Brigit's Flame, January, week #4
Title: The Day the Devil Uses Clichés To Regain His Self Esteem
Author: keppiehed
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, suicide
Word Count: 1993
Prompt: ledge
A/N: Written for week #4 at brigits_flame. Well, I didn't want to write this, but the Devil wouldn't leave me alone. I think I am the only one amused by him, but I can't help but write him anyway, even if he and I are the only ones who like him. Isn't that just how our characters hijack our heads?
“Sir? Sir!”
The Devil tried to ignore Smee and stay in the dream, but the visions of sugarplums were already fading. “Dammit, Smee. Why did you have to wake me this early? You know I like to sleep in on the weekend!”
Smee cleared his throat. “It's two o'clock, sir. On a Tuesday afternoon.”
The Devil frowned. “Well, I almost had a sugarplum that time. It was so close! Now I'll have a hankering all day.”
“Apologies, sir. I will see if I can import some for you. I believe there are some skilled bakers in the third level. The gluttons always have the best pastry,” Smee said.
“I don't want it now,” the Devil pouted. “They get all gummy in this heat and they're never as good as I remember from when I was a little dervish. You should have just let me sleep!”
“Quite, sir, but there is a situation that requires your immediate attention,” Smee said.
The Devil took a bite of croissant. “You're always such a bore, with your 'immediate attention' this and 'lord of the underworld' that,” he said, spraying crumbs.
“You are the lord of the underworld, sir,” Smee said, handing him a cup of espresso and wiping his chin. “If you'd be so kind as to allow me to debrief you?”
“Not before my shave, you can't. How can you expect me to focus before I've been properly barbered?” the Devil asked. “It's like you don't understand my needs anymore, Smee. And that hurts.”
Smee glanced at the dossier he was carrying. “Very good, sir. I'll fetch your kit. The archangel Gabriel can wait.”
“Gabriel?” The Devil sat up. “What does that punk have to do with the price of Charon's crossing?”
“He's filling in today as a Conscience.” Smee checked the record in his hand. “It's unscheduled, so there is no lesser demon there to play Temptation. Seeing as you've been a little, uh … without purpose lately, I rather thought you might relish a chance to challenge your old rival to a game of immortal souls.”
The Devil sniffed. “I'm not without purpose. You think I'm without purpose?”
“Oh, come, sir. I didn't mean it like that. Of course you're not. I only meant that you seem a little … distant, that's all. A little out-of-sorts.”
“Everyone gets burned out,” the Devil said. “Everyone has a right to want a holiday, Smee. I'm good at my job, don't you think? Why doesn't anyone cut me any slack? It isn't easy running Hell. I mean, the Furies are always so angry, you know? The last time I saw them they shrieked so loud I had a headache for the rest of the day. That would bring anyone down, it really would. And I've never understood the sixth level, to be honest with you. It's just kind of weird there. I mean, what's going on in that place? Gives me the creeps, really.”
Smee rubbed his back. “Let it all out, sir. You'll feel better.”
“And you know Gabriel and I just can't get along. He's just so … annoying. He's all 'blah blah, I was mentioned twice by name in the old testament. Were you? How many times does it say Lucifer?' Asshole. Look, I know I have my faults, but at least I'm not all smug and stuff, you know?” the Devil asked.
“I know, sir. You two have been at odds since Creation. Why don't you take your Prozac, there you go, and go steal a soul. You can do it, I know you can,” Smee said.
“Do you really think so?” the Devil asked. He hiccoughed.
“I know so,” Smee said. “Take your best trident and show Gabriel who's boss. You'll feel better in no time at all. You'll have your joy back when you boil the blood of the blasphemers, you see if you don't.”
The Devil jumped out of bed and exchanged his silk boxers with the hearts on them for the silk boxers with pink flamingos (they'd been a gift and they were lucky). He glued on his most sinister eyebrows and pulled on his reddest cape. After a quick horn-flossing, he presented himself for inspection, aware of what a fine figure of a devil he cut. “I'm ready, Smee.”
“I can see that, sir. I'll order a celebratory brisket to be prepared for your return,” Smee said.
“See that you do, Smee. See that you do.” The Devil disappeared in a dramatic puff of smoke.
Smee waited.
He puffed back in a moment. “Do you have the directions? I'm not sure where ...”
Smee handed the Devil a sheet of paper. “Here's the route Google Maps suggested, but I used a green highlighter to show this way since I know how you feel about toll roads.” Smee pointed to the paper.
“Thank you.” The Devil puffed away again. Very dramatically. And more importantly, accurately.
*
The Devil found himself, as was more often the case than one might suspect, on a narrow ledge too many stories above the street to bother counting. It was enough to know that the man-the Devil checked the cheat sheet that Smee had compiled and saw that the name was Bernard Beecher, although he forgot it as soon as he read it-would make a tremendous splat if he fell. The Devil took his usual place on Bernard's left shoulder, and despite a prick of annoyance at seeing Gabriel already settled in on the right, he was almost instantly bored. “Yo, Gabes, what's up?” he said by way of greeting.
“Lucifer.” Gabriel inclined his head. “Fancy meeting you here.”
The Devil sucked in his breath. Unbelievable. The little prick was starting with this shit already. “Why shouldn't I be? It's a test of Conscience and Temptation, isn't it? I see you're trying to sneak by the rules and influence without the proper balance in place. Smells like a cheat to me, Gabey baby. Like the view from my side of things or don't you think you have the stuff to win on your own?”
“Certainly not! I was merely in the area and I saw the plight of this hapless fellow. It's my Christian duty as the angel of the Lord to help a soul in need. I am the shepherd of lost souls, the one who guides wayward wretches. I am the light in the dark for those who despaireth.” Gabriel took a breath. “Hey, did you know that as an angel of the Lord, I've had my name mentioned twice in the old Testament? Quite an honor. Tell me, Lucifer, how many times have you had your name in the Good Book?”
A white-hot poker of irritation burst in the Devil's chest. “You know, Gabriel, you can take that horn of yours and blow it out your-”
“I'm going to jump!” Bernard yelled to no one in particular.
“Good, go ahead,” the Devil said. He stifled a yawn.
“No!” Gabriel shouted. “Bernard, my son, you have so much to live for. Think of your wife and child!”
Bernard paused.
The Devil flipped through his cards. Wife and child? Gabriel was such a show-off … ah, there. “You're in debt!” the Devil said with glee. “You're doing them a favor anyway.”
Bernard swayed.
“They can't collect on your policy if you destroy yourself. Your death will be fruitless and you will be damned,” Gabriel warned.
“You deserve to be damned,” the Devil whispered. “You belong in Hell. Don't think, just do it. You'd be a fool not to! Uh … you would if you loved me!” That one worked a surprising amount of the time, though usually under different circumstances.
Gabriel scowled. “Can't you get any new material?”
“Can't you?”
Gabriel reached up and polished his already spotless his halo. “Morality never goes out of style.”
“Ha!” the Devil laughed. “You're so full of shit your feathers are brown. He wants to jump. Let him. What do you care, Mr. High-and-Mighty? You just want a captive audience to gloat about how fantastic you are. How is that angelic behavior?”
“Oh yeah? You're just jealous you got kicked out. Everyone can see it. Even the Seraphim laugh at you. You run Hell like a second-rate fleabag motel.” Gabriel said.
That blow landed like a punch to the gut. The Devil ducked his head. He didn't want to admit that Gabriel had wounded him. “That's not true,” he said, wincing at the lameness of the comeback, but he couldn't seem to muster his customary bravado. Is it true?
“Even the archangel Raphael could do a better job than you,” Gabriel said. “And we all know how Raphael is.”
The Devil said nothing, but he did know how Raphael was, and that stung.
“Oh, God, I might as well just jump! I belong in Hell anyway! I'd be a fool not to! You would if you loved meeee ….” Bernard said. He stepped off the ledge and fell to his doom. A faint sound reminiscent of cracking eggs could be heard, and then some screaming started.
The Devil jerked up his head in disbelief.
“What?” Gabriel shouted. “What just happened?”
The Devil grinned. “You just got punked, that's what. Nice job shepherding lost souls and guiding wayward wretches and all that.”
“But … but ...”
The Devil gripped his trident with renewed confidence. “Always a pleasure, Gabe, but as you know, all good things must come to an end. If you'll excuse me, I have to go collect my soul now. He seems to be wandering around Fifth Avenue, and I know you'd agree that it would be cruel to let him think he has a chance to escape. Yup, I have a home waiting for him right on level six.”
Gabriel blinked. “Six? Isn't that for heretics? I thought the middle ring of the seventh level was reserved especially for suicides.”
The Devil waved his talon around. “I've been switching things up, Gabe. Restructuring. Don't want to get all stale. We're a swingin' bunch in Hell, don't you know? Who can say which mysterious level does what? Level six? Who knows what's all up in level six?”
“Well, the rings of Hell have always been pretty clearly defined-”
The Devil, sensing his imminent loss of awesomeness, interrupted with a clever bon mot. “Well, see you around.”
“Wait, you forgot something.” Gabriel pointed to the ground. “Your eyebrow, I presume?”
The Devil felt his face. The glue had loosened, and only one remained in place. He ripped it off and tried not to wince, but that glue really stung. “Eyebrow? I don't know what you mean. My facial hair is one hundred percent natural. Don't throw rocks at glass houses, or whatever it is you're always on about. See ya later, Gabey gator.” The Devil poofed down to street level to bag Bernard, pleased with his suave retreat.
Back in Hell, the smell of brisket was mouthwatering. “Welcome back, sir,” Smee said.
“Thanks, Smee. Here is a suicide for the middle ring of the seventh level. See that he's dispatched there immediately,” the Devil said, handing over Bernard.
“Sir?” Smee asked, trying not to look surprised and failing. “You … you know which level suicides are on?”
The Devil tucked his napkin into his collar and cut into his brisket. “Yeah. Of course. I know all about where stuff is in Hell. And I beat Gabriel, so it's all good.”
“I had no doubt, sir,” Smee said.
The Devil stopped chewing. “Is Hell like a second-rate fleabag motel, Smee?”
Smee kept pouring the wine without spilling a drop. “Purgatory is, sir. And parts of the first level, as per your orders. The rest couldn't be more horrible if you tried. Everything is just as it should be, sir.”
A warm feeling something like happiness bloomed in the Devil's midsection. He stifled a smile and preferred to chalk it up to Smee's excellent brisket.
In your face, Gabriel.
Author: keppiehed
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, suicide
Word Count: 1993
Prompt: ledge
A/N: Written for week #4 at brigits_flame. Well, I didn't want to write this, but the Devil wouldn't leave me alone. I think I am the only one amused by him, but I can't help but write him anyway, even if he and I are the only ones who like him. Isn't that just how our characters hijack our heads?
“Sir? Sir!”
The Devil tried to ignore Smee and stay in the dream, but the visions of sugarplums were already fading. “Dammit, Smee. Why did you have to wake me this early? You know I like to sleep in on the weekend!”
Smee cleared his throat. “It's two o'clock, sir. On a Tuesday afternoon.”
The Devil frowned. “Well, I almost had a sugarplum that time. It was so close! Now I'll have a hankering all day.”
“Apologies, sir. I will see if I can import some for you. I believe there are some skilled bakers in the third level. The gluttons always have the best pastry,” Smee said.
“I don't want it now,” the Devil pouted. “They get all gummy in this heat and they're never as good as I remember from when I was a little dervish. You should have just let me sleep!”
“Quite, sir, but there is a situation that requires your immediate attention,” Smee said.
The Devil took a bite of croissant. “You're always such a bore, with your 'immediate attention' this and 'lord of the underworld' that,” he said, spraying crumbs.
“You are the lord of the underworld, sir,” Smee said, handing him a cup of espresso and wiping his chin. “If you'd be so kind as to allow me to debrief you?”
“Not before my shave, you can't. How can you expect me to focus before I've been properly barbered?” the Devil asked. “It's like you don't understand my needs anymore, Smee. And that hurts.”
Smee glanced at the dossier he was carrying. “Very good, sir. I'll fetch your kit. The archangel Gabriel can wait.”
“Gabriel?” The Devil sat up. “What does that punk have to do with the price of Charon's crossing?”
“He's filling in today as a Conscience.” Smee checked the record in his hand. “It's unscheduled, so there is no lesser demon there to play Temptation. Seeing as you've been a little, uh … without purpose lately, I rather thought you might relish a chance to challenge your old rival to a game of immortal souls.”
The Devil sniffed. “I'm not without purpose. You think I'm without purpose?”
“Oh, come, sir. I didn't mean it like that. Of course you're not. I only meant that you seem a little … distant, that's all. A little out-of-sorts.”
“Everyone gets burned out,” the Devil said. “Everyone has a right to want a holiday, Smee. I'm good at my job, don't you think? Why doesn't anyone cut me any slack? It isn't easy running Hell. I mean, the Furies are always so angry, you know? The last time I saw them they shrieked so loud I had a headache for the rest of the day. That would bring anyone down, it really would. And I've never understood the sixth level, to be honest with you. It's just kind of weird there. I mean, what's going on in that place? Gives me the creeps, really.”
Smee rubbed his back. “Let it all out, sir. You'll feel better.”
“And you know Gabriel and I just can't get along. He's just so … annoying. He's all 'blah blah, I was mentioned twice by name in the old testament. Were you? How many times does it say Lucifer?' Asshole. Look, I know I have my faults, but at least I'm not all smug and stuff, you know?” the Devil asked.
“I know, sir. You two have been at odds since Creation. Why don't you take your Prozac, there you go, and go steal a soul. You can do it, I know you can,” Smee said.
“Do you really think so?” the Devil asked. He hiccoughed.
“I know so,” Smee said. “Take your best trident and show Gabriel who's boss. You'll feel better in no time at all. You'll have your joy back when you boil the blood of the blasphemers, you see if you don't.”
The Devil jumped out of bed and exchanged his silk boxers with the hearts on them for the silk boxers with pink flamingos (they'd been a gift and they were lucky). He glued on his most sinister eyebrows and pulled on his reddest cape. After a quick horn-flossing, he presented himself for inspection, aware of what a fine figure of a devil he cut. “I'm ready, Smee.”
“I can see that, sir. I'll order a celebratory brisket to be prepared for your return,” Smee said.
“See that you do, Smee. See that you do.” The Devil disappeared in a dramatic puff of smoke.
Smee waited.
He puffed back in a moment. “Do you have the directions? I'm not sure where ...”
Smee handed the Devil a sheet of paper. “Here's the route Google Maps suggested, but I used a green highlighter to show this way since I know how you feel about toll roads.” Smee pointed to the paper.
“Thank you.” The Devil puffed away again. Very dramatically. And more importantly, accurately.
*
The Devil found himself, as was more often the case than one might suspect, on a narrow ledge too many stories above the street to bother counting. It was enough to know that the man-the Devil checked the cheat sheet that Smee had compiled and saw that the name was Bernard Beecher, although he forgot it as soon as he read it-would make a tremendous splat if he fell. The Devil took his usual place on Bernard's left shoulder, and despite a prick of annoyance at seeing Gabriel already settled in on the right, he was almost instantly bored. “Yo, Gabes, what's up?” he said by way of greeting.
“Lucifer.” Gabriel inclined his head. “Fancy meeting you here.”
The Devil sucked in his breath. Unbelievable. The little prick was starting with this shit already. “Why shouldn't I be? It's a test of Conscience and Temptation, isn't it? I see you're trying to sneak by the rules and influence without the proper balance in place. Smells like a cheat to me, Gabey baby. Like the view from my side of things or don't you think you have the stuff to win on your own?”
“Certainly not! I was merely in the area and I saw the plight of this hapless fellow. It's my Christian duty as the angel of the Lord to help a soul in need. I am the shepherd of lost souls, the one who guides wayward wretches. I am the light in the dark for those who despaireth.” Gabriel took a breath. “Hey, did you know that as an angel of the Lord, I've had my name mentioned twice in the old Testament? Quite an honor. Tell me, Lucifer, how many times have you had your name in the Good Book?”
A white-hot poker of irritation burst in the Devil's chest. “You know, Gabriel, you can take that horn of yours and blow it out your-”
“I'm going to jump!” Bernard yelled to no one in particular.
“Good, go ahead,” the Devil said. He stifled a yawn.
“No!” Gabriel shouted. “Bernard, my son, you have so much to live for. Think of your wife and child!”
Bernard paused.
The Devil flipped through his cards. Wife and child? Gabriel was such a show-off … ah, there. “You're in debt!” the Devil said with glee. “You're doing them a favor anyway.”
Bernard swayed.
“They can't collect on your policy if you destroy yourself. Your death will be fruitless and you will be damned,” Gabriel warned.
“You deserve to be damned,” the Devil whispered. “You belong in Hell. Don't think, just do it. You'd be a fool not to! Uh … you would if you loved me!” That one worked a surprising amount of the time, though usually under different circumstances.
Gabriel scowled. “Can't you get any new material?”
“Can't you?”
Gabriel reached up and polished his already spotless his halo. “Morality never goes out of style.”
“Ha!” the Devil laughed. “You're so full of shit your feathers are brown. He wants to jump. Let him. What do you care, Mr. High-and-Mighty? You just want a captive audience to gloat about how fantastic you are. How is that angelic behavior?”
“Oh yeah? You're just jealous you got kicked out. Everyone can see it. Even the Seraphim laugh at you. You run Hell like a second-rate fleabag motel.” Gabriel said.
That blow landed like a punch to the gut. The Devil ducked his head. He didn't want to admit that Gabriel had wounded him. “That's not true,” he said, wincing at the lameness of the comeback, but he couldn't seem to muster his customary bravado. Is it true?
“Even the archangel Raphael could do a better job than you,” Gabriel said. “And we all know how Raphael is.”
The Devil said nothing, but he did know how Raphael was, and that stung.
“Oh, God, I might as well just jump! I belong in Hell anyway! I'd be a fool not to! You would if you loved meeee ….” Bernard said. He stepped off the ledge and fell to his doom. A faint sound reminiscent of cracking eggs could be heard, and then some screaming started.
The Devil jerked up his head in disbelief.
“What?” Gabriel shouted. “What just happened?”
The Devil grinned. “You just got punked, that's what. Nice job shepherding lost souls and guiding wayward wretches and all that.”
“But … but ...”
The Devil gripped his trident with renewed confidence. “Always a pleasure, Gabe, but as you know, all good things must come to an end. If you'll excuse me, I have to go collect my soul now. He seems to be wandering around Fifth Avenue, and I know you'd agree that it would be cruel to let him think he has a chance to escape. Yup, I have a home waiting for him right on level six.”
Gabriel blinked. “Six? Isn't that for heretics? I thought the middle ring of the seventh level was reserved especially for suicides.”
The Devil waved his talon around. “I've been switching things up, Gabe. Restructuring. Don't want to get all stale. We're a swingin' bunch in Hell, don't you know? Who can say which mysterious level does what? Level six? Who knows what's all up in level six?”
“Well, the rings of Hell have always been pretty clearly defined-”
The Devil, sensing his imminent loss of awesomeness, interrupted with a clever bon mot. “Well, see you around.”
“Wait, you forgot something.” Gabriel pointed to the ground. “Your eyebrow, I presume?”
The Devil felt his face. The glue had loosened, and only one remained in place. He ripped it off and tried not to wince, but that glue really stung. “Eyebrow? I don't know what you mean. My facial hair is one hundred percent natural. Don't throw rocks at glass houses, or whatever it is you're always on about. See ya later, Gabey gator.” The Devil poofed down to street level to bag Bernard, pleased with his suave retreat.
Back in Hell, the smell of brisket was mouthwatering. “Welcome back, sir,” Smee said.
“Thanks, Smee. Here is a suicide for the middle ring of the seventh level. See that he's dispatched there immediately,” the Devil said, handing over Bernard.
“Sir?” Smee asked, trying not to look surprised and failing. “You … you know which level suicides are on?”
The Devil tucked his napkin into his collar and cut into his brisket. “Yeah. Of course. I know all about where stuff is in Hell. And I beat Gabriel, so it's all good.”
“I had no doubt, sir,” Smee said.
The Devil stopped chewing. “Is Hell like a second-rate fleabag motel, Smee?”
Smee kept pouring the wine without spilling a drop. “Purgatory is, sir. And parts of the first level, as per your orders. The rest couldn't be more horrible if you tried. Everything is just as it should be, sir.”
A warm feeling something like happiness bloomed in the Devil's midsection. He stifled a smile and preferred to chalk it up to Smee's excellent brisket.
In your face, Gabriel.