Did you ever have a job you really hated? I mean really, really hated. The kind of hate that sets you to thinking "I hope blow a tire or that I plow into that wall before I have to punch in?" The kind of hate that makes you think things like, "I could just throw myself in the compressor - a trip to the hospital is sure to get me out of a few hours of work." The kind of mind-numbing, stomach-curdling hate that keeps you awake at night thinking about suicide or homicide - but mostly homicide?
Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I hate my job. I hate it as much as any hamburger flipping sophomore who ever spit in the grease fryer right before he dipped out your french fries. I hated it so much that one day I just walked out, mid-day, right after lunch. And, I didn't give any notice. I didn't turn in my name badge or the company car. I didn't give a flying flip about my health insurance coverage or how vested I was in my 401K. I just quit. And, like any bad employee, I made sure to loot the supply cabinet and carry away a few goodies right before I hit the road. The problem is that, well, there's really no contingency for quitting my job. You see, my name is Chuck, and I'm a Demon. And, the small, really inconsequential thing that I pocketed, was a Soul.
I know what you're thinking. You just can't steal a Soul. Well, buddy, you're wrong there. Hell, people are practically giving them away. The average pack of copy-paper probably has more value than the Soul that I lifted. But, the thing about that is, you don't even get away with stealing a sheet of copy-paper in Hell. You think Heaven is big on rules? Well, you haven't seen anything until you've spent some time with the Rules and Regulations guys in the Nether Regions. What do you expect - we have all the best lawyers.
Here's the thing, that job that I hated, the one I ran out on - well, the gist of it was that I picked up Souls. You know, just like in the movies, when this guy says "I'd sell my Soul!," and then there's some dark, disturbing music and a puff of smoke and then this Demon appears. That Demon, that's me. Only really it's nothing like that. I mean, there's no music or smoke or fiery contracts written on human skin. Sure, once we used to do things all medieval, but that was only because it actually was the Dark Ages. Back then, people used to complain and say, "Don't you have stone tablets or flaming runes or something?"
You can't please anybody, ever. Take it from me. I've been doing this for thirty-seven hundred years (and sixty one days, and seventeen hours, and so on...you see, I really DO hate my job). Everyone is the same always. A farmer in the middle of the Amazon and a CEO on Park Avenue want pretty much the same thing - more than the next guy. Everyone wants to be on top. But, what about me? Us? Demons, I mean. I don't know about the other guys - they seem to want what the average Joe wants. It's a dog eat dog, or rather, a Demon eat Demon sort of world. But, as for me - I want what the other guy didn't want, his Soul. Sure, it was just lying around. He gave it to me, didn't he? Of course, I was supposed to turn it in at the end of the day. But, hey, what's one less Soul in Hell, right? They'll probably end up with it back with my luck anyway.
So, I did the big pinch and grab and got the Hell out of Dodge. But, here's the thing - you can't really out run my Employer. I mean, you think God is omniscient. He's a busy guy and he has his hands in a lot, and I do mean A LOT of big pies. But, as for the Other Guy, he's got just one thing on his mind, staying on top. And, he has a million snitches, stoolies, and yes-men to do all the work for him. Sooner or later, someone, somewhere, some Underworld bureaucrat is going to see that one column doesn't add up and who do you think they're going to trace that missing Soul back to? Sure, the guy that didn't show up to punch the clock. It's just a matter of time. I knew that from the beginning, but I'm not letting that slow me down. The way I figured it, I only had a snowball's chance in Hell anyway. So, hey, why not take that chance? What are they going to do to me anyway? I'm a Demon. Send me to Hell?
My only chance is to hold on to this Soul for just as long as I can. If I can do something really, and I do mean really good, then just maybe I have a chance at Redemption. I'm thinking that my best chance is to do something to screw the Other Guy. The Other Side has to be pretty keen on that, right? And, well, being really good isn't exactly up my alley, but screwing people over comes second nature to the Damned. After all, I wasn't always a Demon. I was an Angel once. Maybe not the shiniest one, maybe my halo didn't exactly glow was virtuosity, but I was an Angel just the same. I sort of suck at being a Demon most days, and I figure I was exactly the same sort of Angel. I did Fall, right? Stupid, so stupid. You know when your Mom says things like, "If everyone jumped off the bridge, would you too?" Well, I'm a prime example of the guy that would. So, see, kiddies, listen to your Mom, or else, well, you'd probably rather not know.
Here's the other Ace I have up my sleeve. Hell is full of incompetents, layabouts, and people who frankly don't give a damn about their jobs. So, there's a pretty good chance that I won't get noticed for a while - not a hundred percent, of course, because those number-crunchers live for finding something in column A that should be in column B (See my note on lawyers above - we get the best of everything down here - how do you think they got to be the best?). Or, here's the better chance, that they'll send someone just as piss-poor and disgruntled as myself for the Repossession. That's something I can deal with. Bribery is not unheard of in the Regions of the Damned, as you can imagine. And, frankly, since being in Hell sucks so much, Demons aren't too hard to bribe. I know guys that would sell their mothers for a bag of chips, let alone chips and a nice frosty beverage.
So, here I am, just waiting. Waiting to be caught and hoping against hope that the Repo Guy they do send is someone I know or at least someone that I can deal with. I'd pray if I could, but I'm not really sure who to, and, well, I'm sure that's a way to get noticed. I mean, I'm not exactly going to send up a few hopeful wishes to my ex-Employer and I don't exactly think that I have a long distance calling card for the other Guy.
They say there's forgiveness for everyone, but, let me tell you, that's not exactly true. That's one of those pleasant little lies people like to tell themselves - like the truth always outs, good always truimphs, and there's someone for everyone. Give me a break. The truth and good are so subjective that half the time I don't know whose side I'm playing on, and well, someone for everyone - have you seen some of the people in this city? They say there's faces only a mother could love, but I doubt that these guys moms have leave their scrapbooks out on the coffee table if you know what I mean.
So, here I am waiting - expecting - and making my own sort of plans. But, like most things in life, it doesn't happen the way I expect. I'm sitting in the coffee shop, my favorite coffee shop - you know the one - they have perfect lattes and a guy can just sit for hours. Anyway, I'm just sitting drinking a nice mocha something when I feel a shadow on me. It's hard to feel a shadow under flourescent lights unless the shadow-caster is really, really working at it. And, this guy was. He had "working at it" practically tattooed on his forehead. I looked up and watched him watch me watch him.
He stood very still, like a cat, letting me take it all in. The perfect suit, the Italian loafers, the haircut that cost more than most men make in a week. Then, he smiled, the perfect smile - the kind of smile that's the last thing that small furry creatures see right before the paw comes down. He glides over to the table in a way that makes everything else seem graceless and stale and he sits down all in one motion. He smiles again with his tiny sharp teeth and reaches into his pocket. I'm expecting, I don't know what I'm expecting, but all he pulls out is a Blackberry.
"Nice blackberry," I say. He smiles again, "It's not a Blackberry," he says while he delicately fingers the keys on what looks and sounds exactly like a Blackberry. And, then he says something that I couldn't have, wouldn't have expected not in a thousand years. He smiles, leans forward in that confidential and utterly charming way that some guys have and whispers, "Chuck...congratulations." He smiles again and leans back folding his perfectly manicured hands on the table. The not-a-Blackberry makes a small humming noise beneath his fingers. And, for the first time in a very, very long time, I find myself at an utter loss for words.
I'm the kind of guy that lives by his wits, so to speak. And, I tend to pride myself on my ability to think on my feet. But, here I am dumb-founded. Completely and utterly struck with silence and, believe me, that's not something that you want when you have an Agent of the Nether Regions sitting across from you smirking in his oh-so-continental way.
You'd think that at this point in my life, I'd have learned to live without hope or even without the need for it. But, that's the thing - the really, utterly and improbably thing about us all is that you never stop hoping. Not even when it is completely and totally hopeless to even let yourself hope. Take Hell, for instance. From the PR material, you'd think that it was all fire and brimstone, desert-like landscapes, and moans of the Damned. You couldn't be more wrong. That kind of Hell would be a helluva lot more exciting that the actual thing. People, after all, thrive on drama - good or bad. The thing that really, really makes Hell, well, Hell, is the monotony.
Everything in Hell is tepid except, of course, the personalities. The water, the beer, the food - are all as bland in a way that not even the English have managed to perfect. You can even order a pizza in Hell. But, you can be sure that somewhere in the moment between opening the lid and taking that first exquisite bite that the cheese has gone from perfection to that slightly clammy, rubbery consistency that only pizza-cheese can manage. Ninety-nine times out of hundred. But, then, there's that once in a millenium perfect slice. Even in Hell, there's that little bit of comfort, the chance meeting, that one moment when you actually forget just where you are and just how you got there. Hope. There has to be hope. Otherwise, it wouldn't really be Hell at all, now would it?
So, here I am, looking across from a guy probably one or two steps down from the actual GUY and thinking that there's some possibility that things could get better for me. You'd thought that at this point in my life, I'd have known better. But, go figure. So, I smile back at him, and clear my throat.
He smiles seeing an opening for himself. He leans away from the table and gestures broadly giving me another chance to admire his ensemble. One thing about these Upper-Level, Lower-Level Guys is that they are always well-dressed. "I think you know your first mistake," he says. I shrug. He smiles again, the barest lifting of his perfect lips and rests a manicured hand on the table. "Well, since we are agreed on that point, let me just point out that as mistakes go, it did show a bit of style. And, that, especially in someone so apparently lacking in all other style is appreciated."
"A bit of an irony, then," I say. He smirks again," You could say that, I suppose." So, I sit there and wait. Because I know he wants me to wait. He has the expectant look, like a dog sniffing the air right before a storm. So, I lean back just a little - just enough to look like maybe, just maybe, I don't give a damn what's he's about to say, when really, I have to tell you, I am on pins and needles.
So, he leans back a bit too, but not enough to wrinkle his suit, and then, suddenly he leans forward and says in the most confidential way, "Chuck, if I may call you "Chuck?" he says and when I nod he continues. "Well, Chuck, I've come to offer you a promotion." Then, he leans back in his chair and folds his hands and smiles again moltenly and waits. "Of course," he adds, "We will need that Soul back."
And, for a moment, for one exquisite moment, he almost had me. But, almost, like they say, is only good for horseshoes and hand-grenades. Almost - just before I see that one perfect bead of sweat on his forehead - he had me. So, I smile back at his smile. A smile that seems a little bit too perfect and tight at this moment. And, then I say, "We?" He smiles again, and I see him swallow, "Of course, we need the Soul back before any advancement can be discussed." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette case full of those little black cigarettes that people with more money than sense smoke and then says, "The Soul's return is, of course, non-negotiable."
"And, I'd return it to you?" I ask trying to look eager. And, he smiles flicks his lighter and says, "Of course." And, he has time to smile just one more time before I reach across and snap the cigarette in half.
"I really don't think you know who you're playing with - or, in fact, what you're playing at," I say. He leans back against the chair just as far as he can this time and I know that his perfect suit is going to need a trip to the dry-cleaners now - and probably for more than just a good pressing. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says edgely looking around the room - looking for an escape hatch.
"Free agent," I say and I drop his crappy black cigarello and lean back myself, "You're here on your own, aren't you?" He gulps and straightens his lapel. "So what if I am?" he asks. I smile, "I'm not giving it to you."
For a moment there, he forgets what he is and just how big I am. But, just for a moment. Then, he decides to be tackful. He takes his voice down a notch the way only accountants and lawyers can and he says, "You know you can't keep it. They haven't noticed yet, but when they do... I mean, did you actually, think, actually, that you could get away with this?" I say nothing which, I can tell, makes him even more nervous. "I could've told, couldn't I? But, I didn't, did I?" he says. "People go missing all the time," I say, "And, well, you know, Hell is a big place. If you didn't come back, I guess someone might think that you'd run off someplace - or really, really pissed someone off, wouldn't they?" I say. I reach into my coat pocket and he flinches. But, I just pull out a cigarette, a real one, and light up. The girl over at the counter gives me a look, but she doesn't say anything. Counter-girls don't usually say anything to guys like me.
He just sits there ruining his suit some more. I can actually see the sweat puddling. "Look," I say, "I'm not going to do anything to you." He nods. Then he tries one more time - you have to give him credit for that. "I could hide it," he says, "It's not safe here. There's no place they won't look for it if it's missing from the numbers," he says. And, then he looks up and says with the tiniest of voices, "Others might notice too." And, it's at that exact moment that I realize that he's right. There is nothing for me to do with it - the Soul. There's no place I can hide it. There's no place I can hide me. They are going to know and they're going to get it back.
I get up all of the sudden and start to snub the cigarette out on the table, but think better of it and pinch it and put it in my pocket. After all, I'm in here a lot and I don't want the coffee to start tasting sour. "Where are you going?" he asks all sheepish, "I mean, what do you plan to do?" I just walk out the door and I can feel his eyes boring into the back of me as I walk to my crappy car and turn over the engine.
I take the Soul out of my pocket and look down at the it. It twines around my fingers in a way that I've started to think means it's happy - like a little cat. It's started to lose that sad, grayish-green look over the past few weeks. It is, I think, definitely on the mend. And, suddenly, it just doesn't seem fair to it - or to me. But, then, what in life ever is. I guess that just about sums it up too. The poor little thing would probably be better off if I just gave it a good chuck off the side of a building. But, then, again, it's a big ole world out there and you just never know what is going to happen. I guess that's why I like it sometimes. So, I turn the car out of the parking lot and I slide the Soul back in my pocket. And, for once, I know exactly where I'm going.
What to do with a Soul? That is the question on everyone's mind. You can't keep it - not if you're me - and you can't give it away. I know that the only slim chance that ferret-faced little accountant back in the coffee shop has of saving grace now is ratting me out. Because if he doesn't they'll know that he knew and he'll know that they know that he knew. And, that always, always ends up badly. In the real world, someone would end up in a body-bag, but in the Netherworld, well, there are worse things than dead. Much worse. So, I do the only thing I can do now and I do it quick because I know that he has to be on his way back just as fast as his little perfectly-clad legs can carry him.
What's the thing that they always say on lawyer shows - habeus corpus? No body. No crime. They can't take the Soul and I can't keep it. And, in the end, that makes it simple.
So, I drive my car with its smoking exhaust and chipped paint up to the Executive Suite Plaza. It's one of those glass buildings - you know the ones with that perfect golden glow to them. You can almost see your reflection when you walk up, but only almost. After all, most of these guys don't really want to look themselves in the eye. You don't get to work in this building by doing things that make you want to give yourself the old square in the baby-blues each morning. And, you certainly don't get to the top floor by being an Angel - or even a Demon.
Most of these guys would do the Nether-Regions proud any day of the week. Hey, they make most Demons look like boy-scouts by comparison. What's that old line, you don't have to convince anyone that there isn't a God, just convince them they have lots of time...they'll hang themselves for sure, sure enough. But, these guys, they aren't your average work-a-day Joes sinning for spite or laziness. If you want to be on top, sometimes you have to claw your way up, and this building had claw and stab marks all over it. All the way to the top. And, I figured, that just about the last thing any of these guys would want would be the incumberance of a Soul. So, I take the elevator right to the top.
The secretary/assistant/whatever you're supposed to call the guy by the phone these days tries to stop me, but I can be pretty unstoppable when I want. I just barge right in and he's sitting there in his leather executive-deluxe chair talking with his phone on conference. I hate that. When they put you on speaker-phone. I really do. He looks up, kind of surprised, like he doesn't remember me for a minute and then I see it all slide into place and he gets this white spot right between his eyes just like I hit him with a sledgehammer - which is just about what I plan to do.
I have it in my hand. I had it nursed back to health a little, which makes me kind of sad, because it surely was in a sorry state when he gave it up. I figure he'll be trying to barter it away by the time the clock strikes noon, but I have news for him. He's already done his deal. This time, it's his for keeps now. He looks up at me and I almost, almost feel sorry for him. And, then I think about his Soul, the Soul that I wanted, that the Guy with the cat smile was willing to risk the wrath of Hell for, the Soul that this fellow here just threw away.
I smile. I pull out a cigarette from my pocket and then I ask him if he has a light. He smiles and I see the sweat beads on his forehead. That $2,000 suit will need dry-cleaning for sure after today. Hell, maybe he just throws them away when they get dirty. "Was there something missing from our contract negotiations?" he asks, trying to sound smooth, but coming off with a crack in his voice. Another bead of sweat falls down his nose and he wipes it away and then leans forward with the lighter. It's gold and perfect. I think it has an inscription. It probably says to the best something or other, or to my love, or whatever it is that people have written on lighters.
I nod and I smile. And, then I lunge and cram the Soul down his throat. He shudders just for a minute and I almost think that he's going to cough it up like a hairball. But, then he settles down and I can see it slide down his throat.
"This isn't what I bargained for," he says, but his voice is small and distant. I know that Soul has set to work. Its tallying all the things he's done in the past two weeks while it was on vacation with me. And, its reminding him of all he's done and all that he's planning to do. It isn't pleased and it's going to make sure that he's never quite pleased again.
I smile. I reach down and pick up the lighter and flip on the flame. It says, "Merry Christmas, Daddy! Love Jeannie." I set it back on the edge of the desk and then I turn for the door. I hear him yelling after me, but kind of half-hearted. He just doesn't have it in him anymore. I take the elevator down and I drive away. Just like that. Just like it never happened. And, maybe it never did. That's the way things work sometimes.
You get what you want, you lose it, or maybe you don't. Or maybe you discover it was something you never wanted or all you've ever dreamed of. It's all the same in the end. In a hundred years, a thousand maybe, it won't matter if the hero won or the villain or even who was which. I tell myself that. But, I know it isn't true. It does matter sometimes. It matters to who wins to the winner and the loser. And, even if no one else in the world gives a damn, it matters to those two. I don't quite know whose which in this one, but I think it matters. I light a cigarette and turn the key. The engine starts up. And, I just drive.
Beverly Forehand is a freelance writer and painter living in Nashville, TN. Her short stories and poems have been published in Atriad Press' Haunted Encounters, Bewildering Stories, FATE, The Harrow, LongStory Short, Quantum Muse, Typhoon.net, Waxing Waning Moon, Ultraverse, The Wheel, Zephyrus and other publications. She recently published a pet recipe book with Dawson Progressive and is a monthly columnist for Critter Exchange. Her hobbies include cultivating her medieval herb garden and begging her cats (unsuccessfully) to stay off the sofa.
© Beverly Forehand
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