Brigit's Flame, February, week #3
Title: The Day the Devil Has a Birthday
Author: keppiehed
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 1740
Prompt: “Dove”
A/N: Written for week #3 at brigits_flame. Another installment in the ongoing adventures of the Devil and his sidekick, Smee.
The Devil knew what day it was before he was fully awake. “Smee!” he called, tossing aside his eye pillow. “Smee, do you know what today is?”
Smee entered the Devil's bedchamber, balancing a breakfast try in one hand and The New York Times in the other. The Devil liked to stay informed. He sneaked a surreptitious peek at the front page; time tended to blend together in the Hell, and one day ran into the next. “Good morning, sir. I believe it's Friday?”
The Devil sat up, crinkling the silk sheets. “Friday, yes. But what else?”
Smee settled the tray in his master's lap and tucked the linen napkin into his pajama top. “The first day of the lunar cycle.”
“Yes, but it's something else today. Something special,” the Devil hinted.
Smee pursed his lips. “Of course! It nearly slipped my mind! It's International Bicarbonate of Soda Day.”
The Devil pouted. He hoped Smee noticed, as it wasn't an easy expression to master, what with his fangs and all. “No. Something even better than that.”
Smee thought a moment. “There's cotton between my ears this morning, and make no mistake! I've forgotten that in Fiji they celebrate Violin Day today. And what's more, it's Take it in the Ear Day for the whole of Eastern Europe. Sometimes I think I'd forget my own head if it wasn't attached!”
“There's another thing that's going on. Something more important than all of those,” the Devil said around a too-big bite of kippers.
Smee shook his head. “I don't think so. We already celebrated Bathtub Party Day, and Put on your Own Shoes Day isn't until next moth. So that's everything.”
The Devil was going to throw down his fork to signal his distress, but the apple strudel was particularly delicious this morning, so he elected to stay silent in protest and eat.
“May I inquire as to your agenda today, sir?” Smee asked as he cleared away the dishes.
The Devil crossed his arms. “Nothing, I guess. Just lay around here. Since it's a regular day and no one cares about me.”
“Now, now, sir. It's not like you to be a slug-a-bed! We have a full schedule, you know. Cerberus is due to visit the vet for that growth on his middle head, and you've been informed about the ongoing problem with the river Phlegethon,” Smee said.
The Devil frowned. “What problem? I don't remember anyone mentioning a problem with the river. How am I supposed to run Hell if no one tells me these things?”
Smee pulled out his ever-present notebook and donned his reading glasses. “It says here that you were told three times last month, and every week since, that the blood in Phlegethon has been congealing. In fact, you signed a receipt last Wednesday agreeing to have a plumber come today to look at it. I can tell it's your signature because you dotted the “i” with a smiley face, as per usual.”
The kippers from breakfast threatened to disgorge themselves from the Devil's stomach. Talk of blood had always made him queasy. “Fine, fine. Whatever. I hope you didn't secure that McCheevy fellow, though-it's highway robbery what he charges to unblock a simple drain. I won't pay it, I tell you. I won't!”
Smee sighed. “It isn't easy to find a plumber to come all the way down to the seventh level, you know. The rest will only go so far as the third. There seems to be a surcharge for that sulfur smell. It clings to everything. We get a lot of complaints.”
“I don't care.”
Smee made a notation. “Fine. I'll see what can be done. Will you be there to oversee Cerberus' surgery, then?”
The Devil shivered. A dog with three heads just wasn't natural, and frankly, it gave him the heebie-jeebies. “I'll take the hellhounds next time they need their parvo shots,” he promised. “I just thought of something really important that I have to do. A very important meeting. Real top-level sort of thing. In … Paris. It involves spies and gadgets and gambling and then I might have to blow up that jungle-gym place they're famous for, the funny looking one?”
“The Eiffel Tower?” Smee had the trained grace not to look skeptical.
“Yeah, that's the one.” The Devil figured he'd better quit talking before Smee realized he'd been mostly cribbing plot from the last James Bond movie he'd seen. “So, yeah, it's pretty important stuff I have to do. I should be back in time for any parties, though. Or surprises. Say, around three?”
“Very good, sir,” Smee said. “We shall see you at three.”
*
The joke was on Smee, the Devil thought as he wandered around the streets of Paris, because he really didn't have anything to do at all. He just didn't want to get stuck with that creepy mutt or overseeing the bloody mess on level seven. All that spy talk made him sound pretty cool, but now he had to find something to do. He reached over to a table at a sidewalk bistro and loosened the cap on the salt-shaker as he passed, but the orchestration of minor chaos didn't cheer him. He briefly flirted with the idea of persuading a teen into a prank involving the Mona Lisa and an ink moustache, but when even the thought of art vandalism couldn't lift his spirits, he knew he had a problem. Everyone had forgotten his birthday, and it kind of hurt his feelings. The Devil sighed. He'd have to console himself with bumming around the City of Lights, stuffing his face with croissants and petit fours. Maybe he'd sit in on Christian Dior's haute couture show; it was Fashion Week after all, and he had time to kill. The Devil tried not to slouch as he made his way to Palais de Tokyo, 13 avenue du Président Wilson.
*
As good seeing models in skimpy clothing had been, the Devil was glad to get home. He puffed back to the ninth ring five minutes after three and paused outside his throne room. He cleared his throat and shuffled his hooves, then made a big show of opening the door.
“Surprise! Happy birthday!”
“What?” the Devil blinked. The whole room was filled with the best sinners from all the levels. Steamers hung from every surface, and confetti rained down. “Is this for me?”
Smee stepped forward and handed him a glass of champagne. “Oh course, sir. You didn't think we'd have forgotten the most important day of the year, do you? Manny happy returns.”
The Devil beamed. “I'm so shocked! How did you know I wanted a mariachi band?”
“A good guess, sir." Smee wisely didn't mention that they'd discussed a “theoretical” surprise party and all the required details for every day of the last six weeks and the punishment for people who didn't get it all to specifications.
“And there's even a magician!” the Devil clapped as the man pulled a dove out of his top hat. “Brilliant!”
“If I may, sir? There are presents.” Smee held his hand out to indicate a buffet table groaning under the weight of wrapped gifts. “Before you get started, I'm to tell you that Beethoven sends his regards. He caught a chest cold from one of the Furies and is stuck on level six. He did, however, complete a tenth symphony just for you and he says he'll conduct it for you next week, after your game of cricket.”
The Devil jumped up and down. “Wonderful. Now, I'll start with that one!” He reached for a shiny green package. “Oooh! Moustache wax from Hommage. Fancy!”
After several hours of gift-unwrapping, the Devil sat surrounded by the finest trinkets Hell's denizens could offer: a golden pitchfork, horn polish, a new Lamborghini … it was everything he could have wished for. As the Devil finished his last slice of cake and the guests wandered back to their tortures, he couldn't explain feeling somewhat disappointed.
“Well, sir, that was a soirée worthy of the Prince of Darkness,” Smee said as he examined the remains of a broken piñata.
“Yeah.”
“Did you get everything you wanted?” Smee asked.
“I guess. I'm kind of tired of presents, though.”
Smee nodded. “I see. Well, I have yet to give you my gift. I can wait until next year, of course.”
The Devil perked up. “Well, not too tired. What is it?”
Smee held out a plain brown package. “Open it and see for yourself.”
The Devil shook it, but it didn't make noise. He used a talon to tear through the paper, and what he saw inside made him blink in disbelief. For the first time all day-for the first time in a long time-he felt an emotion stirring inside his chest. A battered, furry face with button eyes stared up at him from the box. “Teddy?” he asked, hardly daring to touch the toy. “Smee, is this what I think it is? Is this my old teddy?”
Smee cleared his throat. “It's as close as I could find. I hope you like it.”
The Devil lifted the bear and cuddled it. The soft fur reminded him of home and of his mom. “Oh, thank you, Smee. This is the best birthday present anyone has ever given me. I loved my teddy so much. How did you know? Really?”
“Well, who doesn't love their first teddy?” Smee asked. “It's good to remember where you came from, especially on your birthday. Now, you've had a long day. Off to bed with you, or you'll be cranky tomorrow, if you don't mind my saying.”
The Devil nodded. “It was a long day. I had to go to Paris, and you know how hard it is there. There are all those martinis to be drunk with style, and all that art theft waiting to be foiled and Aston Martins to be driven. Oh, and that thing with the Eiffel Tower. Yes, it was quite a day.”
“I know, sir.” Smee was waiting, having already turned down the sheets. “And you're sure to have many more just like it. So off to sleep with you.”
The Devil yawned and cuddled his teddy. All was right with the world. Just before he fell asleep, he remembered something. “Thank you, Smee.”
He was already snoring before Smee could smile and say, “You're most welcome, sir. Most welcome.”
Author: keppiehed
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 1740
Prompt: “Dove”
A/N: Written for week #3 at brigits_flame. Another installment in the ongoing adventures of the Devil and his sidekick, Smee.
The Devil knew what day it was before he was fully awake. “Smee!” he called, tossing aside his eye pillow. “Smee, do you know what today is?”
Smee entered the Devil's bedchamber, balancing a breakfast try in one hand and The New York Times in the other. The Devil liked to stay informed. He sneaked a surreptitious peek at the front page; time tended to blend together in the Hell, and one day ran into the next. “Good morning, sir. I believe it's Friday?”
The Devil sat up, crinkling the silk sheets. “Friday, yes. But what else?”
Smee settled the tray in his master's lap and tucked the linen napkin into his pajama top. “The first day of the lunar cycle.”
“Yes, but it's something else today. Something special,” the Devil hinted.
Smee pursed his lips. “Of course! It nearly slipped my mind! It's International Bicarbonate of Soda Day.”
The Devil pouted. He hoped Smee noticed, as it wasn't an easy expression to master, what with his fangs and all. “No. Something even better than that.”
Smee thought a moment. “There's cotton between my ears this morning, and make no mistake! I've forgotten that in Fiji they celebrate Violin Day today. And what's more, it's Take it in the Ear Day for the whole of Eastern Europe. Sometimes I think I'd forget my own head if it wasn't attached!”
“There's another thing that's going on. Something more important than all of those,” the Devil said around a too-big bite of kippers.
Smee shook his head. “I don't think so. We already celebrated Bathtub Party Day, and Put on your Own Shoes Day isn't until next moth. So that's everything.”
The Devil was going to throw down his fork to signal his distress, but the apple strudel was particularly delicious this morning, so he elected to stay silent in protest and eat.
“May I inquire as to your agenda today, sir?” Smee asked as he cleared away the dishes.
The Devil crossed his arms. “Nothing, I guess. Just lay around here. Since it's a regular day and no one cares about me.”
“Now, now, sir. It's not like you to be a slug-a-bed! We have a full schedule, you know. Cerberus is due to visit the vet for that growth on his middle head, and you've been informed about the ongoing problem with the river Phlegethon,” Smee said.
The Devil frowned. “What problem? I don't remember anyone mentioning a problem with the river. How am I supposed to run Hell if no one tells me these things?”
Smee pulled out his ever-present notebook and donned his reading glasses. “It says here that you were told three times last month, and every week since, that the blood in Phlegethon has been congealing. In fact, you signed a receipt last Wednesday agreeing to have a plumber come today to look at it. I can tell it's your signature because you dotted the “i” with a smiley face, as per usual.”
The kippers from breakfast threatened to disgorge themselves from the Devil's stomach. Talk of blood had always made him queasy. “Fine, fine. Whatever. I hope you didn't secure that McCheevy fellow, though-it's highway robbery what he charges to unblock a simple drain. I won't pay it, I tell you. I won't!”
Smee sighed. “It isn't easy to find a plumber to come all the way down to the seventh level, you know. The rest will only go so far as the third. There seems to be a surcharge for that sulfur smell. It clings to everything. We get a lot of complaints.”
“I don't care.”
Smee made a notation. “Fine. I'll see what can be done. Will you be there to oversee Cerberus' surgery, then?”
The Devil shivered. A dog with three heads just wasn't natural, and frankly, it gave him the heebie-jeebies. “I'll take the hellhounds next time they need their parvo shots,” he promised. “I just thought of something really important that I have to do. A very important meeting. Real top-level sort of thing. In … Paris. It involves spies and gadgets and gambling and then I might have to blow up that jungle-gym place they're famous for, the funny looking one?”
“The Eiffel Tower?” Smee had the trained grace not to look skeptical.
“Yeah, that's the one.” The Devil figured he'd better quit talking before Smee realized he'd been mostly cribbing plot from the last James Bond movie he'd seen. “So, yeah, it's pretty important stuff I have to do. I should be back in time for any parties, though. Or surprises. Say, around three?”
“Very good, sir,” Smee said. “We shall see you at three.”
*
The joke was on Smee, the Devil thought as he wandered around the streets of Paris, because he really didn't have anything to do at all. He just didn't want to get stuck with that creepy mutt or overseeing the bloody mess on level seven. All that spy talk made him sound pretty cool, but now he had to find something to do. He reached over to a table at a sidewalk bistro and loosened the cap on the salt-shaker as he passed, but the orchestration of minor chaos didn't cheer him. He briefly flirted with the idea of persuading a teen into a prank involving the Mona Lisa and an ink moustache, but when even the thought of art vandalism couldn't lift his spirits, he knew he had a problem. Everyone had forgotten his birthday, and it kind of hurt his feelings. The Devil sighed. He'd have to console himself with bumming around the City of Lights, stuffing his face with croissants and petit fours. Maybe he'd sit in on Christian Dior's haute couture show; it was Fashion Week after all, and he had time to kill. The Devil tried not to slouch as he made his way to Palais de Tokyo, 13 avenue du Président Wilson.
*
As good seeing models in skimpy clothing had been, the Devil was glad to get home. He puffed back to the ninth ring five minutes after three and paused outside his throne room. He cleared his throat and shuffled his hooves, then made a big show of opening the door.
“Surprise! Happy birthday!”
“What?” the Devil blinked. The whole room was filled with the best sinners from all the levels. Steamers hung from every surface, and confetti rained down. “Is this for me?”
Smee stepped forward and handed him a glass of champagne. “Oh course, sir. You didn't think we'd have forgotten the most important day of the year, do you? Manny happy returns.”
The Devil beamed. “I'm so shocked! How did you know I wanted a mariachi band?”
“A good guess, sir." Smee wisely didn't mention that they'd discussed a “theoretical” surprise party and all the required details for every day of the last six weeks and the punishment for people who didn't get it all to specifications.
“And there's even a magician!” the Devil clapped as the man pulled a dove out of his top hat. “Brilliant!”
“If I may, sir? There are presents.” Smee held his hand out to indicate a buffet table groaning under the weight of wrapped gifts. “Before you get started, I'm to tell you that Beethoven sends his regards. He caught a chest cold from one of the Furies and is stuck on level six. He did, however, complete a tenth symphony just for you and he says he'll conduct it for you next week, after your game of cricket.”
The Devil jumped up and down. “Wonderful. Now, I'll start with that one!” He reached for a shiny green package. “Oooh! Moustache wax from Hommage. Fancy!”
After several hours of gift-unwrapping, the Devil sat surrounded by the finest trinkets Hell's denizens could offer: a golden pitchfork, horn polish, a new Lamborghini … it was everything he could have wished for. As the Devil finished his last slice of cake and the guests wandered back to their tortures, he couldn't explain feeling somewhat disappointed.
“Well, sir, that was a soirée worthy of the Prince of Darkness,” Smee said as he examined the remains of a broken piñata.
“Yeah.”
“Did you get everything you wanted?” Smee asked.
“I guess. I'm kind of tired of presents, though.”
Smee nodded. “I see. Well, I have yet to give you my gift. I can wait until next year, of course.”
The Devil perked up. “Well, not too tired. What is it?”
Smee held out a plain brown package. “Open it and see for yourself.”
The Devil shook it, but it didn't make noise. He used a talon to tear through the paper, and what he saw inside made him blink in disbelief. For the first time all day-for the first time in a long time-he felt an emotion stirring inside his chest. A battered, furry face with button eyes stared up at him from the box. “Teddy?” he asked, hardly daring to touch the toy. “Smee, is this what I think it is? Is this my old teddy?”
Smee cleared his throat. “It's as close as I could find. I hope you like it.”
The Devil lifted the bear and cuddled it. The soft fur reminded him of home and of his mom. “Oh, thank you, Smee. This is the best birthday present anyone has ever given me. I loved my teddy so much. How did you know? Really?”
“Well, who doesn't love their first teddy?” Smee asked. “It's good to remember where you came from, especially on your birthday. Now, you've had a long day. Off to bed with you, or you'll be cranky tomorrow, if you don't mind my saying.”
The Devil nodded. “It was a long day. I had to go to Paris, and you know how hard it is there. There are all those martinis to be drunk with style, and all that art theft waiting to be foiled and Aston Martins to be driven. Oh, and that thing with the Eiffel Tower. Yes, it was quite a day.”
“I know, sir.” Smee was waiting, having already turned down the sheets. “And you're sure to have many more just like it. So off to sleep with you.”
The Devil yawned and cuddled his teddy. All was right with the world. Just before he fell asleep, he remembered something. “Thank you, Smee.”
He was already snoring before Smee could smile and say, “You're most welcome, sir. Most welcome.”