Brigits_Flame April Entry 01 - Digging
A continuation of a story from last month's contest, linked here.
The sound of a demon's flesh, when rent with a barbed whip of sufficient length, is accompanied by a shriek so piercing and so horrible that it cannot be reproduced in human orthography. It is located in the asymptotic trench that separates human tongues from Enochian; people seem to know frightfully little about demon languages. Or they just don't want to know, figuring that the skip directly to Angel-speak will be worth their time. Goal-minded little bastards. But I deviate from the matter at hand. Or try to. My boss, Lucky, the Dark One, the Adversary, the Wyrm, the Prince of Lies, draws back his mighty arm once more to smite the shit out of me with that whip. Yeah, I fucked up; giving the goods for free, not seeing the fault in the contract, not seeing where my mortal had slipped past my legalese. That was bad. This was worse, though.
"You menial little FUCKER!"
"µøƒ!" I howl. A volcanic gout of pain gallumphs through my spinal column as Lucky's whip takes another bite out of my very fine suit. As well as out of me.
"I gave you a chance to set it right and YOU DIDN'T TAKE IT."
The sensation is staggering. Being whipped by the devil must be the worst thing in the universe. All I can think about is pain. An unending, black universe of pain. No friends, no souls, no upward mobility. Just horror and torment for eternity. Is this what it's like to be mortal? Is this what John Q. Sinner contends with every day?
Probably not. Probably Satan himself isn't doing the whipping.
The barbs dig into my skin. Unpleasant doesn’t begin to cover it. My mind is adrift in a red wash of static, of crackle and squeal. I would have blacked out ages ago but The Boss has put a choke on it; he can do that.
“You can’t give away The Product for FREE, God bless you!” And now the whip scourges my back with fire. I do not cry out; I bellow in pain. I cannot see for all the tears. Every strike removes more clothes - soon I will be naked, burnt, and broken.
“Boss! Boss!” A voice. A woman’s voice. Mona’s voice.
We don’t have saving graces down here as a rule. Mona is a rough operational equivalent.
“WHAT,” says Satan in a voice like rasps on rasps.
Mona holds up a manila envelope, takes out its contents. A contract.
“I found a loophole,” says Mona.
“…What,” says the Lord of Lies.
“What?” I say.
She spreads it out on The Boss’s desk. “I found a loophole,” she says again. “Went into the stacks; looked up precedent. Exploited it. You can stop whipping Andrealphus now, sir.”
Satan picks up the contract between two of his great, horny fingers. He stares at it. At length, he puts down the whip. “You’re free, Alfie. You lucky fucker.”
I would kiss Mona but I’m coughing blood. But, oh, she kisses me anyway. Okay.
“How did you… how?” I say as I stumble, leaning on her, out of the Capitol Building, down the steps, onto Mammon heading north, where it intersects with 29th Street. She’s buying me tea. Or I’m buying her tea. I forget which and I don’t really care.
“Alfie,” she says. “I really had to dig.”
The sound of a demon's flesh, when rent with a barbed whip of sufficient length, is accompanied by a shriek so piercing and so horrible that it cannot be reproduced in human orthography. It is located in the asymptotic trench that separates human tongues from Enochian; people seem to know frightfully little about demon languages. Or they just don't want to know, figuring that the skip directly to Angel-speak will be worth their time. Goal-minded little bastards. But I deviate from the matter at hand. Or try to. My boss, Lucky, the Dark One, the Adversary, the Wyrm, the Prince of Lies, draws back his mighty arm once more to smite the shit out of me with that whip. Yeah, I fucked up; giving the goods for free, not seeing the fault in the contract, not seeing where my mortal had slipped past my legalese. That was bad. This was worse, though.
"You menial little FUCKER!"
"µøƒ!" I howl. A volcanic gout of pain gallumphs through my spinal column as Lucky's whip takes another bite out of my very fine suit. As well as out of me.
"I gave you a chance to set it right and YOU DIDN'T TAKE IT."
The sensation is staggering. Being whipped by the devil must be the worst thing in the universe. All I can think about is pain. An unending, black universe of pain. No friends, no souls, no upward mobility. Just horror and torment for eternity. Is this what it's like to be mortal? Is this what John Q. Sinner contends with every day?
Probably not. Probably Satan himself isn't doing the whipping.
The barbs dig into my skin. Unpleasant doesn’t begin to cover it. My mind is adrift in a red wash of static, of crackle and squeal. I would have blacked out ages ago but The Boss has put a choke on it; he can do that.
“You can’t give away The Product for FREE, God bless you!” And now the whip scourges my back with fire. I do not cry out; I bellow in pain. I cannot see for all the tears. Every strike removes more clothes - soon I will be naked, burnt, and broken.
“Boss! Boss!” A voice. A woman’s voice. Mona’s voice.
We don’t have saving graces down here as a rule. Mona is a rough operational equivalent.
“WHAT,” says Satan in a voice like rasps on rasps.
Mona holds up a manila envelope, takes out its contents. A contract.
“I found a loophole,” says Mona.
“…What,” says the Lord of Lies.
“What?” I say.
She spreads it out on The Boss’s desk. “I found a loophole,” she says again. “Went into the stacks; looked up precedent. Exploited it. You can stop whipping Andrealphus now, sir.”
Satan picks up the contract between two of his great, horny fingers. He stares at it. At length, he puts down the whip. “You’re free, Alfie. You lucky fucker.”
I would kiss Mona but I’m coughing blood. But, oh, she kisses me anyway. Okay.
“How did you… how?” I say as I stumble, leaning on her, out of the Capitol Building, down the steps, onto Mammon heading north, where it intersects with 29th Street. She’s buying me tea. Or I’m buying her tea. I forget which and I don’t really care.
“Alfie,” she says. “I really had to dig.”