Crowley and The Wifelet - Prologue
Earth: Café, location unknown.
”What do I call you?” the private investigator asked.
The woman, startled out of her reverie, took a sip of coffee and replied. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Although I seem to be referred to as The Frustrated Housewife, or Wifelet, it’s a true enough statement and really, here at the end of days, it doesn’t matter.”
She looked out the window and watched the pre-Christmas shoppers hurry about their business while the sleet turned the square to slush and dulled even the most brightly dressed pedestrian.
The P.I. jotted the initials TFH/Wifelet down on his legal pad; it would have to do until he could get her to remember her name. That had been the client’s brief. Find this woman, record her story and make her remember her name. The finding part was easy. A couple of days on the phone and computer tracking missing persons led him to a homeless shelter. Now he just had to get the story and a name. He looked up from his notes and wondered how you answered a homeless person's ramblings.
“Fair enough,” he said, “Do you remember how you came to be at the shelter?” The woman met his gaze and held it until he broke contact. There was a long pause and then she spoke.
“The Boss killed my Knitting Circle,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“You witnessed a murder?” he asked, surprised by her statement
“No. He killed my Knitting Circle. So, I killed his Tailor.” She said matter-of-factly and returned to people watching. There was an uncomfortable silence between the two of them. The P.I finally asked, “Who is your Boss? And what does this Crowley do?"
“Crowley is the King of Hell.” The woman stated.
“Okay?” the P.I. thought, “this is going to be one of ‘those’ investigations.” He wasn’t especially tolerant or sympathetic around ‘crazy talk,’ but if that’s what he had to listen to in order to get
results for his client, then he could fake enough sincerity to get the job done. Aloud he asked, “So your boss is the King of Hell and you were his secretary?”
The woman tilted her head to the left and held his gaze while considering the question.
“I suppose I was. I suppose I am. I suppose I will be.” She played idly with the contents of her mug and continued in a monotone, “I don’t really remember how I came to the shelter. Or why I would be here in the first place.”
“What do you remember?” the P.I. quietly prodded. The woman was staring off into space, and he thought she hadn’t heard his question. But after a frown, pursed lips and a resigned sigh, she turned her attention fully to the P.I. sitting opposite her and began to speak.
“I remember a car accident and being in hospital. Then I woke up at the end of a very long queue. When I eventually came to the front, there was a receptionist who gave me a ticket, and said to wait until my number was called. The second time I stood in front of her, I asked her where I was and she replied “Hell”. I didn’t get the chance question her further because the next moment I was back at the end of the queue…”
“When was the car accident? Do you remember the name of the hospital?” the P.I. interrupted her. She looked at him blankly, shook her head and continued with her narration.
“I seemed to continue, this endless queuing, for a long time. Then I started to notice strange things. It was a bit like watching a film where the sound is out of sync with the picture. Anyway, sometimes a person standing further along in the queue would snap suddenly and start throwing tantrums and then all of a sudden they went ‘Poof’ and turned into black smoke. A door would suddenly appear, open and the smoke would be sucked through it and then the door would close. I
tried asking people what was going on. I tried asking the receptionist, but she just replied “Hell,” as usual. and then gave me another ticket.”
“So, you’re telling me that Hell is one long eternal queue? That seems a bit, frankly, lame. What about this black smoke?” The P.I. interrupted in hopes of hurrying along the story so he’d get something he could use to solve and close this investigation.
A waitress approached their table and asked if they wanted to order a meal. The P.I. ordered them both hamburgers and fries, though he doubted the woman would eat. She seemed completely indifferent to her surroundings and to her own needs. He wondered how long he’d have to listen to a tale of fantasy, to get to the reality. He looked out the window at the worsening weather and realized he’d probably be staying the night. He booked himself a room at a nearby motel as he listened to the woman’s story.
“The black smoke is when a soul finally cracks and turns into a demon,” the woman replied non-committedly, “Which is weird? I always thought, or was taught, that demons were those angels who sided with the Devil when he was cast from heaven. Anyway, some people couldn’t take the endless queuing, so they became demons. The doorway led to the pit.”
“So, there is a proper hell? And demons are black smoke? Does that make you one?” the P.I. asked, his tone mocking. The woman ignored his tone and continued with her story.
“Oh no, I never became black smoke. Crowley doesn’t know what I am. He says I must be demonic because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to survive all the punishment he delves out. He also says I’m a
masochist, but I’m just not ambitious. He spends so much of his time in paranoia that having an employee who’s just does their job and doesn’t plot for further advancement - well, he doesn’t get it.”
The waitress returned with their orders and refreshed their coffee. The woman cut her hamburger into quarters while the P.I. took a large bite of his hamburger. He wiped his mouth and asked her how she met Crowley. She returned to her narration, nibbling at her hamburger or
eating a chip dipped in ketchup from time to time.
“And, yes, there is fire and brimstone and torture of souls and Hell in whatever version of religion you want to imagine. Crowley just locked all that up as The Pit. He says queuing is much more
efficient. Seeing as half the souls that end up in hell are Masochists and the other half Sadists, queuing is the perfect form of eternal dissatisfaction for both.” She ate one of her burger quarters and then continued.
“I guess if I start with my first meeting with the Boss, maybe you’ll understand. Although to be perfectly honest, I don’t really know what you expect to learn. The Boss says it’s because he’s surrounded by morons. I do know that it was before the angel and he started looking for purgatory, but after Lucifer was put back in his cage along with the archangel Michael.”
“Oh, deliver me from religious whack-jobs,” muttered the P.I. While fishing out his tape recorder from his briefcase and switching it on. That way he could record the woman’s story and skip through the boring fantasy to fact later on at the motel. In the meantime, he plastered his most sympathetic smile on his face and tried not to fall asleep as the woman droned on with her crazy story.
Chapter One