to feeing bored and that made him cranky.
“Smee!” he bellowed, already irritated that his second-in-command hadn't anticipated this unwelcome occurrence. When Smee didn't so much as bat an eyelash at the summons, the Devil picked up his trident-he'd taken to carrying it in the last few decades after seeing images of himself emblazoned on tins of canned ham spread (he had to admit it gave him a certain panache)-and poked the man standing to his immediate right.
“Ow!” the man shouted, rubbing his arm. “What did you do that for, sir?”
'Well, I'm the prince of darkness, for one thing. Also, you didn't answer when I called for you.” The Devil gave him another poke for good measure. It was more satisfying to poke people than he would have thought. He considered it a major perk of the job.
“Ow! But my name's Hank. Hank Weaver. I've been assisting you for nigh on three decades now.” Hank continued to rub his arm, which had begun to bleed.
“That's not important. You're Smee now. So, Smee, I was reading this book from my Amazon wish list, and the Captain is this dashing fellow who has a sidekick with that very name.” The Devil held up a copy of the book in question. “Fascinating story! It should be a classic.”
Smee blinked. “It is, Capt-er, sir. How did you find out about Amazon?”
The Devil waved a talon. “Come on. It isn't the dark ages anymore. Do you know they have two-day shipping? Even to the ninth level of Hell? And for free, if you're a member. Delightful!”
Smee sighed. “I cannot believe that you qualified for credit. At any rate, I believe there is a man by the name of Jonesy currently residing in … let me see. The sixth level, if memory serves. Jonesy is also a popular name for a servant, and the flaming sepulchers have reduced him to a shell of his former existence, which renders him an ideal candidate for servitude for your lordship! I could retrieve him … ?”
“No. I want a Smee, and that's final. Now to the matter at hand: I'm bored. What are you going to do about it?” the Devil asked, politely ignoring the fact that Smee was bleeding all over his best Persian rug. He might be Lucifer, but he wasn't a pig. He knew a good rug when he saw one. Smee had better hope that blood didn't stain.
Smee tore open a Band-Aid with his teeth. Due to it being the ninth ring of Hell, it was a My Little Pony one, but Smee was used to such indignities and he applied it with stoicism. “Stamps lost their appeal?”
“I can't get a Blue Mauritius no matter how hard I look!” pouted the Devil.
Smee nodded in sympathy, having heard the complaint many times before. “You just need a break from it, sir. You'll be back to hunting for the Blue Queen in no time, you mark my words.”
The Devil crossed his arms in a huff and didn't answer.
Smee scratched his head. “Have you taken a tour of the fourth ring, lord? Seeing the lusty sinners always cheers you up.”
“I'm not in the mood,” the Devil said. “And before you ask, I've already been down the River Styx. It stinks there, did you know that?”
Smee avoided the question. “You could always wave a red flag in front of the minotaur or use the harpies for target practice on the seventh level. You haven't done that for some time.”
“Don't you understand, Smee? I'm dying here. Of boredom. How are people supposed to live here without being depressed if there's nothing to do?” The Devil didn't want to whine, but he would if it came to that. This was serious.
“All right.” Smee snapped his fingers. “I know! What about a good old-fashioned soul-stealing contest? You haven't been up to the living world in ages! I never know you to be in a better mood than when you make a bargain with a mortal. That's the stuff, sir. I guarantee it.”
“Maybe,” the Devil said, considering. “But it hasn't gone well the last few times. The humans have caught wise to me. Remember Bearskin?”
“Bad luck,” Smee said.
“What about Daniel Webster? That wasn't luck,” the Devil said.
“That wasn't fair. I still say that trial was stacked against you,” Smee said, shaking his head.
“How about that Johnny fellow in Georgia? He won a gold fiddle from me, the little punk!” the Devil said. “I've always prided myself on my mad fiddle skillz, too. That one stung, Smee. It really stung.”
“Now, now. It's just like you to remember the ones that went wrong when all the rest went right. Let's focus on the positive, okay?” Smee said.
“Okay.”
“Good!” Smee clapped his hands to clear the air a bit. “Who's the king of the underworld?”
“I am.”
“That's not the Devil I know. Say it like you mean it. Who's the king of the underworld?”
“I am!” the Devil shouted. He swung the trident around and beheaded a hapless soul in a font of blood. It restored his spirits a bit, but no amount of viscera could make him ready to face sure defeat. “But I need a plan. It's true these mortals today are savvy, Smee. Did I tell you they have Amazon wish lists?” He held up his book as a reminder.
“You may have mentioned it.” Smee raked his hand through his hair. He was beginning to suspect that the Devil had ADHD.
“Well, I'm just letting you know because my birthday is right around the corner. And it's free shipping and all-”
“Right. Anyway, I was thinking that you should approach this from a new angle. You should catch people unawares,” Smee said, trying to get the discussion back on track.
“It's like you're in my mind, Smee! So, I need an alias,” the Devil said as he twirled his moustache (of which he was inordinately proud). “The old ones won't do.”
“Huh?” Smee asked, looking a bit confused.
The Devil began to pace as his idea took shape. “I mean, people already know me by 'Mephistopheles' and 'Beelzebub' and I've never liked 'Old Scratch'. It just sounds so ...”
“Old?” Smee supplied helpfully.
The Devil frowned. “Yes. And age is, as we know, just a number. I've never felt better! You know who looks old? Gabriel. Gabriel looks old, that's who.”
Smee blinked. “The arch-angel? When did you see him?”
The Devil sniffed and dug a hoof into the ground. “Oh, I don't know. Word gets around, though. I heard his feathers are receding. Ha!”
Smee forced a chuckle.
“So I was thinking that I could go by 'the Seton.' What do you think?” The Devil puffed his chest out.
“Yes. That's fine. Now, for the actual plan-”
“You see, it's kind of like 'Satan' but with a little more formality to it. Do you like it? I had a dream about it. My dreams have been so weird lately,” the Devil said. “Do you ever have that thing where you think you're falling and then you jerk your leg and wake yourself up?”
“Yes,” Smee said. “Now, for the plan. Can you focus for a minute, lord?”
“What were we talking about? Souls, that's right. Go on,” the Devil said. “I'm listening now.” In truth, he was thinking that he was kind of hungry and a burger with fries sounded excellent. He wondered if Smee's plan involved a White Castle.
Smee closed his eyes for a moment as if wrestling with his patience, then he began. “When you mentioned dreams, it made me wonder if you could appear to someone while they slept. A person is still themselves in their subconscious, right, just more suggestible? Maybe you could make a deal with them in their dreams. A bargain made while sleeping would still hold true upon waking. It's genius!”
The Devil tapped his talons together. “Very interesting.”
Smee waited.
The Devil waited.
Smee waited.
“Don't you get it? I was doing Freud!” The Devil laughed. “Because Freud and dreams go together.”
“Oh.” Smee, to his credit, didn't comment further.
“I guess I need to work on my German accent. It's kind of hard to do with these fangs, you know. Let me try again. Verrrry interestink. There. How was that?” the Devil asked.
Smee breathed audibly. “I totally got it that time. But what about the plan?”
“Oh, it's good. I'm sure it will work perfectly. The main thing here is that I'm not bored any more.” The Devil reached forward and poked Smee through the Band-Aid.
“Ow! If you're happy, then what was that for?” Smee asked.
“Prince of darkness here, duh. And for not thinking of a plan involving curly fries.”
As Hank/Smee wondered what he did in life to deserve assignment as the Seton's right-hand man, the Devil just smiled and thought of (in no particular order) the nature of pixie dust, burgers and fries, the solubility of bloodstains, the definition of the word soluble (he suspected it wasn't what he thought it was but Smee was insufferably superior sometimes and he wasn't about to ask) and of kittens, because he'd kind of been wanting a pet.
He wouldn't be bored again for a very long time.