The cut is deep, very deep, and blood pours in rivulets down it and drips into a cup. The dripping is methodical, like a second hand on a clock, and I concentrate on it to block out some of the pain from my new 'friend' squeezing my wrist like a man trying to wring out a towel. From all the way across the room. As he watches me struggle not to make a sound.

The cut itself doesn't hurt, but when it is twisted the nerves scream, unlike me. I can't. I'd be punished more, surely. So I keep my eyes closed, and concentrate on the drips. Then the voice comes out of nowhere.

"I lied." His words hurt, or more accurately, when he speaks I lose concentration of the drips and my arm feels like it's on fire. I concentrate on his voice instead, or answering his question.

"Of course you did. About which thing?" I breathe, concentrate on his voice, and the drips. He twists my arm and I wince.

"Your blood smells completely fine, I'm sure I'll get a nice trip. Perhaps Hawaii." I roll my eyes underneath my closed lids and try not to sigh too loudly at the terrible joke. I focus on the drips. They are starting to not be enough. I am going to have to wade into the dangerous waters of conversation if I wanted to refrain from pathetic whimpers, crying, or screams.

"So. I conducted this very poorly. Why am I not dead?"

"You did fairly well, you had one and a half brilliant ideas."

"Which you could have taken, since I told you them, stupidly, before I signed anything."

"Yes but you're such a lovely goose, I'd hate to lose you." I pause confused and with the reference on the tip of my tongue, but being in just a huge bit of pain and most certainly off my game from shock, I couldn't quite get it.

"Goose?"

"Goose, golden egg. Kill the goose, no more eggs. You laid quite a shiny one tonight, two full ones if I'm being honest. I'd like to see if you can give me more during a painful labor... like right now."

"Probably." Hopefully, or I'd be thrown to the side. I'm sure I'd be tossed to the wayside if I stopped coming up with ideas.

"Confidant are we? So sure you're better than the rest of those artists down in the pits?"

"Heh, no. I was just lucky, or unlucky, depending on how you look at it. All I know is I'm creative and good at coming up with ideas fast. That's it." We sit in silence, except for the drips. I'm tense. I'm overwhelmed and on the verge of a panic attack again. How the fuck do I go back to normal after this?

"Relax."

"Been trying to since kindergarten. Failed. So...uhm. NNnnnhow true were the stories? Moose and Squirrel dead?"

"Again. Why should I tell you when watching you beg for answers is so endearing?"

"Glad I could provide you with such entertainment."

"So full of snark."

"So why not humor me?" He looks at me, from across the room, the character from the story, from other stories. An actor, a demon. Too many things for me to know exactly who he is.

"I'll give you one." I perk up, it was better than zero. "Hmm, two actually." Now I am nervous. He was deciding to give me more information, that meant there was no way it would ease my mind.

"There are two reasons I am such a stand up guy." I blink. He wasn't a stand up guy, he was the opposite. "One, that show was on TV. PG-13. I could say I did horrible things, could hint, but never elaborate, never show them. Two. Even if I could have shown them, I wouldn't. I need people to like me; think I'm fair, relatable, have a soft side. Maybe I do. Maybe I am."

"You don't break your deals though...that much is true about you I think." I venture, hopeful more than anything else.

"Yes, but...everything else." He chuckles. "That Crowley, was a candy coated teddy bear. I am so so much worse."

"I couldn't tell." He chuckles again.

"Which brings me to my second point. It's about 50%."

"What is?"

"The ratio of crap to fact. You figure out which is which." Oh, he was good. That thought would keep me busy for a long long time. I sigh.

"Look, King of Hell, make a deeper cut so this goes faster, or suck it out of me. Really not enjoying this."

"Yes, well. I am."

"Counterpoint. Worried boyfriend."

"He doesn't care love, you texted him. You're working late and he shouldn't worry about you for dinner." I look at him through eyes heavy from shock and frown. Tricked again. "Demon. Remember?"

"Yeah. Still getting used to that. Usually I write the villain." I look down at the cup, it isn't even half full. I wince over a scream as, from across the room, the king twists his hand and my arm twists with it; producing a gush of blood that interrupts the methodical drips.

"Yes, you've said; and you think you write good ones?"

"Palatable ones, that hopefully get people addicted to their character traits, before they realize how cruel they are. Again, no villains, just people twisted by experiences."

"How do you determine what is good and bad then, who is evil?"

"In life? By the feeling you get in your stomach when you help or hurt someone. In the book? You don't. Everyone is just doing what they think is right for them. You are. You're a demon, literally your job description."

"Huh. Maybe I'll read it when it's published." He holds up his hand and the glass from beneath my arm appears in it. I sigh in relief until I feel pressure and a sting. I look down, the cut is gone, but I have an IV that is decidedly not putting anything in. I look back up at my captor, who smiles and toasts me. "I'm taking a doggy bag."

"But…"

"Hello Chew Toy, King of Hell, nice to meet you." I sigh and throw my head back against the chair. This was going to be a long night.

…..

"Notice you haven't tried to stand despite the lack of restraints."

"Chair isn't mine. Don't wanna break it if you force me back down into it."

"You never really stop thinking do you?"

"Like I said. It's a problem."

"Why?"

"I...you know what, no."

"No?"

"No. I'm not gonna tell you. Give you more ammunition." He chuckles and takes a sip from the red stained glass.

"Well, at least you're learning." I jump to other questions, distractions from fear and pain.

"So...why a tv show? I'm in contract. I can't tell anyone anything any more or you get to-"

"Permanent, Chew Toy…" he stands, watching me, the glass in his hand. He swirls it's contents around and I watch transfixed as red coats its inside with that half opaque half translucent look only blood has. "Crossroads deals were declining. The truly desperate will try anything, even if they see it on a show."

"So...why stop?"

"Deals went up again, business was good. For a year I even went back to my old job. It was nice to work with the little people again, so it meant I was busy." He waves his hand and I cough and swallow a scream as my arm is crushed. Blood flows out into the bag and I am deeply regretting sweetening the pot. But at least I'm not fucking dead. In pain, but not dead.

But I couldn't give him an excuse to make me Want to be dead. I couldn't be loud.

"But…. you said...show...didn't want…" The pain is getting worse the longer the wound is open to the air.

"Complete sentences darling. Use your words."

"You said you... didn't want the….job….True?"

"I'm working here aren't I? Besides, I realized that if I hated the demons working for me...I could, well, fire them. Make new ones. Ones that liked ME enough to not rebel; were smarter, actually a pleasure to work with. And the paperwork, well. Delegate. The moaning, I moved my office. I'm the king, Hell is what I want it to be."

"So...persona, outside...all the niceties and promoting…" I flinch as there is another squeeze. "Kindness." He chuckles.

"Priming up new demons that would be loyal...to me. Not to Hell, not to themselves, ME. I mean. They love me! I'm the King of the Crossroads. All I have to do is say 'Hello boys,' and they cheer. Besides, it's amusing to be a...more mellow version of myself. Final point of business... You need people actually alive to collect souls. If you all kill each other...well." He swirls the drink and takes a sip, rolling it around on his tongue. I wonder if I taste good, or just like iron.

"You wouldn't believe what some will sell their souls for. They really don't understand what they are doing...what they will endure…" He looks at me and nods. "But you do. You fear it."

"No. No. I have other fears, but I saw an opportunity." He pauses swirling his drink and turns his head from the absent gaze at the wall towards me. He raises his eyebrows and smiles. I flinch, that was apparently the answer he wanted...that he somehow knew was coming. He slowly brings the glass to the right of the chair, just out of reach of his suit, and regards it for a moment before looking directly at me and... tips it. The glass filled with what was once keeping me alive. Slowly, slowly, it tips until red spills onto the ground and splashes, wasted, into a pool. I watch it; confused, horrified, angry. When the last drop hits he shakes the glass and sighs, taking out a handkerchief and wiping the outside clean, then his mouth, before setting it down in the air, into nothing.

"What…?" I can't, I just didn't understand.

"Drinking blood, a pastime, a cliche one. Delicious...once it's actually been turned into a drink in Hell. Straight? Take it or leave it."

"Then why…"

"Because I…" He stands and walks over, hands in pockets, bored, faking disinterest...I hoped. "Have been in your head." He leans over and whispers. "I know your wants." I tense as he grabs my arm. "Your fears." I yelp as he rips the IV out. "Insecurities, everything. You're pathetic, but smart...for a human. You'd be brilliant if it weren't for all your other failings. I mean…" He examines the bag and takes the needle out of the tube. "I'll enjoy this later, but drink it…" He holds the tube to my face. "Only on special occasions, and then…" He stands up and pulls out the tube, closing the bag. "We'll share darling." I shiver, no idea what's coming, why he'd waste blood on tormenting me, what's going on. Perhaps I am finally having that panic attack.

He stands above me once again and looks at me. "See you for our honeymoon love. I'd definitely count that as a special occasion."

He's gone. The blood on the floor, the cut on my arm, and face, gone. His chair, back in place. I stand, and nearly fall. He is gone.

For how long?