Beelzebub, Abaddon, Belial, Leviathan, Morningstar, Deceiver, Satan, and my personal favorite, Lucifer.
I’ve been called all these names. I am the big bad, the ultimate evil. The Devil himself.
In the flesh…so to speak.
I knock loudly on my latest client’s motel door, and pronounce in my booming, ethereal voice, “James Timothy Wilcox, you signed a contract. Time to pay up.”
I can’t help but stifle a laugh, as his pale white face peeks out from behind the chained threshold.
“Youurr nnott reall!!” he declares, like a terrified child, then proceeds to slam the door in my face. His fear disgusts and exhilarates me all at once; I really do enjoy my job. There are 6,973,738,433 humans on this useless rock, and for every 100,000, I have a chance of getting one pathetical little signature. Another forfeited soul, no strings attached. Haha.
So, you see, I get roughly 69,000 souls a year, which estimates into 9 a day. One has to be good at arithmetic in my line of work. I’m a very busy man. Jimmy boy, here, is having difficulty getting with the program. Trying to hide behind this sleazy motel’s door, in this remote area of Ohio.
He’s inside, screaming his head off, and I’m becoming slightly agitated. I can feel burning bile, rising from my abdomen, into my throat. I open my mouth and let out a massive flame, which instantly incinerates the barrier between us.
Jimmy has a gun pointed at me. How amusing. I proceed to make it melt in his hand, and he shrieks in what must be the most agonizing pain he’s ever felt. I watch curiously as the hot weapon burns through his skin, melding metal with flesh and bone.
It looks hideous, but it’s only a taste of what I have in store for Jimmy. My snakelike tongue unconsciously licks over my lips; the hunger inside me is pulsating, thrashing around like a caged animal desperate for release.
This whole forsaken race has to pay, for what He did to me. I was once a beautiful creature, light itself, before He cast me out, banishing me like a pet who’d done something wrong. His precious mortals would have to pay the price.
I will attempt to torture them all, one by one.
Speaking of, I almost forgot Jimothy. I chuckle at my own cleverness, and swiftly pull out our contract. I stare at the whimpering mess on the floor; my eyes penetrating through his being, tugging on his essence, taunting his soul.
He studies my appearance, which I change quite frequently, and tonight I’ve decided on long black tails, a sharp goatee, and sharp fingernails that pop out like something from a Tom & Jerry cartoon.
“Pleaase I j-just wanted to help my brother?”
Oh, here we go with the twisted logic. “You wanted to help your brother, who had terminal cancer.”
He nods frantically, pleading to negotiate. I talk to him like I would talk to an owner who has to put down his dog, as I place a hand on his shoulder. “Your brother, who was miraculously cured, and then died in a car accident two days later.”
Jimmy’s crying now, and the smell of singed flesh fills the room. Smoke is seeping underneath my hand as it burns through his clothing. I continue, but he already knows what’s coming. He is so easy to mold and control. “Your brother lived, then immediately went on a spree of his own. He was a bad seed, Jimmy boy. I’m sure those women would agree.”
My client stares at me wide-eyed, his expression haunted.
“B-but, he was my baby brother.”
“Ah, yes. You would protect your baby brother at any cost. Which is why you killed the detective leading the case. He’d gotten too close to the truth.”
He began weeping; it was pitiful, like an old person suddenly realizing something horrible they’d done years ago. “Please, God please.”
The mere mention of Him causes me to snap out, and my razor-edged tongue slithers over sharp teeth right before I slash him across the face with it.
“GOD isn’t here, you maggot. Prepare to pay your penance! Prepare to burn…forever!” My long tongue wraps around his neck, like a python. I could easily break it, but I want to savor the moment, so I drop him to the floor.
I shove the contract in front of his face, demanding an answer from this cretin. “Is this not your signature?”
He pushes his deformed body away from me, shaking from head to toe, and pulls out a cross with his good hand. My laughter echoes through the room, sounding like that of a madman.
“Jimmy, I’m not a fucking vampire, I’m the devil!” I hiss, “ Seriously, man!” My poor creatures of the night have become nearly extinct, thanks to the damned slayers He christened
Still, the gesture was amusing.
Jimmy was crawling towards the window, and I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t notice what he was trying to do. He broke through the glass, jumping from the three story hotel window. Glass cuts every inch of his body before he plummets, head first, to his death.
I sigh heavily, disappointed by my loss. Another little trick He added into his precious little human race.
Always, always giving them second chances.
It’s a very real mechanism, a reset button for anyone who dies of suicide. I’ve tried to eradicate this device, by spreading rumors about burning in hell for taking one’s own life.
None the less, I’ll find James Timothy Wilcox, in his next life.
After all, I have all the time in the world.
And in truth…
Eventually, they always sign.
© 2013 Bruce Lockhart