Death, the Devil, and the Goldfish

by Andrew Buckley

  "My head hurts," said Big Ernie.

  "Easy does it," said Itch to the cat, "You'll have to use smaller words, you're just confusing him."

  The cat fixed Big Ernie with a glare and raised his hackles a little.

  "I am in fact the Prince of Darkness." He paused for dramatic effect, letting the full impact of his words soak in. Unfortunately, it appeared, to the Devil at least, that some minds are less sponge-like than others.

  Both Itch and Big Ernie stared blankly.

  The cat rolled his eyes.

  "I am Beelzebub!"

  Big Ernie scratched his head.

  "Lucifer!"

  Big Ernie let out a short laugh.

  "Lucy's a girl name."

  "Not Lucy, Lucifer, Lucifer! The Devil, I'm the Devil."

  Itch shrugged. "But you look like a cat."

  "I'm inside the cat!"

  Big Ernie leaned closer and stared into the cat's eyes. A smile spread across his face and he scratched the Devil's head lovingly.

  "He's cute," said Big Ernie, "can we keep him?"

  "Stop that, you imbecile!"

  Itch got to his feet and began pacing, because his thoughts often held more clarity while he paced.

  "Let's just presume for a moment that what you say is true. And that you are in fact the Devil trapped in a cat's body. Why exactly do you want us to steal two tons of lemons from the airport and deliver them to some factory on the other side of the city?"

  The Devil moved off the table as Big Ernie kept attempting to scratch behind his ears, and leapt up onto a nearby shelf so he was eye level with Itch.

  "I have put some plans in motion that will cause utter chaos around the world. However, as with all masterfully thought out plans, there are always unforeseen snags."

  "Snags," said Itch thoughtfully.

  "Yes, snags," said the cat.

  "And in order to bypass these snags, as it were, you need us to steal two tons of lemons from Heathrow Airport and deliver them to this factory?"

  "It's a laboratory," said the cat.

  "What do they do there?" asked Itch.

  "It doesn't matter. I'm not paying you to know things," hissed the cat.

  "You're going to pay us?"

  "No, not really."

  Itch stopped pacing and looked at the cat.

  "I don't know, stealing isn't really our cup of tea, we're more into threatening and collecting money."

  "And hanging people off the side of buildings," said Big Ernie.

  "Yes, thank you, Ernie," said Itch, "we do that, too."

  "We're very good at it," said Big Ernie.

  "Very," said Itch.

  The Devil's hackles sprung up, his eyes narrowed, and he fixed a cruel stare on Itch. "Allow me to put it this way for you, just so we understand each other. Either you do my bidding, or I set your house on fire, your choice."

  With a flick of the cat's tail, the couch was on fire.

  Big Ernie leaped to his feet in a panic. Itch stood motionless in shock.

  The cat blinked and the flames died down and vanished.

  "Now," said the Devil, "do we have an understanding?"

  The airport lounge at Heathrow bustled with people heading here and there, trying to find their gate, their luggage, and their children or, as in most cases, the nearest duty-free store. It was customary for people with a lengthy stopover to take a nap on one of the most amazingly uncomfortable chairs lining the centre of the elongated lounge. And so the sight of a pale gentleman dressed in a black robe and a rather good-looking man dressed in a nurse's outfit snoozing together, Gerald's head resting on Death's lap, was not entirely unusual. Especially since few people gave Death even a second glance.

  A polite British voice came over the PA system.

  "Could Stanton Waring please return to the security station, Stanton Waring to the security station." At this point, a group of confused-looking security guards ran past the seats where Death and Gerald were sleeping. A rather sluggish security guard with odd-sized feet and an out-of-control beard stopped to catch his breath and barked into a radio.

  "Have you seen him yet?"

  A static-filled voice came back at him.

  "Not yet, sir."

  "Keep looking, a half-naked old man shouldn't be able to get too far in these crowds!"

  "Affirmative, sir, out," said the radio voice.

  The guard moved to chase after the other guards and accidentally kicked Death's leg. "Sorry," he offered as he vanished into the crowds.

  Death woke up with a start and looked around, trying to grasp his location. A random haze of events seeped through his mind, something to do with Ireland, a beach, a hospital, no one dying, a Polynesian midget, some nonsense about a penguin, flying on a plane and then, rather unfortunately, it all clicked into place.

  "Oh," he said glumly, "now I remember." He tapped Gerald on the head.

  Gerald opened his eyes, stretched, and gazed up at Death. A gleeful smile spread across his face as he realized that he was still no longer a penguin. He sat up, far too quickly, and all the pains in the world suddenly congregated inside his head and started slapping each other.

  "Ahrg," said Gerald.

  "Yes, quite true," said Death.

  "Ahh," said Gerald, "don't shout."

  "I'm not shouting."

  "It certainly sounds like you are. What's wrong with me? Is this what it normally feels like to wake up as a human?"

  "I don't know, I'm not human, either."

  Gerald clutched his head and moaned softly.

  "It's called a hangover," said Death as he got up, "and it's one of the most painful feelings you're ever likely to experience. I suffered from them for the first couple of decades of my existence but it's been a good few thousand years so I'm pretty much used to them by now."

  Death helped Gerald to his feet.

  "Gaa," said Gerald.

  "I know what you need," said Death and looked around the lounge.

  A large man with tattoos on both arms, a shaved head, and dressed entirely in denim sat nursing a duty-free bag that clearly contained cans of beer.

  "Stay here," said Death.

  Gerald complied and promptly sat back down in the fond hope that the world would spin a lot less if he was closer to ground level. He was wrong.

  Death walked over to the man with the beers, who observed him with a sort of disinterest right up until Death reached down and took a can of beer out of his bag. The man shot up like a rocket and poked a pudgy and vicious tattooed finger at Death.

  "Here! What yer think yer doin?"

  "I'm sorry," said Death, looking confused, "what's the matter?"

  The man's face turned a pretty purplish-pink.

  "I'll tell yer what's th'matta, matey!"

  Death folded his arms.

  "Yes, go on."

  The colour of the man's faced turned back to normal and he lowered his pointing finger. He tried his hardest to think what he was about to say but the words seemed to be lost.

  "I, uhh, well—"

  Death tapped his foot impatiently.

  "Come on, I don't have all day, is there something you want?"

  The man sat back down, still trying to remember what happened.

  "No no, uhh, sorry 'bout tha, dint mean t' be a nuisance."

  "Quite all right," said Death and walked back toward Gerald. The large man felt very confused until he realized he was missing a beer.

  Death handed the beer to Gerald.

  "Down this, you'll feel tons better. It's time we got out of here."

  Twenty-Three.

  The Entity, after wrapping itself in a dark blue cloak and hood, trekked through the foothills of Tibet with no difficulty. The snow was little bother to it, and the cold had no effect whatsoever. Occasionally, a stray mountain goat would wander into the Entity's path, resulting in a swift kick that sent the animal hurtling through the air.

  The sight of random goats flying through the air remained quite unnotice
d until one of them crashed through the roof of an elderly Tibetan man's hut, landing on his wife. A few residents of the widespread Tibetan village got together to find out why the goats, after all these years, had suddenly begun flying.

  One highly regarded member of the village, whose unfortunate given name was Bollux, given to him by his half German, half Tibetan, and the tiniest bit of Irish, parents, was among the group of flying goat hunters. Bollux was highly regarded for the simple reason that he was the only person within miles who owned a camera. Among the small villages of the Tibetan foothills, a camera, considered an extreme luxury item, was a rare thing. Lesser luxury items include blankets without holes in them and cheap toothbrushes donated by some far-off religious groups. Bollux had received the camera as a gift from his uncle in Germany who had as little to do with his nephew in Tibet as humanly possible, but never failed to send him a gift every Christmas. The gift was usually something his uncle had received and didn't want.

  Bollux and the others headed in the direction that the goats seemed to be flying from, and before long they came upon a sight that none of them had ever seen before.

  The Entity regarded them with little interest except for the fact they stood directly in its way. One of the beings raised a small square box, which flashed at the Entity.

  Bollux managed to snap one photo before finding himself well over twenty feet away ina pile of half-frozen hay.

  The rest of the flying goat hunting party fled, leaving the Entity to itself. The Entity pulled its cloak tightly around itself and looked up to the sun. The Entity resolved to move faster and broke into a run, beginning at a steady pace and quickly accelerating to the speed of a mature gazelle.

  Once Bollux regained consciousness, he resolved to write to his uncle in Germany and send him a picture of what he had just seen.

  Six months later, that very same picture appeared out of a fax machine in a small village called Lees located just to the East of Manchester in the northwest of England.

  Twenty-Four.

  Beatrice held open the door for Neville as he stepped onto the damp pavement and looked up at the twisted concrete and glass structure that was the law firm of Chatham, Chitham, and Chump. Neville loved lawyers;never before had there been such a scrupulous, underhanded, deceiving creature as the lawyer. And just to be on the safe side, Neville employed every lawyer in the entire building.

  "Beatrice?"

  "Sir?"

  "This whole Majestic thing. You don't suppose Celina's in any kind of trouble, do you?"

  Neville had tried several times to woo Celina McMannis and had failed miserably every time. Beatrice thought that Celina was cute, nice red hair, kind of skinny, but had a temper that could burn through lead. He understood completely what Neville saw in her; she was unattainable, and Neville liked the challenge.

  "I'm sure she's fine, sir."

  "I surely hope so," said Neville as he walked toward the law firm.

  The last time Neville made a play for Celina's heart, it resulted in many injured flamingos, and Beatrice had a soft spot for pink birds and consequently didn't entirely approve of Neville's continuing pursuit. As a gesture of his love, Neville ordered fifty flamingos placed in Celina's apartment. The flamingos had been genetically manipulated to sing a famous Neil Diamond love song. Unfortunately, the flamingos didn't have a chance. Celina walked in the door and saw that her apartment was full of loud, pink birds. She panicked, grabbed the nearest golf club, and the rest was a sad history with pink feathers floating everywhere.

  A French interior designer named Germain LeFranques decorated the law firm of Chatham, Chitham, and Chump; LeFranques believed everything should be dark or metallic blue, triangular, and have pointy edges. And so the law offices reluctantly drowned in a sea of dark blue metallics with lots of triangles and many a flesh wound. It did, however, look very sharp and impressive, which was exactly what the lawyers wanted.

  Neville took the elevator to the eleventh floor, stalked down the hallway with Beatrice and entered the boardroom with a flourish that made the lawyers jump ever so slightly. One knocked over his flower-imprinted teacup.

  "Ahh, Mr. Snell," said Charles Chitham, "please have a seat."

  Neville was already sitting but Charles continued regardless. "Have you heard anything from the Majestic Technologies labs?"

  "No, we've been unable to make contact."

  "You must admit, Mr. Snell, this is a little different than the usual legal proceedings. So far, there aren't any wild animals involved."

  A few of the lawyers, knowing Neville's colourful legal past, tittered as only old rich gentlemen can. Even Neville couldn't help but smile.

  "Very true, Charles," said Neville, "no wild animals this time." He paused for dramatic effect. "This time, there may be some trouble with a bunch of elves."

  Twenty pairs of surprised beady eyes stared back at him.

  "Elves?" said Charles.

  Nigel found entering Majestic Technologies rather easy, as the entire place had been deserted. No security guards lolled at the security station, no lab technicians messed about in the labs, in fact, no one anywhere did anything. All was quiet. Although, after consulting a map of the place he found in the lobby, he thought it entirely possible that there could be people in one of the other buildings, as it seemed that Majestic Technologies spanned three different buildings and one warehouse in the same compound.

  The woman on the phone had said something about being locked in the staff dining room, so that seemed to be the best place to start. Nigel found himself thinking about the day's events and how this day seemed not to relate to any other day he had experienced in the last several years.

  There must be some sort of significance to all this.

  While pondering his past earlier, as he had walked along the River Thames, Nigel couldn't help feeling that he was meant for so much more than the lot he had been dealt in life, and that somewhere out there was some lucky bugger living the life he was meant to have.

  In comparison to most humans, Nigel wasn't bad looking, he had his health, lacked wealth but was super-intelligent, and had once possessed great telekinetic power. Surely, something in there should have brought some sort of good karma into his life. But instead, he found himself wandering around a deserted building following a weak lead that turned up on his answering machine. He tried calling out a few times, and then decided that attracting attention to himself might not be the best idea, so he apologized out loud for shouting out loud in the first place, and shut up.

  What had the message said? Something about deranged cyborg elves. Firstly, he couldn't figure out why anyone would even create a group of cyborg elves, and secondly, how dangerous could elves be?

  On top of everything else, he couldn't shake the fact that the words beware the elf had popped into his head on more than one occasion throughout the day, and finally, had appeared at the bottom of his goldfish's bowl. Something that had shocked and scared him, as he no longer had the slightest idea of what the hell was going on.

  He ascended a staircase placed below a sign claiming that the stairs in question would lead to the fourth floor. As it turned out, the sign was completely correct and Nigel found himself in a long hallway that stretched out in both directions. Being that the only light source was coming through windows dotted here and there, and a weak light source at that, because the sun had begun to set, Nigel couldn't really see much, anyway. He wished he'd grabbed a flashlight from the security station. His map made less sense than a Chinese menu written in Italian, and so he decided to head down toward the right, for no other reason than it looked less dark and therefore less ominous.

  Ominous things were something Nigel wanted very much to avoid, especially if there were elves sneaking around. He didn't want to underestimate a deranged cyborg elf, as he'd never met one and thus couldn't properly assess their capabilities.

  While Nigel pondered the possible capabilities of a cyborg elf, a strange sort of giggling sound floated down
the hallway straight at him. The sound took him by surprise, and his first inclination was to hide. His second inclination was not really an inclination, more of a question: where to hide? An open closet containing janitor's cleaning equipment proved to be the perfect answer and Nigel hopped in, leaving the door open just a crack, as he couldn't deny his curiosity.

  The giggling grew louder and was accompanied by the sound of jingling, of something being dragged over carpet, and was backed up by a worried sort of muffled screaming, and every so often there was a small pop. Nigel's mind, smart as it was, had trouble comprehending what he saw next. First, the elf came into view. He was short, cute little nose, rosy cheeks, nice little green elf uniform, and bells on the curled end of his little shoes which dingled merrily with every step.

  Aside from the fact that Nigel was staring at an elf, a fact that flew in the face of logic entirely, there was one aspect of the little creature that seemed un-elf like: his face, although cute, had a deranged sort of look to it. His lips curled into a sneer; his eyes, or rather, eye, as Nigel could only see him from the side, had a maniacal quality to it ordinarily found in mime artists. His forehead creased in such a way that he appeared to be angry, although this would seem to contradict the soft, gleeful giggling.

  Nigel couldn't decide whether to laugh at the creature or fear for his life. This decision was made almost immediately. The elf dragged a rope that was obviously attached to something heavy, as the elf had to lean forward while he walked in order to haul the weight behind him. Nigel's eyes grew wide and then shrank down as he realized what he was looking at. A spine-tingling coldness ran the length of his back.

  Attached to the end of the rope was a pair of legs, which in turn were attached to a man's body, the entire package wrapped up in bubble wrap packaging tied together with more rope. The man's eyes stared wildly through the plastic wrap as he shouted for help but to no avail; the plastic wrap muffled any sound aside from the occasional pop of a plastic bubble.