One-Star Dungeon

“Does that hurt, you fuckin’ piece of shit?” asked Dwayne, grinding the tip of his cigarette into his victim’s bare chest.

Anson knew he shouldn’t reply, but his anger was even greater than his pain.

“Do you know any words besides ‘fuck’ and ‘shit,’ you illiterate douchebag?” asked Anson. “You’ve already used both of those words half a dozen times. If you’re going to kill me, at least don’t bore me to death with your eighth-grade vocabulary.”

“What the fuck, man?” Dwayne yelled. “I mean, Jesus Christ! You shitty … you asshole …”

“Still shit-related, I’m afraid.” Anson smirked behind the bag that covered his face.

Dwayne punched him in the head.

Anson forced a laugh. He had a new idea. If he couldn’t escape, he could at least taunt his captor into killing him quickly.

“You’re laughing?” asked Dwayne in disbelief.

“I’m not laughing with you; I’m laughing at you,” Anson explained.

Silence.

“You don’t even understand the joke,” sighed Anson. “I have occasionally had nightmares about dying like this, but my dreams always involved a brilliant serial killer who had successfully eluded capture for years. You probably couldn’t even avoid a parking ticket.”

“Hey, you … you bastard!” said Dwayne. “I’ve killed two people besides you! And no one has caught me yet!”

“I salute you for using a new insult, but I’m afraid I don’t believe you about the murders. You’re just too damned stupid.”

“Stupid?!” Dwayne’s fingers closed around the handle of his favorite skewer. Almost without thinking, he plunged it into his prisoner’s chest.

Anson felt the searing shaft of pain, while noting with regret that the weapon had penetrated the right side of his rib cage rather than the left. Even in anger, his tormentor had reflexively avoided driving the skewer through his heart, which would have ended things too quickly.

With considerable difficulty, Anson suppressed his scream. He tensed his muscles against the coarse ropes that bound him to the chair and spoke with measured contempt.

“Now I’m certain you’ve never done this before. Any experienced killer would have shown his victim the tray full of glittering metal instruments before using one of them. I’m afraid your knowledge of psychological terror is severely lacking.”

A hand grabbed the top of the burlap sack covering Anson’s head and yanked it off. The rough cloth sandpapered a patch of skin off the tip of his nose. Anson hoped it wouldn’t bleed.

“There!” screamed Dwayne. “There’s my tray of instruments! I was going to show them to you earlier but you made me mad!”

“You were already mad. As mad as a hatter.”

“Alice in Wonderland? The tea party? What are you talking about?”

Maybe he’s not as stupid as he seems, thought Anson. I must be careful.

With the bag off his head, Anson was able to take in his surroundings. An unfinished basement with a bricked-up window. Raw pine beams running overhead. An old white water heater a few feet to his right. He was dismayed to see that the heater was lightly speckled with crimson dots. His captor apparently did have some experience in this line of work.

Anson sniffed the air. He had released neither his bladder nor his bowels into his pants, for which he was grateful, but he smelled something decidedly unpleasant. He looked up at his host and noticed the large sweat stains under his arms.

“God, you stink,” Anson said. “Didn’t your mother teach you to wash up for guests?”

Dwayne gave him a brutal open-handed slap across the face.

“I use deodorant!” he bellowed. “But I sweat a lot. And you’re heavier than you look. It was hard to get you into the trunk of my Crown Vic.”

“Hey, Stinky, you’re no lightweight yourself. When’s the last time you saw the inside of a gym? Or a shower?”

Anson was hoping for an explosion but was met with silence. Too long a silence.

“My name is Dwayne, not Stinky,” his captor said at last, with chilling calmness. “I don’t mind telling you my name because you’re never leaving this basement. You’re not in control here. I am.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“You’re just a little piece of shit who’s going to suffer like the fucker you are.”

“Oh, Jesus, we’re back to ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ again. You’re a bore and this is not a well-run dungeon. One star. Would not recommend.”

Dwayne balled his fists and knelt in front of his captive. His face moved close to Anson’s, like a nervous teenager leaning in for a first kiss.

“You are going to die. Slowly and painfully. You don’t seem to understand that, you shitty fuck.”

A tear squeezed out of Anson’s eye and rolled down his bruised cheek. He opened his mouth and faint raspy sounds emerged.

Dwayne leaned closer, hoping to hear his broken captive’s pleas for mercy.

Anson’s head snaked forward. His open mouth clamped shut on Dwayne’s lips, teeth slicing into soft flesh. He bit deeply and felt the sticky warm blood as Dwayne’s lips tore away.

Anson slurped the lips into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed as his captor shrieked blood into the air.

“You shitty ’uck! You ’ucking ’uck!”

Anson smiled into the bloody teeth that shone from the lipless mouth.

“Well, at least I took one word out of your pathetically limited vocabulary.”

Anson felt the skewer pierce his heart and laughed.

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.