Fright Week Flash Fiction II: Prince of Darkness

image
Original image by jason aaberg, on freeimages.com.

PRINCE OF DARKNESS

“Very well,” Satan says, flipping the final page of the contract and neatening the stack. “All seems to be in order. It’s an unusual request, writing up your own deal, but I can’t say I see anything in here I’m unsatisfied with.” He winks one blood-red eye. “After a few aeons of torment, I might consider asking you to work for me. It’s getting harder and harder to find good lawyers in Hell these days.”

“So you’re satisfied with all the terms and conditions?” I ask. I wipe the sweat from my palms off on the sides of my suit jacket.

“Sure, sure. It’s the standard deal, ain’t it? My power and wealth and fame, your soul. Pfah. You people are never original.” He looks down at the stack again. Maybe I’m imagining it, but there’s almost a hint of sadness in his big red face. “Just once,” he says, “I’d like someone to sell their soul for a loved one’s life. Or the ability to cure cancer, ebola, AIDS. But I guess that kind doesn’t come to me.”

There’s no mistaking the sadness now. “They never come to me.”

I haven’t been dealing with Satan very long–just the same old contract, as he’d say–but he’s not what you’d expect. He’s getting old, I guess. Weary. The Light-bringer, remembering the color of sky. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard him wish for love in the world, health, kindness.

It makes me a little uncomfortable, to be honest. You should know where you stand, with Satan. You should be terrified, grovelling, subservient. A guy like me should maybe be a little opportunistic.

But sorry for him? Never.

I clear my throat. “I’ll go ahead and sign now, shall I?”

“Sure. Sure.” Satan produces a wickedly serrated fountain pen from the depths of his own coat pocket. “You know the deal. Sign in blood, forfeit your soul, et cetera. Then I sign. I’ll send you a hellhound or something. We’ll keep in touch.”

I take the pen in hand, run the nib over my finger. The blood wells up, dark and deep.

I do the deed.

There’s nothing. No feeling, no fear, no crackle of hellfire, no demonic cacophany.

Nothing.

Satan takes the pen after me, changes the nib with all the persnickety care of an old woman. Blood is, as I’ve come to understand it, very important in the legal proceedings of Hell–should he use the same nib as me, should a trace of my blood wind up in his signature, his power over me is lessened.

Guess it’s good he’s still careful about some things.

He signs the same way he’s signed all my friends’ contracts: a simple red X, smoking and bubbling with all the foulness of the demon blood that created it. He looks down at the X for a long time, and perhaps this is how I’ll remember him: the great red body stuffed into a suit that doesn’t quite fit it, black hair combed back, cuffs damp with yesterday’s blood. A used car salesman in Hell. A has-been, focused on the past.

Which is why I’m here, to be honest.

“Lucifer,” I say, almost gently. “Satan. Buddy. Do you realize what you’ve done yet?”

It’s at the sound of his own name–Lucifer–that the knowledge comes into his eyes. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” he murmurs. “And, now that you mention it–I didn’t see it anywhere on that contract.”

“Nope.” I can’t keep from grinning any longer. Hell–if you tricked Satan, would you? “I just made a totally legally binding deal with the Prince of Darkness. My soul for neverending power–same old deal, Luke, you always make. There’s just one little catch.”

The flames flicker across the blade of my new-drawn knife, send lines of pulsing orange neon dancing down it. I look Satan in the eyes. There’s fear there, surprise, and maybe–just maybe–a little bit of relief.

Simp. Stupid simp.

“The Prince,” I whisper, “doesn’t have to be you. It might as well be me.”

He carves up beautifully, like a big red Thanksgiving turkey. You’d think there would be more fight in him, but I guess sometimes folks just know when it’s time to exit stage left. It’s been time for him for a while.

I should feel remorse, staring at the gobbets of unresisting red meat steaming in front of me. I don’t. I feel like a stranger, looking out across the surface of Mars. I feel like a warrior, bathed in the blood of my enemies.

I feel like the Prince of Darkness.

I feel fine. Just fine, just fine, just fine.

I pick up my contract. I tear it in two.

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Fright Week Flash Fiction II: Prince of Darkness

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s