Another Day in Paradise

It ended up being one of those shitfuck days that everybody in the office dreads. The head honcho was in town for his bimonthly assessment, and heads had already started rolling.

Bogok was slinking towards the water cooler, hoping the office manager, Girach, wouldn’t see him. She could be a real fuck when she wanted to be.

“Hey guys, did you hear the news?” hissed Bogok as his eyes darted from side to side. “The big man is here, and he’s not happy!”

“What the fuck, Bogok?” Do you seriously think we don’t know? ” Valvollan responded, not even attempting to hide his disdain for Bogok.

“Not today, Bogok, not today,” Ogmon interjected. He was always trying to smooth things over. He was a real company man at heart. OK, a real company demon without a beating heart.

“Shut the fuck up, you ass-kissing sycophant.” snapped Valvollan. “You two are the bean counters down here! I’m the one who has to go out into the field and get shit done.”

“Easy, big guy, do you want mommy to come over there and kiss it better for you?” Tralvuraun had just walked over in her sexy office pantsuit, which made all the men’s heads turn except Arnaruch. He was the most open and, hands down, the gayest demon in the office.

“Piss off Tralvuraun.” “I’m not in the mood for your dirty, sexy mouth right now,” snapped Valvollan.

“HA! That’ll be the day,” laughed Tralvuraun. “I’m only one away from meeting my monthly quota. Where are you at Valvo-Vag?”

You could hear Arnaruch laughing in the distance. “Ha, she called him Vag.”

“You fuckers can all go to heaven for all I care.” Valvollan found it hard to hold back the tears at this point.

Without even so much as trying to hide his disdain for hetero-demons, Arnaruch, almost laughing out loud, singled Val out: “Sweet zombie Jesus Christ, Valvollan, are you about to cry?” Arnaruch was now blatantly pointing across the office at him as he continued, “Demon the fuck up already; the big man is only 11 minutes away!”

Valvollan’s anxiety levels skyrocketed. The pissy odour emanating from his ghastly pores told every demon in the office that he was panicking. Valvollan had wasted most of the month topside, getting it on with loose women while doing a shit ton of blow. He wasn’t a blow addict. He was a topside addict. There was discussion that the company would put him in rehab for a few millennia.

Ogmon piped in, “You know any soul will do right. I hear they are even letting you guys collect demon souls now. Why not just take Bogok’s and tell them that more is on its way, but this one is fresh. Well, fresh-ish,” he said, pointing his thumb at Bogok.

Bogok reacted shyly, “Hey?” as he tried to hide the tear that had just fallen from his eye from his coworkers at the water cooler. “You guys can be real angel fuckers; you know that!”

When Bogok started crying, Tralvuraun gave him a napkin. She winked and continued, “Don’t you worry about those two, Bogok! I’ve got your back.” As he reached out to take it, Tralvuraun continued, “That’s weird. Hey Bogok, does that napkin smell like chloroform? “

As the world around him started to blur and darken, Bogok could hear the hysterical laughter of his once-former coworkers. “Fuug yuuulll!” was the last thing he said as his putrid, pear-shaped demon body slumped to the ground.

“It’s a shame that we never really perish but are merely reborn at the bottom of the corporate food chain. Ha!” Ogmon had never understood comedy.

Tralvuraun strode over to her heavenly fallen coworker’s body without skipping a beat. “Boys, sit up straight; the boss is here!” She cocked her head to the side, scanning him up and down. “You look nasty, but in a bad way.” She growled as she passed him a rag. “Clean up before he sees you!”

Tralvuraun only winked as Valvollan realized it was too late; his eyes crossed and became heavy. “Bidzzt!” was all he could say.

He tried to grab the chair for support, but Ogmon kicked it to the side, laughing as he spoke. “Bean, count this, you dirty human lover.”

Valvollan couldn’t see it, but Ogmon was flipping him two birds. All Val could think of as his face slammed into the fast-approaching floor was getting topside one last time. When his teeth cracked and bone fragments entered his evil brain, it abruptly deprived him of the opportunity to finish his evil musing.

“Damn!” Tralvuraun said, “I am sooo good at being bad!” She kicked the body of Valvollan as she moved past it to get a better view of her employer, but all she got was a face full of Girach. “Holy shit, woman!” said Tral, astonished. “Take 10 steps back!”

Girach addressed the room, completely disregarding Tralvuraun. “What do we have here?” she asked, raising an arm over the tangled pile of victims on the floor. “This wouldn’t be a little amusement on the company’s dime, would it?”

“No, ma’am, it’s only ah… hm.” Ogmon chose to stop speaking.

Tralvuraun, however, had not. “Are you high?” she inquired. “I’m working over here, and exceeding my monthly quota by three.”

Girach made it no secret that she loathed Tralvuraun from the outset. It’s not like demons ever become buddies, but Girach had it in for her. Girach’s physical nose may have been out of joint, as was speculated in some water cooler conversations, but her dead, dark, and shrivelled heart felt the absence of attention. There was widespread consensus that she was no longer anyone’s favourite workplace demon. After all, a beautiful monster can only look so natural with so much pus on its face.

Tralvuraun cursed under her breath. “Fuck, I’m out of chloroform!”

“What’s that, dear?” asked Girach.

“Sorry about that. I told Ogmon that I needed another order form.” Tralvuraun, like all demons, was an expert at lying on the fly. Ogmon only chuckled; he was growing fond of Tral.

At that moment, a nosey Arnaruch found any excuse to walk by and get whatever gossip his dirty, pointed ears could pick up. “Anything I can help you with, sweetheart?”

“You and your little pencil dick can go to heaven and mind your own Beelzebub damned business, Arnaruch.” To them, this was idle conversation. They would go out all night after work, getting drunk on the blood of virgins.

“You’re such a bitch. It’s wonderful. Kisses.” Arnaruch was off to tell his wicked, lovely lies to everyone who would listen.

Tralvuraun turned to face Girach and yelled loud enough for all the hideous hell creatures in Office 613 to hear. “OK, screw it. I’m tired of this bullshit. Could I borrow you for a moment?” Her grin was more phony than usual.

“Yes, my sweetheart, but just for a split second. We don’t want to keep the big man waiting, do we?” Girach wasn’t actually requesting anything; she just enjoyed the role of condescending demon manager. It may have been in her contract, which she signed in blood a millennium ago.

Whispering, Ogmon asked, “What are you doing? She’s your boss!”

“Was my boss, Ogmon! Was!”

Out of chloroform, out of patience, and running out of time before Satan himself was about to conduct her performance review, Tralvuraun did what all demons do in crunch time. Random acts of gore-filled brutality, insane enough to make the hounds of hell blush.

“Eat this, Girach!” Tralvuraun grabbed the empty bottle of chloroform and jammed it into Pusface’s open-mouth hole. Tral’s arm went upward in a punching motion as Girach’s eyes crossed in a downward motion, both fist and face colliding for one wonderful glass-crunching moment of mayhem and devastation. Girach slumped to the ground, gazing up at a smiling Tralvuraun, her hands raised in a blood, glass, and tooth protest. She opened her mouth to say something, but the reactive heel of Tralvuraun’s newly acquired promotion boots cut off her train of thought. Come, heaven, or low, calm waters; today was Tral’s day.

“Hey Tral.”

“Yes, Ogmon.”

“I don’t want to rain on your parade or anything, but,” Ogmon paused.

“Rain away, little demon, rain away.”

“Um, well, let me explain,” Ogmon fumbled.

“Go on.”

“Well, I think your numbers are off a bit.”

Tralvuraun smiled. “Oh, Ogmon, always the demonic little bean counter.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad; you’re only off by one number. Out of four hundred and thirty-six thousand, seven hundred and twenty-six, that’s not so bad.” When Ogmon set someone straight on their math, he experienced that wonderful, sinful pride.

“Just one, you say?”

“That’s right, Tral, just one.” Ogmon was beaming by this point.

“Ogmon?”

“Yes, Tral?”

“How’s your coffee?”

“Ah Fuuug yuulll bidzzt.”

Up the Hill

“I wish I could teleport,” I say. “This hill is far too-”

“Did you say ‘fart?” Oliver asked.

He whips his head to widen his eyes in accusation at me.

“No, you did!” He said. “You said ‘fart!”

I press my lips together and hold the scream of frustration in my mouth. I don’t even bother to blame myself for saying the words “far” and “too” in succession of one another. It’s been years of blaming myself for the sake of fairness; I am done. 

It’s the sort of summer day that people refer to as “beautiful”, but my heart yearns for the cooler temperatures of autumn. Black clouds of gnats populate the area at random. The neighborhood smells like tires. A sun sneeze loiters behind my nose and eyes. The blue raspberry syrup sky seems too low, like the ceiling of a boiler room. 

None of this I say out loud. It would be further evidence of my bad attitude. After all, he is the fun loving one. 

“Complaining is your lifeblood,” he likes to say.

I do not want to confirm this. I do not want to be negative. I swear. That said, the heat death of the universe would be a welcome change of pace.

“What’s that?” Oliver asks.

I didn’t bother to look, assuming it was another trick of his. Knowing Oliver, I would turn my head directly into a mud ball in the face or at least be treated to the sight of two homeless people fucking in public.

“I don’t know, Oliver,” I say. “What is it?”

“I-I really don’t know,” Oliver says.

His voice is like a rubber band stretched too tight. Following his gaze, a lone figure stands. Skulking in a small park across the street, it is hard to see clearly as the shade of a towering conifer veils it in darkness. Too immense to be a person, it is like an immense pile of black fabric, but the way it moves and flows is as if the wind is blowing only in the spot where it stands. Everywhere else, the air is stagnant.

“Let’s go over there,” Oliver says.

I continue to walk up the hill.

“This is why you’re depressed,” says Oliver. “You never want to push yourself outside of your comfort zone.”

“I’m not depressed,” I say.

I stride toward the ominous figure, partially to prove it, partially to get away from Oliver. As I cross the street, the acrid flavor that fills my mouth gets strong with each step until my eyes begin to water.

Oliver follows, chattering something I cannot hear. The air pressure drops as we approach. My ears pop.

In the folds of the wraithlike blackness, something resembling a face emerges. It is white and eyeless, like a theater mask. This should not happen, not during the day. Something about the world arounds me tells me that it is not actually the day, just a simulacrum of it. It isn’t night either; I have fallen into an absence of time.

What am I doing?

I turn. The look on Oliver’s face tells me not to turn back again. He’s been exsanguinated of all mirth. His eyes go waxy. He is dead before he even begins to fall to the ground.

“Oh my god…” I whisper. “This is far too-”

An ungodly croak emanates from behind me, taciturn and mephitic, as only the pure embodiment of evil can be. The sound warps and ungulates until it becomes words I can understand.

“Did you say ‘fart?” It says.

Jackson’s Square

I’ve been a huge drum and bass music fan for some time now. From going to local and regional dance parties, buying and spinning records myself, and watching events online, drum and bass has been an immense part of my life. I frequently read an online drum and bass music forum based out of England. The site reviewed new tracks and allowed users to discuss and communicate. That’s how I met Jackson. His screen name was SkankinJax. He was a fan of some of my favorite djs and producers, and we hit it off swimmingly. I ask questions about his life across the pond. We spoke of the underground dnb scene in his city and surrounding parts. I was extremely jealous when he talked about the massive parties at clubs like Ministry of Sound and Fabric. I’ve only read about and seen these places online, and he was actually living it. Jackson knew more about America than I did England, so I was the one asking more questions.

Jackson told me that he was going to be coming to America for work training in a few weeks. The convention that he was going to attend was about four hours from me. I told him that he should come visit after the convention before he went back home. He agreed and made arrangements to do so.

A few weeks passed and Jackson called me one evening.

“Hello,” I answered.

In a profound English accent, Jackson spoke.

“Hey, mate! Done with that shitshow and headed your way. I need a bloody drink.”

“I got you there, my friend. I’ll text you my address. See you then.”

Jackson arrived approximately three hours later. He came through the door with luggage, visibly agitated.

“Bloody hell. I don’t know why you Americans drive on the wrong side of the road. I almost flattened a bloke when I pulled out into the left lane by mistake leaving the petrol station.”

“Well, we’re going out later, but sit down and take a load off. I’ll get you a drink to take the edge off.”

“Yes, that sounds good, mate. I’m just so bloody knackered from that drive. A drink sounds proper nice right about now.”

I poured us both some good bourbon and put on a few drum and bass records. We sat and chatted about the work convention, drum and bass, American and UK girls, and he bitched more about driving in America.

“I was miffed with all those wankers blowing their hooters at me. How was I to know that you can turn right on red? Anywho, I need to hit the loo then wash me bollocks. I’ll be on the pull tonight for a fit American bird.”

Jackson wasn’t in the bathroom long, when he cracked the door and yelled down the hall.

“Mate! I need a bog roll in here. My arse isn’t self cleaning, and I don’t see a bidet.”

After Jackson adequately wiped his ass and washed his balls, we were finally ready to head out. I decided to take Jackson downtown where the bars and restaurants were. It was a Friday night, so I assumed that area would be jumping. I wanted to show Jackson a good time in my city. It’s by no means as large as London, but it’s also no country-ass B.F.E. neither. 

We parked and had a small walk to the dive bar where we were going. As we walked, I observed rainbow flags and colors hung about. I noticed a few women that were taller than average and extremely colorful clothing. That’s when I remembered that it was Pride week. Now I don’t have a problem with gays. You can do whatever makes you happy, as I couldn’t care less. However, I knew Jackson wasn’t as liberal in thinking as I was on the subject. 

So far so good, I thought, as we arrived at the front door to Hives. I thought to myself, just let us get inside of Hives and everything will be ok. 

I opened the door for Jackson, and as I looked around, I thought, fuck.

Surprisingly, we had a great time the first 30 minutes we were there. That is, until the cigarette incident. 

Jackson and myself were sitting at the bar conversing and laughing with the attractive female bartender, a couple of well dressed guys to our left, and a few of those tall girls to our right, when the unthinkable happened. 

Jackson pulled out his pack when he noticed that smoking was permitted. He looked at the pack, then at me, then back at the pack, and with great emotion, boisterously said,

“I’m just so bloody sick of these goddamned fags!”

It’s like time stood still. Absolute silence and shocked, staring faces surrounded us in a good ten foot radius. However, Jackson was oblivious, still staring down at the pack. He turned to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and slurred,

“Alright, mate. I’m going to break the seal. I’ll be right back, unless I have to paint the porcelain.”

Then, Jackson dim wittingly sauntered off to the bathroom, leaving me to beg apologies and give explanations on his behalf. After offering perspective and somewhat justification on the situation, most understood and had a good laugh.

I ordered another drink and continued looking over my shoulder for Jackson. I decided that I would tell him about it being Pride week, just so we had no more uncomfortable moments. If he wanted to leave, we could just get a bite on the way back home. 

Jackson must’ve had to shit, I thought, as he had been gone for at least 20 minutes. I finished my drink and walked toward the back where the restrooms were. There was a small line, but it seemed to be flowing, with people entering and exiting. I stuck my head inside and didn’t see Jackson. I gave his description to a few people in the line and asked if they’d seen him. No one was of any help. I even stuck my head inside the women’s bathroom just to check. I didn’t see Jackson, but I did see two half naked girls bent over snorting coke off the counter. I apologized for the interruption as I slowly closed the door. 

I exited the side door by the bathrooms to look for him on the street, with no luck. I pulled out my phone to call him, when I noticed that he had tried to call and also left a voicemail. The voicemail said,

“Mate. You’re not going to believe this. I was waiting in line for the pisser, when I met this amazing bird, and we had a proper chin wag. Anywho, I told her that I’d like to buy her a drink, but I was totally skint for the night. She said that she had plenty at her place down the road. So we’re headed there now. I’ll probably need a ride in the morning. I’ll call you. Cheers.”

I attempted to call Jackson a few times with no answer. I was a little pissed that he just bailed on me like that for a girl. Selfish bastard, I thought, as I walked toward my truck to leave. 

I stopped at an all night drive thru and bought a burger meal from an apparent witch in a hairnet. Once home, I turned on the T.V. and spread my food out in front of me. As I devoured the burger, mayo and grease ran down my chin, and a skinny, bald man on the tube was trying to sell me spray paint that fixes holes in boats. 

I woke up on the couch with the phone ringing. I looked at the clock and it was 5:30 in the morning. I answered, and it was Jackson. 

In a chipper, but half slurred tone, he said loudly, “Mateeeeeeey! How are you, friend? I didn’t wake you did I? Could I kindly ask for a ride my good man?”

In a condescendingly, mocking tone, I replied, “Oh, noooooo, mate. I’ve been up all bloody night waiting on your fucking call.”

“Brilliant, mate. You’re the best. I’m at 474 Carryhawk Lane. I’ll be out front.”

I arrived around 6, and saw Jackson, swaying on the sidewalk, with a huge shit-eating grin on his face. I pulled up with a scowl on mine. He got in the passenger side and we drove off. 

“Mate. Let me start by saying. I know what you’re thinking. I shouldn’t have left you at the pub last night. For that, I’m sorry. And I should have answered my phone. But you know I was looking for a shag or jobby.”

I stared off into the darkness as I drove. I realized that I wasn’t really pissed. I had no right to make this person behave in a way to suit my own happiness. 

I turned and faced Jackson, and with a wide smile, inquired, “You know that woman you were with?”

“Yeah, mate. A real sexual deviant. A lady in the street, but a true freak in the sheets. She gave me an amazing jobby and even played with my bum. After that, without hesitation, she put me right in her ass. I’ve never…”

I cut Jackson off, “You know that person was trans, right?

“I didn’t know when I met her, no. Didn’t know while we were drinking at her place. Definitely didn’t know when she was ravenously sucking me. Thought I may have felt something in reverse cowgirl—slapping and whatnot. I put that out of my head and soldiered on. But then, she stood up and I put it in my mouth.”

I wasn’t expecting to hear this and was in utter shock. 

“You put it in your mouth?”

“Yeah, then she buggered me.”

“She fucked you?”

“Yeah, I was initially hesitant. Until I did all those drugs. After that, it was easy peasy. She even called some friends over to have a go with me too. All in all, a good night. Hey, mate. Can you stop here? I need a…a…um…cigarette.”