[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
Friedrick crept through the Hallway of Insufficient Lighting and wound his way up the Spiral Staircase of Patently Absurd Proportions -- which, being an anomaly, fit him quite well -- where he met a round, pasty creature seated behind a cluttered desk.
"Can I help you?" wheezed the pitiful creature, craning his egglike head (for he had no neck) around a stack of dusty files.
"Yeah, um, the Big Man Downstairs sent me to open the door."
Friedrick was suddenly seized by a sneeze, expelling dust through the cramped room like magic powder from so many Disney films. The egglike creature -- we shall call him Eggy, for it remains one of the great tragedies of the universe that his mother attempted to fry him sunny side-up instead of naming him, for which she continues to serve an indefinite sentence in the disreputable Underworld State Hospital, where she has eaten no less than four other children resembling breakfast items -- squeaked and pressed his classes on his nonexistent nose.
"Which door is that?"
"I think you know which door."
"Well, being the Department of Doors, there's plenty to go around down here. We've got kitchen doors, doggy doors, those fun roundabout ones you always tend to see at banks... We've got sliding doors, trapdoors, even Jim Morrison of The Doors. So," he said haughtily, adjusting his glasses again, "which door is that?"
"There is but one door of such dubious nomenclature that it's hardly worth mentioning in conversation. Show me that one."
Eggy gulped.
"Right this way."
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Verse 9
[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
Satan didn’t ask himself once who the man was. It didn’t matter, because he had shaken the self-pitying stupor that had clung to his Royal Lowness and gotten him back up on his cloven hooves.
“What AM I doing?” He shouted, knowing he was the only being within earshot.
“Jupiter’s testicles! I don’t need this council, with their highfalutin theories and distinguished backgrounds. So what if the conquered continents, committed mass murder, or convinced the poorest people of their nation that they had their best intentions and religious aspirations at heart, when in actuality all the wanted was to import foreign labor and cut domestic jobs to fill their pockets. I am Lucifer! It was I who challenged the throne so long ago, and now it’s time for me to step up to the plate, again. First things first, however, the council is to be obliterated.”
As the words formed on his lips, every council member blinked out of existence. Where once they had filled the council chamber, seated around a table like some hellish parody of King Arthur’s round table, there was nothing. The room, the individuals filling it, every chair and every piece of tile simply vanished. Not destroyed, mind you. Just not there, as if it had never been, and all because…
“I think the furnace will do nicely. If any of them were listening to me early it shouldn’t come as a surprise, either.”
And just like that, 100 dry-aged souls sizzled, cracked and then went silent in the unimaginable heat of hell’s furnace.
Lucifer felt them depart. Not just the slight jump in heat, the temperature gauge reading “noxiously searing” once again. He felt the last screams of every one he had ever depended on. The old Lucifer might have shed a tear.
“Good riddance, you awful herd of jackasses,” was the best the new and improved Lucifer could manage.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Verse 8
[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
At that moment, both Lucifer and Friedrick hit rock bottom: Lucifer mentally and emotionally, Friedrick smashed on the granite floor of The Devil’s Dog Crate. Friedrick landed there after two of Cerberus’s heads got tired of playing tug of war with him between their teeth. He would have thought twice about stepping so loudly onto a hard surface, but following the tearing and tossing he didn’t have the capacity to think.
After about one demon-hour (roughly 60 human minutes), Friedrick came to. He found himself in the back corner of Cerberus’s crate. The heads of Cerberus were resting on their paws, but the eyes were still open. He was quick enough that his first full thought was to stay perfectly still. Any sudden moves and Friedrick might again become a chew toy. He laid there, recalling every bit of information he could remember on Cerberus. Just as he was formulating a plan to run as fast as he could to Satan’s sofa (Cerberus knew he wasn’t allowed up there), he saw a man passing by the giant crate door. He was moving out of the burning pit of souls and towards the entrance to Hell, curiously, as if he intended to just get up and leave. This man wore a white robe and had a similarly clothed woman following close behind him. He carried a beautiful lyre with him, one that looked like it could tame wild animals, one that looked like it had. Most interesting of all was the fact that the two of them walked right in front of the devil dog yet it took no notice of them.
Friedrick had never actually played lyre before, though he had played Lyre Hero 4: Bronze Age on PS3. But Friedrick was sure it was no matter, with such an otherworldly instrument as the walking man was carrying he was sure it wouldn’t take much to tame the brute that now had him pinned in this warehouse of a kennel.
“Psst,” Friedrick hissed as loud as he dared.
The man paused and began to turn, then gasped and stopped himself. The woman turned to him immediately and gave him the most distressful look he had ever seen on a human face in his existence. But she said nothing.
“I can’t help you buddy, whatever it is, I can’t help you,” The man with the lyre said. “Come on Eurydice, were getting out of this hell hole.”
“PSST!” was Friedrick’s reply.
“Look. I’d love to help you right now but I’m really focused on other things, namely, only what’s in front of me.”
“Lady,” Friedrick did his best not to raise his voice but could tell it was probably too late for that. One of Cerberus’s ears twitched.
“Lady, tell him all I want is his damned lyre.”
The woman turned and gave him an impatient look that said leave us alone you imbecile, I can’t speak and he doesn’t care, were both a little busy so get lost. Friedrick was very good at reading faces.
Cerberus began stretching his front paws. In a few seconds he would begin to look around for the origin of the noise Friedrick was making. He had to hurry.
“Hey, listen, if you let me have that lyre I’ll-”
“There’s really nothing you can offer that’s going to make me turn around. I promise.”
“I’ll-” Friedrick could tell the man meant it.
Cerberus was beginning to turn his head.
“I’ll-” Friedrick focused on getting the man’s undivided attention.
“I’ll-”
Cerberus’s eyes were scanning in his direction.
“I’ll-” If the man wouldn’t give Friedrick the attention he needed, he would have to steal it.
The jaws were opening, priming for a growl.
“I’ll-”
Aha! Something strange clicked in Friedrick’s head. Something that was about to save his life, but that he would never admit to himself afterwards.
“I’ll let you touch my mangina!”
Even Cerberus stopped at that one.
Friedrick turned to see if what he had said had had its desired effect and realized he was making eye contact with the man with the lyre.
“Hey, thanks a lot asshole!” The woman said, her voice regained. She turned to the man who had been in front of her. “And thank you for nothing, Mr. Honey, I’m Here To Save You With My Music! I knew I should have married a real man, instead of some pasty skinned artist. The other girls went for muscles, I went for poetry. My mother was right, Disney does create unrealistic expectations of men.”
The woman then promptly vanished.
Friedrick turned to look again at the face of the man with the lyre. The man’s eyes pointed at Friedrick, but were focused on a point a thousand miles behind him.
“You unbelievable bastard. YOU UNbelievable BAstard. Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
“I got you to turn around?” Friedrick said. His voice pitching higher at the end.
“YOU GOT ME TO TURN AROUND AND RUINED MY ONE CHANCE OF GETTING MY WIFE BACK! WHY?”
“I, well I, kind of needed your lyre.”
The man looked down at his lyre, dumbfounded.
“This?” The man held it up.
“Yes,” Friedrick replied.
“This?”
“Yeah.”
“This?”
“Yuh-huh.”
"This?"
"You bet'cha."
"THIS?"
"Affirmative."
“FINE! TAKE IT!” The man hurled his lyre of in whatever direction his arm decided on.“No no no oh. Crud” Friedrick couldn’t see where it had landed but knew it would be out of his safe reach.
The man then promptly vanished.
For the next 48 demon minutes, Friedrick slowly, gently crawled up toward the front of the kenel, using a demon’s touch to not make a sound. That lyre was his one chance at taming the giant k-9 from hell and it was worth the wait. But soon as he beheld the lyre, his heartless chest cavity sank. It was broken in two, strings curled up like pig tails.
“Ahhhh crud!” Friedrick shouted then immediately popped a hand over his mouth wide eyed and frightened. He looked over at the beast about to test the limits of his netherworld body and realized it was out. Cold. With the imprint of a lyre in its center head.
“Well, I guess the lyre was useful after all.”
With that out of the way, Friedrick was now able to focus on the more dangerous aspect of this mission. The Door That Really Shouldn't Be Fiddled With Under Any Circumstances And That Means Now Too.
***
As Lucifer sat with his head on his desk crying, an ordinary man burst into his room. The man was 6 foot flat, very young looking with the exception of graying hair, he had blue-green eyes, a nose, and two lips (the best amount of lips on a face).
“Where is it?”
Lucifer was taken by surprise by the aggressive and brash behavior of a mortal in his office, in his presence. All he could do was treat the man as he expected to be treated.
“Where’s what?”
“Where is it?” The man kept looking around, right hand still on the outer door handle.
“WHERES WHAT?” It now frightened Lucifer even more that he couldn’t help this irreverent mortal, who was clearly the master of the room at this moment.
“There it is.” The man walked over to the sadfish, picked up his bowl and put it up to his face.
“You worthless piece of crap. You add nothing to this story. All you gave anyone was a case of writers block.”
He then tucked the fishbowl under his arm and made for the door.
“And you”
“Me?”
“Yes. What is this, ‘Hamlet?’ Quit your bitching and get back to doing stuff. Why are you even in this office? Its utterly pointless.”
Just before walking out, he turned to Lucifer.
"Oh, and one other thing. My pal in Rome told me to tell you, 'Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas.'"
With that he walked out to worlds unknown, taking the fish with him.
[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
At that moment, both Lucifer and Friedrick hit rock bottom: Lucifer mentally and emotionally, Friedrick smashed on the granite floor of The Devil’s Dog Crate. Friedrick landed there after two of Cerberus’s heads got tired of playing tug of war with him between their teeth. He would have thought twice about stepping so loudly onto a hard surface, but following the tearing and tossing he didn’t have the capacity to think.
After about one demon-hour (roughly 60 human minutes), Friedrick came to. He found himself in the back corner of Cerberus’s crate. The heads of Cerberus were resting on their paws, but the eyes were still open. He was quick enough that his first full thought was to stay perfectly still. Any sudden moves and Friedrick might again become a chew toy. He laid there, recalling every bit of information he could remember on Cerberus. Just as he was formulating a plan to run as fast as he could to Satan’s sofa (Cerberus knew he wasn’t allowed up there), he saw a man passing by the giant crate door. He was moving out of the burning pit of souls and towards the entrance to Hell, curiously, as if he intended to just get up and leave. This man wore a white robe and had a similarly clothed woman following close behind him. He carried a beautiful lyre with him, one that looked like it could tame wild animals, one that looked like it had. Most interesting of all was the fact that the two of them walked right in front of the devil dog yet it took no notice of them.
Friedrick had never actually played lyre before, though he had played Lyre Hero 4: Bronze Age on PS3. But Friedrick was sure it was no matter, with such an otherworldly instrument as the walking man was carrying he was sure it wouldn’t take much to tame the brute that now had him pinned in this warehouse of a kennel.
“Psst,” Friedrick hissed as loud as he dared.
The man paused and began to turn, then gasped and stopped himself. The woman turned to him immediately and gave him the most distressful look he had ever seen on a human face in his existence. But she said nothing.
“I can’t help you buddy, whatever it is, I can’t help you,” The man with the lyre said. “Come on Eurydice, were getting out of this hell hole.”
“PSST!” was Friedrick’s reply.
“Look. I’d love to help you right now but I’m really focused on other things, namely, only what’s in front of me.”
“Lady,” Friedrick did his best not to raise his voice but could tell it was probably too late for that. One of Cerberus’s ears twitched.
“Lady, tell him all I want is his damned lyre.”
The woman turned and gave him an impatient look that said leave us alone you imbecile, I can’t speak and he doesn’t care, were both a little busy so get lost. Friedrick was very good at reading faces.
Cerberus began stretching his front paws. In a few seconds he would begin to look around for the origin of the noise Friedrick was making. He had to hurry.
“Hey, listen, if you let me have that lyre I’ll-”
“There’s really nothing you can offer that’s going to make me turn around. I promise.”
“I’ll-” Friedrick could tell the man meant it.
Cerberus was beginning to turn his head.
“I’ll-” Friedrick focused on getting the man’s undivided attention.
“I’ll-”
Cerberus’s eyes were scanning in his direction.
“I’ll-” If the man wouldn’t give Friedrick the attention he needed, he would have to steal it.
The jaws were opening, priming for a growl.
“I’ll-”
Aha! Something strange clicked in Friedrick’s head. Something that was about to save his life, but that he would never admit to himself afterwards.
“I’ll let you touch my mangina!”
Even Cerberus stopped at that one.
Friedrick turned to see if what he had said had had its desired effect and realized he was making eye contact with the man with the lyre.
“Hey, thanks a lot asshole!” The woman said, her voice regained. She turned to the man who had been in front of her. “And thank you for nothing, Mr. Honey, I’m Here To Save You With My Music! I knew I should have married a real man, instead of some pasty skinned artist. The other girls went for muscles, I went for poetry. My mother was right, Disney does create unrealistic expectations of men.”
The woman then promptly vanished.
Friedrick turned to look again at the face of the man with the lyre. The man’s eyes pointed at Friedrick, but were focused on a point a thousand miles behind him.
“You unbelievable bastard. YOU UNbelievable BAstard. Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
“I got you to turn around?” Friedrick said. His voice pitching higher at the end.
“YOU GOT ME TO TURN AROUND AND RUINED MY ONE CHANCE OF GETTING MY WIFE BACK! WHY?”
“I, well I, kind of needed your lyre.”
The man looked down at his lyre, dumbfounded.
“This?” The man held it up.
“Yes,” Friedrick replied.
“This?”
“Yeah.”
“This?”
“Yuh-huh.”
"This?"
"You bet'cha."
"THIS?"
"Affirmative."
“FINE! TAKE IT!” The man hurled his lyre of in whatever direction his arm decided on.“No no no oh. Crud” Friedrick couldn’t see where it had landed but knew it would be out of his safe reach.
The man then promptly vanished.
For the next 48 demon minutes, Friedrick slowly, gently crawled up toward the front of the kenel, using a demon’s touch to not make a sound. That lyre was his one chance at taming the giant k-9 from hell and it was worth the wait. But soon as he beheld the lyre, his heartless chest cavity sank. It was broken in two, strings curled up like pig tails.
“Ahhhh crud!” Friedrick shouted then immediately popped a hand over his mouth wide eyed and frightened. He looked over at the beast about to test the limits of his netherworld body and realized it was out. Cold. With the imprint of a lyre in its center head.
“Well, I guess the lyre was useful after all.”
With that out of the way, Friedrick was now able to focus on the more dangerous aspect of this mission. The Door That Really Shouldn't Be Fiddled With Under Any Circumstances And That Means Now Too.
***
As Lucifer sat with his head on his desk crying, an ordinary man burst into his room. The man was 6 foot flat, very young looking with the exception of graying hair, he had blue-green eyes, a nose, and two lips (the best amount of lips on a face).
“Where is it?”
Lucifer was taken by surprise by the aggressive and brash behavior of a mortal in his office, in his presence. All he could do was treat the man as he expected to be treated.
“Where’s what?”
“Where is it?” The man kept looking around, right hand still on the outer door handle.
“WHERES WHAT?” It now frightened Lucifer even more that he couldn’t help this irreverent mortal, who was clearly the master of the room at this moment.
“There it is.” The man walked over to the sadfish, picked up his bowl and put it up to his face.
“You worthless piece of crap. You add nothing to this story. All you gave anyone was a case of writers block.”
He then tucked the fishbowl under his arm and made for the door.
“And you”
“Me?”
“Yes. What is this, ‘Hamlet?’ Quit your bitching and get back to doing stuff. Why are you even in this office? Its utterly pointless.”
Just before walking out, he turned to Lucifer.
"Oh, and one other thing. My pal in Rome told me to tell you, 'Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas.'"
With that he walked out to worlds unknown, taking the fish with him.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A quick update
While we're waiting for Robert to work up another masterful post, I thought I'd add something to tide our faithful readers (i.e. the writers) over. I stumbled across a link to a site that will rate your blog according to MPAA standards.
This is how we fared:
Apparently, it's because the story contains 14 instances of the word "hell" and one instance of the word "crack." Go figure.
This is how we fared:
Apparently, it's because the story contains 14 instances of the word "hell" and one instance of the word "crack." Go figure.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Verse 7
[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
Lucifer trudged back to his throne room, deflated. He slinked past the large, golden throne, adorned with skulls of various breeds of humans and angels, and into an unassuming doorway behind it. Sighing, he leaned back against the cherrywood door, clicking it shut. He collapsed into his high-backed leather chair, the very image of defeat.
His private office looked more or less like the average auditor's or insurance adjuster's; a cluttered desk, faux gold nameplate posted prominently at the front, pictures of the kids on a family canoe trip adorning the bookshelves. The sole remarkable difference was a fishbowl on a small pedestal adjacent to the desk.
It was to this fishbowl that the Prince of Lies now turned his attention. Leaning heavily into his palm and peering through the bowl at eye level, he scanned the small underwater castle for signs of life. Before long, a sad-looking fish emerged from the shadows.
The Sadfish burbled.
"Oh, Sadfish," Lucifer moaned, visibly relieved by the sight. "Have I done the right thing?"
Moments passed. The Sadfish more or less hovered in place, once flicking a bit of algae from its gill.
"What I mean is, nothing I do ever seems to make them happy," he continued. "They bicker and bicker and bicker, and never give me a break. Truth is, I bring some genuinely good ideas to the table sometimes, but the council doesn't give me the time of day."
The Sadfish drift idly toward a stalk of plastic seaweed, propelled by some microcurrent. He bumped into it without much ado.
The display didn't affect Lucifer. He continued: "Ah, well. Maybe this time around things'll be different. I mean, we've never been up against a wall like this before. I thought we'd never need the Daylighter -- but maybe it's just what the doctor ordered to put these guys back in their place."
The Sadfish blurped a tiny bubble, which meandered to the surface, skated around for a second, then popped inaudibly. This certainly betrayed its intended sentiment, but that could hardly be helped. In days of yore, when the universe was just a jot on the bottom of God's to-do list, he created a few beings to keep him company. Among the earliest were Lucifer, Jesus Christ, Adam, and a handful of others that without exception eventually appeared in scripture. No exceptions, but one -- the Sadfish. Undeniably the most evil creature in creation, his role was largely diminished when in some cosmic roll of the dice he was relegated to his current form. It was early in the process, and God was still working out the kinks in Matter, his latest creation.
So Lucifer assumed the mantle of eternal counterpoint to God, a role originally held by the Sadfish. The most unimaginably evil cretin ever to curse existence was left to manifest his diabolism largely by swimming menacingly in slow circles and bumping into the glass of his bowl in an irritating way. On the other hand, Lucifer -- once considered a moderate, indeed a lightweight by many in God's closest circles -- got the top job.
"I just don't know, Sadfish," Lucifer sighed. "Sometimes I think nobody understands me."
Lucifer trudged back to his throne room, deflated. He slinked past the large, golden throne, adorned with skulls of various breeds of humans and angels, and into an unassuming doorway behind it. Sighing, he leaned back against the cherrywood door, clicking it shut. He collapsed into his high-backed leather chair, the very image of defeat.
His private office looked more or less like the average auditor's or insurance adjuster's; a cluttered desk, faux gold nameplate posted prominently at the front, pictures of the kids on a family canoe trip adorning the bookshelves. The sole remarkable difference was a fishbowl on a small pedestal adjacent to the desk.
It was to this fishbowl that the Prince of Lies now turned his attention. Leaning heavily into his palm and peering through the bowl at eye level, he scanned the small underwater castle for signs of life. Before long, a sad-looking fish emerged from the shadows.
The Sadfish burbled.
"Oh, Sadfish," Lucifer moaned, visibly relieved by the sight. "Have I done the right thing?"
Moments passed. The Sadfish more or less hovered in place, once flicking a bit of algae from its gill.
"What I mean is, nothing I do ever seems to make them happy," he continued. "They bicker and bicker and bicker, and never give me a break. Truth is, I bring some genuinely good ideas to the table sometimes, but the council doesn't give me the time of day."
The Sadfish drift idly toward a stalk of plastic seaweed, propelled by some microcurrent. He bumped into it without much ado.
The display didn't affect Lucifer. He continued: "Ah, well. Maybe this time around things'll be different. I mean, we've never been up against a wall like this before. I thought we'd never need the Daylighter -- but maybe it's just what the doctor ordered to put these guys back in their place."
The Sadfish blurped a tiny bubble, which meandered to the surface, skated around for a second, then popped inaudibly. This certainly betrayed its intended sentiment, but that could hardly be helped. In days of yore, when the universe was just a jot on the bottom of God's to-do list, he created a few beings to keep him company. Among the earliest were Lucifer, Jesus Christ, Adam, and a handful of others that without exception eventually appeared in scripture. No exceptions, but one -- the Sadfish. Undeniably the most evil creature in creation, his role was largely diminished when in some cosmic roll of the dice he was relegated to his current form. It was early in the process, and God was still working out the kinks in Matter, his latest creation.
So Lucifer assumed the mantle of eternal counterpoint to God, a role originally held by the Sadfish. The most unimaginably evil cretin ever to curse existence was left to manifest his diabolism largely by swimming menacingly in slow circles and bumping into the glass of his bowl in an irritating way. On the other hand, Lucifer -- once considered a moderate, indeed a lightweight by many in God's closest circles -- got the top job.
"I just don't know, Sadfish," Lucifer sighed. "Sometimes I think nobody understands me."
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Verse 6
[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
Frederick left the throne room swiftly for the safety of the antechamber. He hunched his shoulders slightly and kept his gaze fixed to the ground, trying to hide the blinding fear swallowing him whole. He had heard Lucifer speak of the Daylighter only once. The tone of voice in which he spoke during that lecture matched exactly the tone he had just used to send Frederick after the Daylighter. The Master’s eyes had been so fixed, as if he were reading a page from the book of his brain, a page worn and wrinkled from over use, highlighted and rewritten until its contents made sense only to the author. Frederick knew he must remember, and remember well.
As he replayed that conversation in his mind, Frederick feared he’d forgotten how to retrieve the object his master so desired. Finding it was easy; practically everyone in hell knew where to find it. Standing in the throne room’s antechamber, all one had to do was take the far-seeing tunnel of lidless eyes until it forked at Cerberus’ kennel. Get past the old, nasty pooch and pluck the Daylighter from its home in a pool of liquid mama.
The magma was no deterrent. Hell was just as hot as the liquid rock inside the Earth, and hotter still when the furnaces were really humming along. But, creation’s very essence resides in heat, in the moment, in action. To let creation cool is to kill it, and the end of creation inevitably means the end of existence; the very situation Lucifer finds himself in, currently.
Frederick knew how to get to the Daylighter, even how to house it in enough magma to keep it warm for hours. What he could not remember, however, was how to get past that three-headed, shit-eating guard dog, Cerberus.
Frederick wracked his brain for what Lucifer had said, and with each failed grasp he sensed the answer slipping further and further away. The situation was dire enough for Lucifer to request the Daylighter, and he would be enormously pissed were he not presented with it, pronto. Frederick let the question of how to bypass Cerberus alone, for the time being, and started across the antechamber.
The loud clicking of his shoes ceased immediately when he crossed over the threshold into the tunnel. It was like walking into a giant drainage pipe, only covered in endless, lidless eyes. Never blinking, always watching, and every single one connected to his Royal Lowness. Fredericks’ heels slipped and slid over the moist lenses, and there was a constant squidgy sound followed by a fait pop, as he squashed the tiny orbs. It sounded like someone popping bubble wrap, one whole sheet at a time.
Each time he took a step, the previously flattened eyes sprang up anew, rolling to follow Frederick in his progression. Every one in hell might know where to find the Daylighter, but it was only because no one dared tamper with it.
During his eons in hell, Frederick had been de-sensitized to the grotesque, the horrific, and the insane. Crushing eyeballs by the dozen had no affect on his mood, but the feeling of being watched by Him did. He wondered how clear Luci’s vision was, spread out over so many channels. Surely he could see Frederick, but could he see into him, as he could in person? Could he tell his number one servant, his go-to guy, had no idea how to get past his pooch? Frederick thought he heard a slight chuckle run past him down the tunnel. He increased his speed.
Frederick smelled the beast just before he saw him. Lying prone, Cerberus’ enormous paws, each the size of a large stepping stone, were crossed in front of him, his three heads resting on top. He was more wolf than dog, with three long snouts wrung in black fangs; a hell hound of the highest caliber, an indiscriminant killer, and fabled throughout the world that was.
Cerberus remained motionless, eyes closed, and Frederick’s heart soared for an instant, thinking the old bastard had finally fell asleep on the post, after all the long and boring years. Frederick kept his eyes on the dog, shortening and quickening his stride in the hopes of scooting past unnoticed. Unfortunately, his complete attention paid only to monster in front of him, Frederick overlooked the threshold separating eyeballs from hard floor, just ten feet away from Cerberus, and his left heel came down in an echoing click on the granite.
Ace posted this entry because Ross was having HTML issues. But Ross wrote it.
Frederick left the throne room swiftly for the safety of the antechamber. He hunched his shoulders slightly and kept his gaze fixed to the ground, trying to hide the blinding fear swallowing him whole. He had heard Lucifer speak of the Daylighter only once. The tone of voice in which he spoke during that lecture matched exactly the tone he had just used to send Frederick after the Daylighter. The Master’s eyes had been so fixed, as if he were reading a page from the book of his brain, a page worn and wrinkled from over use, highlighted and rewritten until its contents made sense only to the author. Frederick knew he must remember, and remember well.
As he replayed that conversation in his mind, Frederick feared he’d forgotten how to retrieve the object his master so desired. Finding it was easy; practically everyone in hell knew where to find it. Standing in the throne room’s antechamber, all one had to do was take the far-seeing tunnel of lidless eyes until it forked at Cerberus’ kennel. Get past the old, nasty pooch and pluck the Daylighter from its home in a pool of liquid mama.
The magma was no deterrent. Hell was just as hot as the liquid rock inside the Earth, and hotter still when the furnaces were really humming along. But, creation’s very essence resides in heat, in the moment, in action. To let creation cool is to kill it, and the end of creation inevitably means the end of existence; the very situation Lucifer finds himself in, currently.
Frederick knew how to get to the Daylighter, even how to house it in enough magma to keep it warm for hours. What he could not remember, however, was how to get past that three-headed, shit-eating guard dog, Cerberus.
Frederick wracked his brain for what Lucifer had said, and with each failed grasp he sensed the answer slipping further and further away. The situation was dire enough for Lucifer to request the Daylighter, and he would be enormously pissed were he not presented with it, pronto. Frederick let the question of how to bypass Cerberus alone, for the time being, and started across the antechamber.
The loud clicking of his shoes ceased immediately when he crossed over the threshold into the tunnel. It was like walking into a giant drainage pipe, only covered in endless, lidless eyes. Never blinking, always watching, and every single one connected to his Royal Lowness. Fredericks’ heels slipped and slid over the moist lenses, and there was a constant squidgy sound followed by a fait pop, as he squashed the tiny orbs. It sounded like someone popping bubble wrap, one whole sheet at a time.
Each time he took a step, the previously flattened eyes sprang up anew, rolling to follow Frederick in his progression. Every one in hell might know where to find the Daylighter, but it was only because no one dared tamper with it.
During his eons in hell, Frederick had been de-sensitized to the grotesque, the horrific, and the insane. Crushing eyeballs by the dozen had no affect on his mood, but the feeling of being watched by Him did. He wondered how clear Luci’s vision was, spread out over so many channels. Surely he could see Frederick, but could he see into him, as he could in person? Could he tell his number one servant, his go-to guy, had no idea how to get past his pooch? Frederick thought he heard a slight chuckle run past him down the tunnel. He increased his speed.
Frederick smelled the beast just before he saw him. Lying prone, Cerberus’ enormous paws, each the size of a large stepping stone, were crossed in front of him, his three heads resting on top. He was more wolf than dog, with three long snouts wrung in black fangs; a hell hound of the highest caliber, an indiscriminant killer, and fabled throughout the world that was.
Cerberus remained motionless, eyes closed, and Frederick’s heart soared for an instant, thinking the old bastard had finally fell asleep on the post, after all the long and boring years. Frederick kept his eyes on the dog, shortening and quickening his stride in the hopes of scooting past unnoticed. Unfortunately, his complete attention paid only to monster in front of him, Frederick overlooked the threshold separating eyeballs from hard floor, just ten feet away from Cerberus, and his left heel came down in an echoing click on the granite.
Ace posted this entry because Ross was having HTML issues. But Ross wrote it.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
Verse 5
Before Jehovah made the universe, he made the angels; and he was without a favorite. For he could not even see them. Then came the idea for light and from that came the idea for the Universe, which he set about the task of creating.
Only he wasn’t very good at it. He would get mixed up and over enthused and not concentrate. First came the idea for light, then the idea for the heavens and the earth, but he built them backwards, and were it not for Lucifer, he would have entirely forgot the angels.
It became obvious to Jehovah that revisions would need to be made, bumps smoothed, after the heavens and after the light. for who can create perfection with the lights off, who can make a magnum opus in the dark?
It should have been a three day job, four tops. Jehovah was well on his way to making it a twelve. That’s when Lucifer came along.
“May I take a look at that?” Lucifer said as he stepped into the light for the first time, his white robe, fair skin and blonde hair sparkling under what was truly a masterful idea.
“Um, I guess,” Jehovah said with a reluctant look on his face.
Lucifer took a long look before saying anything, hand rubbing chin.
“I like what you’ve done here,” another long pause, “It shows a lot of promise”
“But?” God asked with an eyebrow raised high.
“Oh, nothing at all. It’s your universe.”
“Well, what would you do?”
“Um, well, and again, it’s your universe, but I would start thinking about the source of tension that is going to keep your universe interesting.”
“What?”
“Oh, yeah. A source of tension to keep us all guessing would be an ace of an idea. A little variety.”
“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, and maybe its not the right thing. Good luck!” Lucifer deliberately turned back toward the dark, slowly.
“Wait. Robert, it is Robert right?”
“No, my Lord, its Lucifer”
“Lucifer?”
“Yes my Lord?”
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Nothing major planned, just going to celebrate another day of existence with the other angels, back in the dark”
“Would you like to come back here tomorrow, maybe watch me create the universe, give an opinion here or there?”
“I’d like that. That’d be cool.”
As Lucifer reached the corner of the darkness, he noticed something. A multicolored collection of pieces of raw and pure light and creation rolled into a ball. Pieces of the imperfections discovered when Jehovah flipped the switch, now discarded and sitting inconveniently on the floor of all possibility.
“Jehovah?”
“Yes?”
“Would you like me to take care of this for you, get it out of your way?”
Nobody had ever offered to do Jehovah a favor before and at that moment, something happened in Jehovah, something neither he, nor Lucifer, nor the creator of creators if there is such a thing, will ever fully understand. But at that moment, all three would have guessed he felt gratitude and affection and…
“Yes, my love, I would appreciate that very much.”
For the remainder of the week, they worked on the universe. God had a powerful ability to create, Lucifer had discovered. Ideas such as Light (Why had the other angels still not wandered into it? it was obvious, a bolt of such contrast off in the distance. It was bliss to experience), Day, Firmament, Heaven, Vegetation, Seed, Waters. Lucifer would never understand where it all came from. Jehovah created a raw matter, but had trouble knowing what to do with it, how to make it do anything. This was Lucifer’s territory. Where Jehovah created the Sun, a powerful and original idea, Lucifer could only manage a Moon; new but ultimately similar. And yet, still important. It was also Lucifer’s idea to separate things. The Day and Night, the Land and Waters. It made their strengths obvious and ultimately complimented Jehovah. Jehovah again had that mystery feeling.
On Sunday, they sat on the Green Fields and drank Ambrosia. One would ask the other what they were thinking and the conversation would last an eon. Then it would switch.
They discovered each other, and discovered what they were both good at and what they could do together. Eventually the other angels had a saying. “God made the Universe, Lucifer made it better.”
They were a team, God providing the ideas, Lucifer making them work toward something, adding a moral. God made Job, Lucifer made him suffer. God made Adam and Eve, Lucifer gave them desire. Shortly after Jehovah introduced Jesus, Lucifer came up with the idea of bringing in the cRoss.
And so they went on writing together. Bouncing off of each other’s ideas. Playing good cop, bad cop. Jehovah even changed Lucifer’s shape to that of a hideous beast for the sake of the story, Lucifer’s idea.
But one of the mysteries of Jehovah’s mystery feeling, was when it would end.
Jehovah, creator of creators (if there is such a thing) bless him, couldn’t stay interested in anything forever. Lucifer never knew how many worlds lay collecting dust before him, and how many books remained unfinished after. He was a momentary pleasure, cast aside when the new big idea came. Jehovah stopped saying “I love you” to Lucifer after that. Then he stopped talking to him altogether. He even forgot to change him back to his former image.
Lucifer’s universe (For who else would lay claim to it now?) was able to run on autopilot for a while, and it did. But the gears of metaphysics were beginning to break, no new souls were being made to replace the old ones. The Universe was decaying. Creation’s natural half-life now returning reality back into its at rest state of possibility. It had lasted longer than Lucifer had really wished for a long time. But years of solitude from anyone like himself (Where had all the other angels gone?) had taught him to lean on no one but himself.
And now he had the chance to become a creator, a god, an equal to his now true nemesis, the one who taught him false love, but honest hate. Jehovah never had the power to destroy, he left that to Lucifer, but now, Lucifer might have both, and that would make him the greater.
Good thing he kept that ball of pure daylight and creation. That ball he called the Daylighter.
Verse 5
Before Jehovah made the universe, he made the angels; and he was without a favorite. For he could not even see them. Then came the idea for light and from that came the idea for the Universe, which he set about the task of creating.
Only he wasn’t very good at it. He would get mixed up and over enthused and not concentrate. First came the idea for light, then the idea for the heavens and the earth, but he built them backwards, and were it not for Lucifer, he would have entirely forgot the angels.
It became obvious to Jehovah that revisions would need to be made, bumps smoothed, after the heavens and after the light. for who can create perfection with the lights off, who can make a magnum opus in the dark?
It should have been a three day job, four tops. Jehovah was well on his way to making it a twelve. That’s when Lucifer came along.
“May I take a look at that?” Lucifer said as he stepped into the light for the first time, his white robe, fair skin and blonde hair sparkling under what was truly a masterful idea.
“Um, I guess,” Jehovah said with a reluctant look on his face.
Lucifer took a long look before saying anything, hand rubbing chin.
“I like what you’ve done here,” another long pause, “It shows a lot of promise”
“But?” God asked with an eyebrow raised high.
“Oh, nothing at all. It’s your universe.”
“Well, what would you do?”
“Um, well, and again, it’s your universe, but I would start thinking about the source of tension that is going to keep your universe interesting.”
“What?”
“Oh, yeah. A source of tension to keep us all guessing would be an ace of an idea. A little variety.”
“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, and maybe its not the right thing. Good luck!” Lucifer deliberately turned back toward the dark, slowly.
“Wait. Robert, it is Robert right?”
“No, my Lord, its Lucifer”
“Lucifer?”
“Yes my Lord?”
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Nothing major planned, just going to celebrate another day of existence with the other angels, back in the dark”
“Would you like to come back here tomorrow, maybe watch me create the universe, give an opinion here or there?”
“I’d like that. That’d be cool.”
As Lucifer reached the corner of the darkness, he noticed something. A multicolored collection of pieces of raw and pure light and creation rolled into a ball. Pieces of the imperfections discovered when Jehovah flipped the switch, now discarded and sitting inconveniently on the floor of all possibility.
“Jehovah?”
“Yes?”
“Would you like me to take care of this for you, get it out of your way?”
Nobody had ever offered to do Jehovah a favor before and at that moment, something happened in Jehovah, something neither he, nor Lucifer, nor the creator of creators if there is such a thing, will ever fully understand. But at that moment, all three would have guessed he felt gratitude and affection and…
“Yes, my love, I would appreciate that very much.”
For the remainder of the week, they worked on the universe. God had a powerful ability to create, Lucifer had discovered. Ideas such as Light (Why had the other angels still not wandered into it? it was obvious, a bolt of such contrast off in the distance. It was bliss to experience), Day, Firmament, Heaven, Vegetation, Seed, Waters. Lucifer would never understand where it all came from. Jehovah created a raw matter, but had trouble knowing what to do with it, how to make it do anything. This was Lucifer’s territory. Where Jehovah created the Sun, a powerful and original idea, Lucifer could only manage a Moon; new but ultimately similar. And yet, still important. It was also Lucifer’s idea to separate things. The Day and Night, the Land and Waters. It made their strengths obvious and ultimately complimented Jehovah. Jehovah again had that mystery feeling.
On Sunday, they sat on the Green Fields and drank Ambrosia. One would ask the other what they were thinking and the conversation would last an eon. Then it would switch.
They discovered each other, and discovered what they were both good at and what they could do together. Eventually the other angels had a saying. “God made the Universe, Lucifer made it better.”
They were a team, God providing the ideas, Lucifer making them work toward something, adding a moral. God made Job, Lucifer made him suffer. God made Adam and Eve, Lucifer gave them desire. Shortly after Jehovah introduced Jesus, Lucifer came up with the idea of bringing in the cRoss.
And so they went on writing together. Bouncing off of each other’s ideas. Playing good cop, bad cop. Jehovah even changed Lucifer’s shape to that of a hideous beast for the sake of the story, Lucifer’s idea.
But one of the mysteries of Jehovah’s mystery feeling, was when it would end.
Jehovah, creator of creators (if there is such a thing) bless him, couldn’t stay interested in anything forever. Lucifer never knew how many worlds lay collecting dust before him, and how many books remained unfinished after. He was a momentary pleasure, cast aside when the new big idea came. Jehovah stopped saying “I love you” to Lucifer after that. Then he stopped talking to him altogether. He even forgot to change him back to his former image.
Lucifer’s universe (For who else would lay claim to it now?) was able to run on autopilot for a while, and it did. But the gears of metaphysics were beginning to break, no new souls were being made to replace the old ones. The Universe was decaying. Creation’s natural half-life now returning reality back into its at rest state of possibility. It had lasted longer than Lucifer had really wished for a long time. But years of solitude from anyone like himself (Where had all the other angels gone?) had taught him to lean on no one but himself.
And now he had the chance to become a creator, a god, an equal to his now true nemesis, the one who taught him false love, but honest hate. Jehovah never had the power to destroy, he left that to Lucifer, but now, Lucifer might have both, and that would make him the greater.
Good thing he kept that ball of pure daylight and creation. That ball he called the Daylighter.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Verse 4
[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
Karl wheeled awkwardly toward the conference table.
"W-what's going on?" he stuttered.
Lucifer ignored him for a moment. Spinning on his heel to face the others, he pronounced: "Gentlemen -- and lady," he said, with a wink toward Betty Bathory, "I give you the new Lieutenant General of Hell's Army: Mr. Karl Christian Rove."
He swooped behind Karl, extending a demonstrative hand in front of him. For a moment, there was dazed silence. Then all at once, as if on cue, the group erupted in protests. Lucifer cringed, unable to discern anything above the din of complaints and galumphing.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" he howled. "GENTLEMEN, ONE AT A TIME!"
Somewhere, a homeless kitten got pancreatic cancer with a very poor prognosis. Its mother's teats dried up, rendering her unable to nurse the youngling. Hunger and invasive disease began playing a game for its short life.
"But how can zis be?" shouted Hitler's sound guy, pounding his fist on the table. "He is small and pudgy -- hardly ze heroic archetype necessary to lead our warriors into battle! He cannot serve ze post with dignity!"
"Indeed!" barked Jackson. "This isn't to say that all of us haven't been impressed with Mr. Rove's work at one time or another. But," he said gesturing toward a shadowy figure in the corner, "Attila's been waiting for that job for going on two millennia. How is that fair?"
The shadowy figure glowered, but said nothing.
"This is hardly the time to dwell on fairness," Lucifer shot back, taking a seat next to Karl, who was at this point weeping tears of joy and stammering incomprehensibly. "This is the time for action. Now sit. All of you."
---
Back in the kitchen, Ikey, the Devil's least favorite minion, sprinted into the room. Augoostus glanced over expectantly but did not break from the large cauldron he was stirring. He idly wiped a hand across his "Kiss Me, I'm Infernal" apron.
Ikey doubled over, clasping his hands to his knees, panting desperately for breath.
"Have you guys heard?" he croaked.
"Heawd wha'?" Stanley said, setting aside the fried intestine sandwich he had just bitten into. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and down his chin.
"There's a -- there's a -- there's a new council member, and they say the Big L's getting ready to do something drastic," Ikey said, loping over toward Stanley and scooping a handful of thick, green goo from Augoostus's cauldron as he went. The chef arced a horny brow and rapped him on the head with his spoon made of human bone, sinew, etc.
"Oh yeah?" asked Stanley, gaining interest. "What's up?"
"I dunno. I think it has to do with the souls. This morning, there weren't enough of them to fuel the furnace."
A stray intestine slid from Stanley's gaping jaw to the floor. It landed with a sploosh at Ikey's feet.
"What's happening?"
"I-I don't know," Ikey bustled. He licked the goo furiously from his fingers, salivating more with each lap of his forked tongue. "But there's whisperings among the imps that he's going to open the Door That Really Shouldn't Be Fiddled With Under Any Circumstances And That Means Now Too."
"The DTRSBFWUACATMNT -- oh, dear," said Stanley and Augoostus in tandem.
---
Back in Lucifer's throne room, the board was bickering about what should be done. The souls were disappearing, yes, and taking action was imperative -- but beyond that, no two members could agree on what should happen.
"I don't even know why I'm here," John Denver whimpered amid the clamor, clasping the neck of his guitar.
"Two words: 'Thank God I'm a Country Boy,' puss," snarled Leonard Smalls from the far end of the conversation.
The debate continued like this for some six hours, during which Lucifer gradually slunk back in his seat with a headache that increasingly hampered his senses. Finally, he spoke up. When he did, he used a tone reserved for only the most severe circumstances -- the most recent being the birth of a certain carpenter's son in Bethlehem.
"Quiet."
The board fell silent, every pair of eyes focusing on the slouching figure at the end of the table.
"Friedrick," he called. A cowering figure emerged from behind his chair.
"Yes, my most Deliciously Malignant Master?"
Satan sighed heavily.
"Fetch the Daylighter."
A sudden hush resounded through all the hallways of Hell at that moment, as if propelled by a force of nature. Had the Devil's legions of minions any hearts within their empty chest cavities, they would have begun beating wildly all at once.
Fear gripped the Underworld, but Lucifer only repeated the simple order.
"Go get the Daylighter."
Karl wheeled awkwardly toward the conference table.
"W-what's going on?" he stuttered.
Lucifer ignored him for a moment. Spinning on his heel to face the others, he pronounced: "Gentlemen -- and lady," he said, with a wink toward Betty Bathory, "I give you the new Lieutenant General of Hell's Army: Mr. Karl Christian Rove."
He swooped behind Karl, extending a demonstrative hand in front of him. For a moment, there was dazed silence. Then all at once, as if on cue, the group erupted in protests. Lucifer cringed, unable to discern anything above the din of complaints and galumphing.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" he howled. "GENTLEMEN, ONE AT A TIME!"
Somewhere, a homeless kitten got pancreatic cancer with a very poor prognosis. Its mother's teats dried up, rendering her unable to nurse the youngling. Hunger and invasive disease began playing a game for its short life.
"But how can zis be?" shouted Hitler's sound guy, pounding his fist on the table. "He is small and pudgy -- hardly ze heroic archetype necessary to lead our warriors into battle! He cannot serve ze post with dignity!"
"Indeed!" barked Jackson. "This isn't to say that all of us haven't been impressed with Mr. Rove's work at one time or another. But," he said gesturing toward a shadowy figure in the corner, "Attila's been waiting for that job for going on two millennia. How is that fair?"
The shadowy figure glowered, but said nothing.
"This is hardly the time to dwell on fairness," Lucifer shot back, taking a seat next to Karl, who was at this point weeping tears of joy and stammering incomprehensibly. "This is the time for action. Now sit. All of you."
---
Back in the kitchen, Ikey, the Devil's least favorite minion, sprinted into the room. Augoostus glanced over expectantly but did not break from the large cauldron he was stirring. He idly wiped a hand across his "Kiss Me, I'm Infernal" apron.
Ikey doubled over, clasping his hands to his knees, panting desperately for breath.
"Have you guys heard?" he croaked.
"Heawd wha'?" Stanley said, setting aside the fried intestine sandwich he had just bitten into. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and down his chin.
"There's a -- there's a -- there's a new council member, and they say the Big L's getting ready to do something drastic," Ikey said, loping over toward Stanley and scooping a handful of thick, green goo from Augoostus's cauldron as he went. The chef arced a horny brow and rapped him on the head with his spoon made of human bone, sinew, etc.
"Oh yeah?" asked Stanley, gaining interest. "What's up?"
"I dunno. I think it has to do with the souls. This morning, there weren't enough of them to fuel the furnace."
A stray intestine slid from Stanley's gaping jaw to the floor. It landed with a sploosh at Ikey's feet.
"What's happening?"
"I-I don't know," Ikey bustled. He licked the goo furiously from his fingers, salivating more with each lap of his forked tongue. "But there's whisperings among the imps that he's going to open the Door That Really Shouldn't Be Fiddled With Under Any Circumstances And That Means Now Too."
"The DTRSBFWUACATMNT -- oh, dear," said Stanley and Augoostus in tandem.
---
Back in Lucifer's throne room, the board was bickering about what should be done. The souls were disappearing, yes, and taking action was imperative -- but beyond that, no two members could agree on what should happen.
"I don't even know why I'm here," John Denver whimpered amid the clamor, clasping the neck of his guitar.
"Two words: 'Thank God I'm a Country Boy,' puss," snarled Leonard Smalls from the far end of the conversation.
The debate continued like this for some six hours, during which Lucifer gradually slunk back in his seat with a headache that increasingly hampered his senses. Finally, he spoke up. When he did, he used a tone reserved for only the most severe circumstances -- the most recent being the birth of a certain carpenter's son in Bethlehem.
"Quiet."
The board fell silent, every pair of eyes focusing on the slouching figure at the end of the table.
"Friedrick," he called. A cowering figure emerged from behind his chair.
"Yes, my most Deliciously Malignant Master?"
Satan sighed heavily.
"Fetch the Daylighter."
A sudden hush resounded through all the hallways of Hell at that moment, as if propelled by a force of nature. Had the Devil's legions of minions any hearts within their empty chest cavities, they would have begun beating wildly all at once.
Fear gripped the Underworld, but Lucifer only repeated the simple order.
"Go get the Daylighter."
Monday, October 13, 2008
[This is part of an ongoing tandem writing experiment. To read the full story, click here.]
Carl Marx and Immanuel Kant clasped shoulders at Tesla’s remark and bellowed. Lucifer shot them all the stink eye, literally, but it did little to quiet the roar.
Enraged, Lucifer grasped his empty snack container by the hair and punted it with one hoofed foot directly into the chuckling gullet of Richard Nixon. Nose flattened, Nixon picked up the severed head, unhinged his jaw and dropped the morsel in his mouth, swallowing it whole. “Point taken,” he snarled.
“NOW, FOR THE REASON I HAVE SUMMONED YOU…” But before he could finish his sentence, another voice called out from the council.
“We KNOW why we’re here, let us make that crystalline clear. You’re out of souls, dear heart. You need more and you can’t figure out where to start.” It was Oliver Cromwell, from far in the back. The lilting, sing-song voice was a dead give away, and something Satan hated very, very much.
“Yes, we have all noticed the drop in temperature,” Commodus said. “And look, that great big pile of souls has been diminished to nearly nothing,” he said, gesturing with his right hand. “Honestly, Satan, what good would a council do if they were always two steps behind you?” The room let out another chuckle.
Eyes brimming with acid, Lucifer dug in his pockets for another hankie. “Don’t let them see you cry, don’t let them see you cry,” he thought over and over again. In a final effort to keep his composure, the Lord of Darkness resorted to biting his tongue and repeatedly stabbing himself with his nails of pure, sharpened obsidian. When he was sure he could speak without a falter in his voice, Satan, the King of the Underworld, the Sultan of Sulfur, the Baron of Brimstone, spoke in a high falsetto.
“What good indeed, Commodus?” As his eyes met with those of the Morningstar, Commodus saw the face of every crippled man he ever killed on the sands of the Coliseum.
Lucifer switched from his mocking falsetto back into his normal, Barry White-ish baratone. “My friends, you forget your place. You hold your current positions as uneaten and unburned councilors only while I hold sway over my kingdom. When the souls dry up, your usefulness as councilors dries in tandem. However, your souls still retain that unburned quality which my furnaces crave. And, with the finely aged quality of so many of your souls, I’d wager a guess that you’ll all go up faster than an old growth forest in the middle of July!” Lucifer flicked his hands like a cheap birthday magician, and every councilmember had a separate but equally terrifying vision of heat, intense heat beyond explanation, as if they had plunged into the heart of 1,000 suns, followed by nothing. No heat, no cold, no good and no ill. Simply nothing. It was infinitely more terrifying than the blinding heat of hell’s furnace.
Lucifer felt the room shift, felt the balance of power roll back into his court, and it felt wonderful. Moreover, he felt good. And, for the first time in a long time, probably since the council helped him bring about the Spanish Inquisition, Lucifer felt in complete control of every member.
Nietzsche was the first to speak. “Vell, vat vould you have us do?”
“Dear, dear Frederich,” Satan said. “As much as I appreciated your help in bringing about the Holocaust and WWII with your absurd Ubermensch, I dare say the problems facing us now far exceed the expertise of the council, as is.”
Satan felt the collective eyes of the room on him, saw the questions bubbling up in each and every one of them. He focused all his attention to his ears, and when he heard the faint crack of John Locke’s lips part to say something, Satan leapt upon the table and, in his most earnest impression of a late night TV infomercial spokesman, the Prince of Darkness said, “Which is precisely why, at this very moment, a tour bus is veering off its proper path on Pennsylvania Ave. As I stand before you this bus is cutting across the median, barreling into oncoming traffic, and colliding head-on with a black Chevy Suburban! Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the new co-head of Satan’s Braintrust, the only man evil enough to be called away early from his most-important work on planet earth, Mr. Carl Rove!”
And, with another flick of his wrist, a black leather rolling chair holding an aged, fat and bespectacled man with wild, questioning eyes appeared between Andrew Jackson and Philippe Pétain, the leader of Vichy France.
“Oh, come off it, Carl,” Lucifer said. “Don’t act so surprised, this was all written in the fine print.”
Carl Marx and Immanuel Kant clasped shoulders at Tesla’s remark and bellowed. Lucifer shot them all the stink eye, literally, but it did little to quiet the roar.
Enraged, Lucifer grasped his empty snack container by the hair and punted it with one hoofed foot directly into the chuckling gullet of Richard Nixon. Nose flattened, Nixon picked up the severed head, unhinged his jaw and dropped the morsel in his mouth, swallowing it whole. “Point taken,” he snarled.
“NOW, FOR THE REASON I HAVE SUMMONED YOU…” But before he could finish his sentence, another voice called out from the council.
“We KNOW why we’re here, let us make that crystalline clear. You’re out of souls, dear heart. You need more and you can’t figure out where to start.” It was Oliver Cromwell, from far in the back. The lilting, sing-song voice was a dead give away, and something Satan hated very, very much.
“Yes, we have all noticed the drop in temperature,” Commodus said. “And look, that great big pile of souls has been diminished to nearly nothing,” he said, gesturing with his right hand. “Honestly, Satan, what good would a council do if they were always two steps behind you?” The room let out another chuckle.
Eyes brimming with acid, Lucifer dug in his pockets for another hankie. “Don’t let them see you cry, don’t let them see you cry,” he thought over and over again. In a final effort to keep his composure, the Lord of Darkness resorted to biting his tongue and repeatedly stabbing himself with his nails of pure, sharpened obsidian. When he was sure he could speak without a falter in his voice, Satan, the King of the Underworld, the Sultan of Sulfur, the Baron of Brimstone, spoke in a high falsetto.
“What good indeed, Commodus?” As his eyes met with those of the Morningstar, Commodus saw the face of every crippled man he ever killed on the sands of the Coliseum.
Lucifer switched from his mocking falsetto back into his normal, Barry White-ish baratone. “My friends, you forget your place. You hold your current positions as uneaten and unburned councilors only while I hold sway over my kingdom. When the souls dry up, your usefulness as councilors dries in tandem. However, your souls still retain that unburned quality which my furnaces crave. And, with the finely aged quality of so many of your souls, I’d wager a guess that you’ll all go up faster than an old growth forest in the middle of July!” Lucifer flicked his hands like a cheap birthday magician, and every councilmember had a separate but equally terrifying vision of heat, intense heat beyond explanation, as if they had plunged into the heart of 1,000 suns, followed by nothing. No heat, no cold, no good and no ill. Simply nothing. It was infinitely more terrifying than the blinding heat of hell’s furnace.
Lucifer felt the room shift, felt the balance of power roll back into his court, and it felt wonderful. Moreover, he felt good. And, for the first time in a long time, probably since the council helped him bring about the Spanish Inquisition, Lucifer felt in complete control of every member.
Nietzsche was the first to speak. “Vell, vat vould you have us do?”
“Dear, dear Frederich,” Satan said. “As much as I appreciated your help in bringing about the Holocaust and WWII with your absurd Ubermensch, I dare say the problems facing us now far exceed the expertise of the council, as is.”
Satan felt the collective eyes of the room on him, saw the questions bubbling up in each and every one of them. He focused all his attention to his ears, and when he heard the faint crack of John Locke’s lips part to say something, Satan leapt upon the table and, in his most earnest impression of a late night TV infomercial spokesman, the Prince of Darkness said, “Which is precisely why, at this very moment, a tour bus is veering off its proper path on Pennsylvania Ave. As I stand before you this bus is cutting across the median, barreling into oncoming traffic, and colliding head-on with a black Chevy Suburban! Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the new co-head of Satan’s Braintrust, the only man evil enough to be called away early from his most-important work on planet earth, Mr. Carl Rove!”
And, with another flick of his wrist, a black leather rolling chair holding an aged, fat and bespectacled man with wild, questioning eyes appeared between Andrew Jackson and Philippe Pétain, the leader of Vichy France.
“Oh, come off it, Carl,” Lucifer said. “Don’t act so surprised, this was all written in the fine print.”
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Our powers combined
We have been joined by the illustrious Ross Brooks, Esq., in our little writing experiment. From now on, the three of us will rotate, each contributing an entry to the story in turn.
Ross is a killer writer, a recent globetrotter, and a giant on the racquetball court.
This is going to be fun.
Ross is a killer writer, a recent globetrotter, and a giant on the racquetball court.
This is going to be fun.
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