Death, the Devil, and the Goldfish

by Andrew Buckley

  He'd already checked her pulse. Nothing. He'd tried shaking her. No result. He'd even tried tickling her, thinking that maybe nobody had ever tried that with a dead person before. Not a titter. It was a most unfortunate situation.

  For the first time since he'd set his mother's best wig on fire by accident when he was six, he had absolutely no idea what to do. Thoughts and ideas rushed at him at an astounding rate. He tried to duck and avoid them, but it was no good. He thought that maybe he should make a run for it, so he stood up. No, that wouldn't even be close to rational. He sat down again.

  He tried to think outside of his own head; surely people heard the blast. But then again, this crazy old lady shot a hole through her front door in broad daylight, and all she’d drawn were a few glares of disapproval and some angry comments. They were all too preoccupied.

  There was a stunned moment of complete silence as the realization smacked him in the face. The sensation felt like a cross between getting hit in the head by a startled gerbil that was just shot out of a cannon and that wonderful feeling which happened when people woke up and thought they were late for work but then realized it was actually their day off. That was the kind of feeling he got slapped with.

  The dead not dying had everyone preoccupied. So really, Nigel only had to wait until Mrs. Jones got bored with the afterlife and then came back. Nigel relaxed a little and flipped on the TV, resolving to stay there until the old bat woke up.

  Eight.

  Celina dug through the garbage can trying to find her cell phone, which must have rung about seven times since she'd thrown it there. It finally occurred to her that maybe the people outside of the cafeteria might be trying to contact her, and she felt pretty stupid that she hadn't thought of it earlier. And then she realized that she could have made a call to the people outside at any time. She felt stupid for a second time in as many seconds.

  Celina came from a proud Scottish clan that had built a reputation on not asking for help when it was so obviously required. As a result of that stone-headed, slightly drunken way of thinking, Celina was the last of her line. The last McMannis. Her father, the second to last McMannis, had been busy having a heart attack one day but refused to call the hospital for help, so in a stubborn attempt to prevent his heart from stopping he took a lovely, handcrafted, stainless steel fork and plugged himself into an electrical socket. The unfortunate result was his heart stopping.

  Four hundred years ago, a large portion of the McMannis clan had been wiped out. One of the younger members had made an unmentionable, and possibly unpronounceable, rude comment to one of the young ladies attached to the McKale clan. The McKale clan numbered around fifteen thousand, whereas the McMannis clan at the time numbered fifteen, six of whom were women and one of whom was a beloved family sheep who had been adopted as a daughter. Flossy McMannis was her name, and many a minstrel wrote songs about her.

  The two clans met at a spot in the Highlands especially designated for shedding blood. Many McMannises from previous centuries had already lost large amounts of their blood at that same spot, and the ghosts of those long-dead clan members stared up at their relatives as they strode above the spirits, closely followed by a worried-looking sheep.

  The clan elder at that time was Morris McMannis, a barrel of a man with a red beard, small dark eyes, and a temper that could have a wild pig roasted over it. His options were simple. He could either march his fourteen family members over the battlefield and fight the fifteen thousand angry and slightly drunk McKale clansmen, or he could ask for help from the neighboring clans. His pride, as usual, held him firmly by the testicles and he said, "Not a chance."

  The battle was short. The McMannis clan managed to take down seventy-three McKale clan members before being almost completely wiped out, thirty-nine of whom were killed by Flossy McMannis who at the last minute discovered her inner warrior and tore through McKale clansmen before they realized they were being slaughtered by a sheep.

  The souls of the newly dead McMannises evaporated into the Highlands like the good fallen warriors they were and joined their long dead comrades who all agreed that Morris was an idiot for not asking for help and that it was a good lesson learnt. Tempers flared and the ghosts became grumpy and have remained so to this very day.

  The clan was survived by a young McMannis boy who played dead very convincingly after nearly being run through by the sharp end of a sword after an unusually energized, angry, and slightly drunk sheep accidentally knocked him flying.

  Celina found the phone buried within some leftover spaghetti. The phone was still chirping away. She answered it and was completely unprepared for what she heard.

  "Hello?"

  "They're free! They’re free!" cried a desperate voice. "Save yourself, Celina!"

  "Roger? Is that you?" said Celina looking around as if her co-worker, or worse, one of the imps, might be lurking under a table.

  "They're stealing the Santa Claus unit! We tried to stop them but they're too strong, they've broken their program—oh no! There's one in here. Get away from me, get away. Get out, Celina! Get out!"

  A struggle seemed to ensue on the other end of the phone.

  "Roger? Roger?"

  A creepy, nasal sounding voice lurked onto the other end of the phone.

  "Hehehehehehe we're free, we're free."

  "Look, what are you trying to do? What do you want?" cried Celina.

  "Hehehehe. Nighty-night."

  There was a shrill scream, then the line beeped dead. Celina tried to gather her thoughts but she couldn't escape the feeling of terror creeping over her. The lights chose that precise moment to go out.

  Mrs. Jones opened her eyes slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep. She blinked a few times to pull her world into perspective, but things weren't making complete sense just yet. A tall, not quite handsome man sat on the couch flicking through TV channels. She scanned the room quickly; it looked like her living room, but there were subtle differences. For starters, her trinkets that used to sit on top of the fireplace had vanished. And the couch had been moved on a slightly different angle and covered with a blanket; the shape seemed a bit off though. That’s odd. The man on the couch noticed that Mrs. Jones had woken up, and he smiled a warm smile, an almost inviting can I help you across the road kind of smile.

  "Glad to see you're awake, Mrs. Jones."

  "What, what happened? Who are you?"

  Nigel got up and offered his hand to her.

  "Detective Reinhardt. Came about your devil-possessed cat. You just dropped off for a moment and you looked so peaceful I didn't want to disturb you."

  Mrs. Jones looked around the room again as she shook Nigel's hand.

  "Oh, I see. Well, sorry about that."

  Nigel smiled and sat back down.

  "It's quite all right, just didn't want to wake you. Now, back to your cat, have you seen him since?"

  Mrs. Jones looked back at Nigel, her tired brain trying to put the pieces together as to what had happened. She felt like she'd just had the most curious dream. Something about a neon sign that didn't make much sense. Confusing.

  "Uh, Mrs. Jones?"

  "Sorry . . . umm, no, he hasn't come back. Said he was off to wreak havoc."

  Nigel nodded.

  "I don't suppose you know what kind of havoc he was looking at wreaking, do you?"

  Mrs. Jones glanced around her room again; something was definitely not right here.

  "Nope, didn't really elaborate too much."

  Nigel watched as, like the sun dawning on fresh grass, Mrs. Jones' memory started to creep back. Time to make a run for it. All in one breath and a swift movement, Nigel stood, handed Mrs. Jones his card, and excused himself, adding, "If you remember anything else don't hesitate to give me a call and I'm sure it'll be all right."

  By that time, he was at the front door and Mrs. Jones was shuffling after him.

  "One moment, young man!"

  Busted was the only word in Nigel's head. He turned to face the ol
d woman, preparing for the onslaught and a possible death by shotgun, if she could find it. He had hidden it up the chimney.

  "There was something else I remember."

  "Oh," said Nigel, taken aback.

  "Majestic Technologies."

  Nigel leaned in a bit.

  "I'm sorry, what was that?"

  "Fuzzbucket," said the old woman, "he mentioned something about Majestic Technologies, don't know what it means, never been much for technology. I'm always getting that TV and that electronic cooking thing mixed up."

  "You mean the microwave?"

  "Yes, that's it. Sat in the kitchen for hours once watching a ham defrost, thought it was a very bad cooking show."

  "Ah, I see. Well, thanks."

  "Glad to help." And with that she slammed the door.

  Nigel watched through the rather prominent hole as Mrs. Jones went off to search for something she was certain she was missing.

  Nigel walked back down the street wondering what, exactly, Majestic Technologies was. Nigel held the firm belief that everything presented itself for a reason, and for whatever reason this information had come to him, he was sure it would all make sense sooner or later. He decided he should probably check in at work.

  The word elf slipped through his mind, but only momentarily, as a loud shotgun blast blew out the top of Mrs. Jones' chimney, completely obliterating a poor bird that just happened to be sitting up there at the time.

  Nine.

  At around the same moment the obliterated bird had been making himself comfortable upon Mrs. Jones' chimney in London, several thousand miles away in the Bahamas, Dr. Ranja was looking at a most curious patient who had recently passed out at a local beach bar, possibly from the intense Bahamian heat. Dr. Ranja deduced additional causes to be the sheer abundance of margaritas the man had consumed, or maybe it was the realization that the entire Universe, all of it, even the little bits that no one ever saw, was about to unravel itself into an untidy heap of nothingness.

  What he found curious about the patient was that he was a practically perfect human specimen, looked a bit long and drawn, and the dark robes were a most peculiar ensemble, especially in the heat of the Bahamas. No distinguishing marks, no scars, no blemishes, eyes that seemed to change colour, which fit right into the face that appeared different every time he looked at it. Perfect muscle structure, pale complexion. No wait, tanned complexion, nope, darkish, pink . . . .

  Dr. Ranja's head began to throb, and he rubbed his temples as his frontal lobe laughed at him.

  In Dr. Ranja's professional experience, neither he, nor anyone else he'd heard of, had ever come across such an individual. He'd been examining him for five straight hours. The doctor had to keep leaving on one such emergency or another, and upon leaving the room, he would forget all about the figure lying in the bed, so it came as a completely new shock to him every time he walked back.

  He'd noticed something new on examination this time. There seemed to be a profound lack of pulse to the gentleman. And although it was obvious he was alive, because he kept moving and talking in his sleep, technically, he was dead. It wasn't long after the pulse discovery that the doctor found that the man was also lacking in another considerably important area. He had no genitals. Of any kind. There was just nothing there.

  Well, this was obviously a discovery of woolly mammoth proportions; it needed documenting, it needed reporting. He could just picture accepting his Nobel Peace Prize for his contribution to society by discovering this new form of human. Aside from all this dead not dying business, this could be the new foundation upon which mankind would be built. A new independent being, maybe even extraterrestrial.

  The question of how the creature planned to have sex crossed the doctor's mind, as obviously, it lacked the correct equipment for the job. But no, he was getting too far ahead of himself. He wandered around the bed a few times, seeing if he'd missed anything. No, he decided, first things first. This all hadto be written down.

  Dr. Ranja left the examination room and walked down the hallway. Oh what a magnificent day this was turning out to be. It had seemed like such a bad day at first. He woke up to find his wife had not come home again; maybe he was overreacting but taking two weeks to fetch milk was a bit much. Dr. Ranja was currently in denial of the fact that his wife had left him for a Polynesian midget.

  Everyone knew, including himself, he just chose not to acknowledge the fact. People would ask him how she was doing, and he'd smile and tell them she was doing great; he'd even begun regaling people with made up stories of things he and his wife hadn't done the night before. At first, the stories amused others, but his denial was quickly becoming disturbing. The doctor did not care; he had just discovered something big, something huge, something of mammoth proportions.

  Only he couldn't remember what it was. He remembered going to fetch a pad and pen, he knew that much. And he planned on writing something down, but wasn't sure what. Maybe it was a grocery list? He was running low on milk, as he was still waiting for his wife to bring some back from the store. That must have been it. He strolled back down the hallway, passing an examination room with a tall man dressed in dark robes lying on the table.

  Hmm, wonder what this is all about? Dr. Ranja decided to check out the interesting looking patient.

  Thousands of miles away, the cat formerly known as Fuzzbucket, who was now an Earthly vessel for the Prince of Darkness, sat quietly on top of a garbage can and systematically licked himself.

  "Urrgghhh," came the sound from the semi-conscious Animal Control agent.

  Being a cat proved exhausting; the licking, the sleeping, the licking, the sleeping, the insistent feeling of having to bury his own fecal matter.

  "Ermmffgg," said the Animal Control agent as he struggled to regain consciousness.

  Lucifer the cat spent a good chunk of the morning interrogating would-be henchmen. The task at hand proved next to impossible for a mere furry feline. He needed some hands, and more than anything, a driver. The underground railway system in London was one of the great mysteries of the world and despite spending an eternity in the depths of Hell, the thought of descending those subway steps sent a shiver down his back, causing him to arch in that cute way that cats did.

  He'd interviewed five henchmen so far. The first three were useless, the fourth was worse than useless, and the interview with the fifth suffered a rude interruption by the intervention of an ill-fated Animal Control agent. The fifth candidate weighed close to three-hundred pounds and answered to the name Slim Jim.

  Where the slim aspect of the moniker came from was lost on pretty much everyone else in the world. Their conversation went something like this.

  "So you're the Devil," said Slim Jim, practically out of breath from the effort.

  The Devil stared up over the belly of Slim Jim and nodded.

  "But you're a cat?"

  "Nothing escapes you does it, Slim?" hissed the cat. "In return for your services, I will reward you with an air-conditioned room when you arrive in Hell. It doesn't sound like much now, but believe me, you'll thank me when the time comes."

  Slim Jim pondered the cat, pondered the flashing lights coming toward him, and turned and ran, believing the cops were after him. The lights belonged to that of an Animal Control vehicle whose driver was ill fated, only he didn't know it yet. Incidentally, after Slim Jim's encounter with the Devil, he renounced his current life of crime and within four years was appointed to be the High Bishop of York. He was upset to discover that he ended up in Hell anyway, as forging religious documentation passing him off as an appointed member of the Church was a big no-no. As he sat in a particularly hot part of Hell, Slim Jim really wished he had air conditioning.

  The Animal Control agent, Cedric by name, had abandoned a promising career as an executive security analyst with Her Majesty's Secret Service to become an Animal Control agent based upon the self-realization that he loved kitties.

  Cedric, haphazardly, moved toward the Devil. In one
hand, Cedric held a lovely-looking net, in the other hand a bag of cat treats.

  The Devil eyed the net and instinctively, at least for a cat, raised the hackles on his back.

  "That's a nice kitty, who's a cutie wootie kitty witty," cooed Cedric.

  The Devil tried to summon the powers of Hell. A spark of fire appeared in his glassy cat eyes. He felt the residents of Hell far beneath the earth writhing in agony, the torture, the pain, his legions of demons dancing to popular eighties disco music—the spark of fire went out and a small cloud of steam arose from the cat. The demons would end up paying for that one later.

  Cedric advanced.

  "Do you want a treat, my fuzzy wuzzy little buddy, a little treaty weaty?"

  The Devil tried again. He fixed Cedric with the sort of stare that would make Jack the Ripper whimper like a little girl, give up killing, and open a dental practice.

  Cedric, oblivious to such things, especially coming from a cat, made ready to swing the net.

  "I really don't recommend you do that," said the Devil.

  Cedric stopped advancing. This was the first time a cat had spoken to him, and he didn't really know how he felt about it.

  The alleyway seemed to be getting darker as the Devil concentrated harder and harder. The outside world shrank away like watercolours flowing down a window as the Devil pushed his little cat-like brain to the very brink. In fact, he pushed it over the brink, so far over the brink he could look behind him and see the brink that he'd just come over. His voice momentarily lost the strained cat effect and contracted a more dark and sinister sort of presence.

  Cedric began to feel hot and uncomfortable.

  "Now listen to me, you insipid little creature, and listen good." Somewhere off in the distance, an orchestra began to play a tragic and ominous tune backed up by the Czech Republic’s Gregorian Boys Choir. Fumes of sulfur arose from the ground; they always did that when the Czech Republic's Gregorian Boys Choir rehearsed.