Death, the Devil, and the Goldfish

by Andrew Buckley

  "The Devil," said Heinrich, "is a sad creature. We used to be good friends. He got some pretty wild ideas about human kind."

  "How wild?" asked Gerald.

  "He wanted to kill them all," said Death.

  "That's quite mean," said Gerald.

  "Quite," agreed Heinrich. "So he was banished from Heaven and sent down to Hell, which became his domain. He tries his hardest to collect as many evil souls as possible and cause as much chaos as he can. I suppose in many ways I feel sorry for him, and it's probably why I decided to let him have a go at this contract of his."

  "Contract," said Death matter-of-factly.

  Heinrich smiled a broad smile. "Well, you see, he wanted to walk on Earth again, and I thought that wasn't such a horrible idea, he could probably use the fresh air, so I agreed as long as we put the terms in writing. He gets seven days up top, he can pick the body, yadayadayada. Of course, I added my own clause at the end that in the unfortunate event that the chosen body was suddenly unavailable, he'd have to go into a body of my choosing. He chose the body of a rather athletic ex-swimmer millionaire who is sitting across the table from me right now. Sadly, the millionaire got hit by a bus while performing an act of human kindness."

  "That was me!" said Gerald. "I can remember something about that, there was a ball, a bus, and a swirly thing!"

  "So the Devil had nowhere to go?" asked Death.

  "Right, so I picked him a new body."

  "The cat," said Death.

  "Funny, eh?" said Heinrich.

  The three of them sat in silence for a few moments and then burst into laughter, partially because of the wine, partially because the thought of the Devil trapped in a cat was quite amusing. Mostly, it was the wine.

  Celina stared at Nigel with only the slightest bit of disbelief; she was actually warming to this guy and his crazy theories. "So you think that this cat, Fuzzbucket, has been possessed by the Devil and he's the one that tripped the security alarms and is . . . what?"

  "I'm not sure yet," said Nigel. "Maybe you should explain these elves to me."

  "Oh, well, that's all quite simple, really."

  "Didn't you do the same thing to the Devil in the garden of Eden? Got him trapped in a snake or something."

  Heinrich wiped the tears from his eyes, as the three of them finished another wine-induced laughing fit. "Yes, and much like that particular situation, he's making the best of it."

  "Wait a minute," said Death, "why did you agree to the contract in the first place? You always have a plan of some sort. You never leave things open-ended."

  "I needed a reason to bring some people together. You see, there's something else happening here, something bigger on its way, and this group of people, who our once black-and-white friend here is a part of, needed a good reason to come together. So that when this other thing happens, they'll be able to deal with it, because at that particular time, I'll be unavailable. Make sense now?"

  "Clear as mud," agreed Death.

  "Hiccup!" said Gerald.

  "So what's Lucifer up to, then?" asked Death.

  "Oh, you'll love this. He's hijacking something called the Santa Claus Project."

  "And what is the Santa Claus Project?" asked Death.

  "Elves?" repeated Charles Chitham with an air of disbelief.

  Beatrice poured Neville a glass of water.

  Neville examined the glass, looked deeply into the water, then threw it in the face of the lawyer sitting closest to him. He offered no explanation, and the lawyer was too polite and ever so slightly afraid to do anything about it.

  "Yes," said Neville. "You see, a few years ago, I hit upon this stroke of genius. Due to the nature of this genius, I've had to keep it locked down, completely secure, but there's a possibility that the security has been breached and there could be legal ramifications."

  "I'm extremely confused, Mr. Snell," stated Marcus Chump.

  "Harumph," said Perciville Chatham. Funnily enough, harumph was all Perciville said these days. He was the elder of the three partners, at the ripe age of 73, and sustained a body mass to match a mature walrus. In his day, he had been one of the sharpest legal minds of Britain, his specialty being the legal argument. No one ever beat him in a debate at court, and other lawyers feared him. He was a ferocious wordsmith who thrust and parried better than anyone. He reduced hardened lawyers to tears and ripped expert witnesses to shreds. After making a lot of money, consuming hundreds of cases of red wine, and almost-raw steaks, his entire vocabulary boiled down to one word. "Harumph."

  "The nature of the project is neither here nor there, and at this point I don't want to go into details, but I thought it best we be prepared for the worse," said Neville, with such simplicity that he might as well have been discussing the weather.

  "That's all well and good," said Marcus Chump, "but if we are to form any sort of legal strategy, we need to know exactly what we are preparing for."

  "Harumph," said Perciville Chatham.

  "Well," said Neville, who was well aware of the possible flaws with the elves, "if I came to you and told you that there was a possibility that a certain scientific project may have gone horribly wrong, with the potential injury or death of employees working on the project, and a national threat to everyone's well-being projected as an unlikely, but latent, result of said project, how would you legally proceed?"

  The lawyers murmured among themselves, a harumph was heard somewhere in the middle, and then Charles Chitham spoke. "As your legal advisory team, we recommend that you remain here at the law offices for the time being, and we will begin arranging the most deviously ingenious legal argument ever concocted."

  The sound of cash flow rang through the partners' heads.

  "Excellent," said Neville. He leaned over to Beatrice who listened obediently. "Keep calling Majestic, I want to know what's going on in there. And call the mansion; tell them to get the Ukrainian Mountain Goat ready for delivery."

  "Hmmm," said Death, "that's actually an impressive plan, much better than his last one involving those circus performers and the bowl of porridge."

  "He's getting cunning in his old age. I didn't really expect him to be able to pull it all together, but he is the Prince of Darkness, after all."

  "So he's trapped in that cat for an entire week?" asked Death.

  "For at least another five days, according to the contract. Although you know the rules of possession still apply."

  "Hang on a minish," said Gerald, who was trying to get his head around the red wine, "if his plan is to do this Shanta Clawsh thingy, how come Death here had to quit his job, wash that all 'bout?"

  "Simple distraction," said Heinrich. "The Devil knew what would happen if there was no longer an Angel of Death. If everyone suddenly stopped dying, it would throw the world into an uproar, which it has, and no one would notice the Devil quietly entering into the world, which they haven't."

  "Wait, there has to be—"said Death.

  "I know you have lots of questions, and I promise I'll answer them in due time, but for now, the minutes pass us by, and you two really need to get going. There's a cab waiting for you both outside."

  "Can I have my job back?" asked Death, pleading ever so slightly.

  Heinrich's eyes twinkled like an ageless star.

  "Not just yet," he smiled.

  Twenty-Nine.

  Itch had a severely bad time controlling the large truck, as his feet barely touched the pedals, which made shifting gears a lot more difficult than necessary. The cat who claimed to be the Devil was not helping in the slightest, as every time Itch ground gears, the cat hissed in Itch’s ear, which rather tickled at first, but now it was just starting to unnerve him.

  Itch swung the steering wheel around, veering the truck into the shipping and receiving yard. The truck drifted sideways on the wet concrete and Itch shifted gears frantically to try and regain control.

  The Devil hissed.

  "Will you please stop that!" said Itch and then added, "uhh, Yo
ur Majesty."

  The Devil observed Itch with a look of ill contempt that came easily to almost all cats. The plain and simple fact that this cat was also the Devil backed up the look of ill contempt, as it was one of the Devil's favorite looks.

  While torturing souls in the very pits of Hell, he often sneered at them with a look of ill contempt right before he sentenced them to another six-hundred-sixty-six lashes with an oversized wooden spoon. A brand new and very stupid demon on his first day in the pits of Hell rather foolishly asked the Devil why he used a wooden spoon and not a whip or something more painful. The Devil rolled his eyes right around in his dark leathery head before turning to the demon, and fixing him with one of his best looks of ill contempt, proceeded to pummel the new demon with a large wooden spoon.

  While the truck lurched from side to side as Itch tried to recover control, and Big Ernie looked like he was about to deliver his morning cereal all over the cab, the Devil wished that he had a large wooden spoon somewhere close at hand.

  "Over there, you fool, there!"

  Itch heaved a sigh and cranked the steering, causing the truck to swing in a wide arc, throwing Big Ernie flat up against the passenger side window. The Devil also inadvertently ended up plastered to the same window and looked like a cuddly soft toy with suction cups on its paws.

  The truck screeched to a halt with the back of the trailer up against a set of large cargo bay doors leading into the main warehouse building.

  The Devil slid slowly down the window as gravity took effect. Big Ernie rubbed his nose, which felt a lot more bent than normal. The three unlikely individuals climbed out of the truck. Itch was happy the Devil was no longer hissing in his ear, the Devil was happy to be out of such a hot, small space, and Big Ernie was happy to be back on solid ground.

  Somewhere nearby, a large electronic motor whirred to life and the cargo bay doors drifted apart. The sight that met the three individuals on the other side of the door caused a plethora of shock from Itch, confusion from Big Ernie, and sheer delight in its darkest possible shade from the Devil.

  At the peak of the four-hundred-seventy-third highest mountain in the world, the Entity satin front of a small fire it had built. Its journey so far had been an easy one, and it wasn't expecting to experience any other difficulties until it reached its destination.

  The Entity wrapped the cloak around itself and pulled the hood over its head. Despite the cold conditions having little or no effect on the Entity, it still required rest and sleep if it was to maintain its pace. Sitting completely upright in front of the fire on top of the four-hundred-seventy-third highest mountain in the world, the Entity closed its eyes, fell asleep and dreamt of home.

  Rupert the cab driver had found a nice alley where he could relieve himself in peace, then write his name on the wall. This was always good, as finding an empty alleyway in London was like trying to find Swiss cheese without the holes. He ventured back to his cab and to his surprise found the gentleman he'd dropped off not fifteen minutes earlier standing next to his cab, waving at him cheerily. There was a second man dressed in a dark robe and sporting a pale complexion, but Rupert had no idea who he was.

  Ten minutes later, Rupert drove across town with his two new fares and tried his best to be interesting and informative by regaling them with stories about hotel soap. Death and Gerald sat in silence, ignoring Rupert and considering what they'd just been told. Everything being new to Gerald anyway, he took it all quite well and was just happy that he had a job to do. The three glasses of wine he'd consumed were also an important factor in his complete and utter calmness.

  Death had gone through a series of emotions, including confusion, surprise, happiness, and then a slight disappointment when he was told that he couldn't have his job back right away. Since passing out on the beach in the Bahamas and then meeting this man who, although he'd been suspicious at first, he was completely certain had once been a penguin, he'd come to realize just how essential his job was.

  Maybe it was a lonely job, and he was probably very underappreciated, but looking at the state of world as it sat at this very moment, Death certainly felt that the world would probably see him in a different light from here on out. It'd taken Death a while to understand why the Devil was allowed to come back in the first place, but after Heinrich's explanation, the whole thing made perfect sense.

  Sometimes things couldn’t be done directly; one thing had to happen before another could take effect, and so on. Both Gerald and Death had been given their missions, they knew exactly what they had to do, and as darkness fell over London, Rupert's cab sped on through the rain-filled streets toward Majestic Technologies where, at that very moment, two criminals and a group of elves were unloading a truck full of lemons, all under the watchful eye of a Devil-possessed cat.

  Thirty.

  The BBC network was one of the most prestigious and well-known broadcasting companies in the entire world. If the producers and executives at the BBC knew anything about the events happening right under their noses on the outskirts of London, they would have been the happiest people on the Earth, as the events would no doubt make television history.

  The producers and executives were already in their element, due to the dead not dying, and were currently attempting to purchase a license allowing them to shoot one of their news anchors on live air, just so they could be the first to do it. They figured there was no harm in the event, as the anchorman could obviously not die. Several Middle Eastern countries had been broadcasting people getting shot on live television for years, but that was never on the news. Such things never happened in London, and so the BBC was jockeying to be the first to shoot someone on live air. At that very moment, the news anchorman scheduled to be shot once the license was obtained was interviewing a large gentleman on a news-related program.

  The large gentleman, whose name was Terrence Macklesfield, sweated profusely, partly due to his whale-like frame and mass and partly due to the high-powered studio lights trained on him. The anchorman had been asking questions about Terrence's background, which included philosophy, religion, and highly speculative theories.

  Terrence had worked for several high class institutions before presenting a theory about aliens not only building the pyramids but also inventing the mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried cranberry sandwich.

  After a highly prestigious career, the scholarly gentleman, who once weighed no more than one hundred fifty pounds, ballooned to well over three hundred pounds within a matter of weeks of being fired and discredited for introducing ridiculous theories. His eating disorder was attributed to his sudden downfall, and also to his sudden fondness for mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried-cranberry-sandwiches.

  Three years had passed since he'd broken his bathroom scale for the fifth time and now here he sat, back in the spotlight. When the media started reporting the dead not dying phenomenon, Terrence had been the first to draw up a theory, seeing the worldwide catastrophe as a chance to redeem himself. Although he had to pull many strings and call in every favor owed to him, he was certain that after he presented his theory, which through deduction, slight speculation, and hardened facts was actually absolutely correct, he would be thrust back into the academic community that had exiled him.

  The anchorman, on the other hand, was a young gentleman with slicked-back hair and a strong desire to prove himself. Which was why, when the producers of the BBC had asked all the anchormen and women who would like to be the first to be shot on live air, the young man had leaped forward, probably a little too dramatically in hindsight, and was the first to volunteer. The young anchorman truly believed that the best way to become well known was to be hard-hitting and controversial.

  Terrence wiped his forehead with an already damp handkerchief and shifted his weight from his right butt cheek to his left before deciding the right was far more comfortable but didn't want to go through the effort of switching back.

  The anchorman shuffled his papers meaningfully, as all ancho
rmen do, and smiled at the camera before turning his attention back to Terrence.

  "So, Terrence," said the anchorman in a sickly sweet voice that would make cows throw up, "before we get to your theory on the current events, I was wondering if I could ask a question that I'm sure is on all our minds?" The anchorman smiled a toothy grin at the camera, as if the entire world was backing behind him and thinking exactly what he was thinking.

  Terrence mopped his forehead again and realized he was getting quite hungry.

  "Of course, of course," said Terrence, eager to please.

  "Well, Terrence, I was wondering if you'd care to enlighten us with regards to the creation of the mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried cranberry sandwich."

  Terrence had learnt a long time ago that if a theory didn't work, he needed to drop it as fast as possible. If a theory ruined a career and inadvertently caused a severe eating disorder, then denial was the best cure. He was ready for this question.

  "Hmm," said Terrence thoughtfully, "I don't seem to recall that one. Sounds rather ridiculous."

  The anchorman was ready with a scathing response but the answer was unexpected; however, he wasn't about to be outdone by an overweight has-been.

  "I believe it was a theory you presented at Oxford just over three years ago?"

  Terrence shrugged his wildebeest-like shoulders.

  "I don't seem to recall that at all. In fact, I don't believe I've been to Oxford within the last seven years, at the least. Sounds like a ridiculous theory, though. I wouldn't give it any thought if I were you."

  Someone behind the camera snickered, and the anchorman bristled while holding onto a sparkling smile. His plan had gone awry and he started to feel stupid, but he was certain he could nail this guy to the wall if he tried, so he took one last stab.

  "So you're saying that you absolutely did not, without a doubt, present a theory at Oxford explaining how aliens built the pyramids and then went on to invent the mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried cranberry sandwich?"