I'm sitting in a cafe, alone in a corner, typing. Organizing spreadsheets for possible conventions at which to sell my most recent game. Headphones on. Munching on a danish.
I jump five feet when the earbuds are pulled from my ears.
"Hello Chew Toy. Oblivious to the world? Never a good place to be." I take a breath and swallow the danish in my mouth.
"Afternoon Crowley. What can I do for you?"
"Torture ideas." I freeze. I stare, rudely, but I'm too incredulous to care.
"Pardon me?" I can't believe what I'm hearing. The King of Hell. Asking me, a mortal, for...advice on torture? Not happening.
"I did what you said to the traitor. Very amusing. Not extremely efficient, but amusing." I have to think back, but when I do I immediately get nauseous. Not that the guy didn't deserve it, but...
"Wait...you actually...did that?"
"You really thought you could send me that tidbit and I wouldn't act on it? I thought you weren't a bumbling idiot?"
"Not...usually. Uh… do you really… do you really want my ideas?"
"Yes but first, I want to know what made you laugh before I poured salt into your veins."
"What?" He sighs and touches a finger to my head. The memory rushes back to me. Barely containing a smile when he said he was going to garnish me with salt.
"Oh...uh." I sit and shiver, memories I had carefully not opened up for years suddenly rushing out of the box. I swallow down the nausea. "Quote. From a game. 'I don't rub salt into wounds. I use sulfur.'" He raises his brows and sips his coffee.
"Sounds fun."
"Don't think so. The quote has nothing to do with the actual game, just flavor."
"Pity, but I was talking about the sulfur. So... Amaze me."
"I...here?" I look around, pretending to be worried about people hearing me, in a corner, away from others. Putting off this conversation as long as I can.
"Yes. Spill your guts or I'll have someone do it for you." I swallow and take a bite of danish and look around. I chew, swallow, and then swallow again, trying to find courage.
"Well, usually I'd tailor things to the individual. I mean, when I'm writing horror. I said when we met, physical pain...boring. Want to really fuck up someone? Go mental, emotional, fear. Anticipation is far worse sometimes. Or knowing your work is being undone. I'm...I've always been of the mind that torturing innocent people is boring. Uh...easy. People who have done it themselves...but know you're better than them, half know what's coming, can't fight back, that could drive someone insane."
"You also used to think death was a mercy and not a punishment."
"Yeah, well now I know what happens after to those who are Hell bound… so."
"You mean I changed your worldview? How lovely to be appreciated. However, everything you've said so far? Not new ideas. You're so eager to create? Create." I swallow. I close my eyes. I made a deal. I had to. I take a breath and start talking. And don't stop. If I don't stop. I can't think about what I'm saying.
"Tailoring things to individuals is too time consuming. Tailoring it to their contract types, or their vices, streamlines it."
"Already done that. Eons ago." I swallow. Plan going downhill already. He wanted amusing, not efficient, amusing. Just keep talking.
"I...a vain demon in an old person's body, or a young child who can never mature. A...a pedophile...I... I can't do this."
"How unfortunate then, that you have to. Besides. I know for a Fact that you can. Darling, I was inside your head. If I put you on the rack, you'd turn faster than any human soul I've ever seen." I flinch.
"You're lying."
"Just because you aren't evil, out there doing evil things, doesn't mean you don't have Talent for it." He looks at me as he sips his coffee. I look at the cup. Latte, whole milk. "No matter how good, how pure you act, how bad you feel at the thought of hurting nice people, you have a proclivity for my way of things. I mean, it's how you write Such interesting characters, isn't it?" I swallow, trying to breathe. I had no way of knowing if it was true, but it sounded like it could be. I sit up straight. He was a demon; it was his job to make things that could be false, ring true and sound beautiful. He was good at his job, but I couldn't let that affect me. I look at him, his slight smile, expectant look, like he owned me. Which he did. I shake in my seat, tense up, sweat, and his smile widens. This was his job, but it was how he got off, had fun. I wouldn't let him have fun with me. Business, on my side too, or I'd go insane right now; because I always enjoyed creating, and he was twisting it. Business. I take a breath and dive in again.
"Look. I need constraints."
"Really darling? In public?"
"You know what I mean. Outlines, specifics. Are you going after new souls? Or demons? How long have they been there? Are they fresh? Do they know what's coming? High executives who have never worked a day in their life, or someone who grew up on the streets! I need something to work off of here!"
"No."
"What?"
"No."
Ugh. Ok. So some of the personality he showed outside of the show was actually him. Fuck me, I'm being toyed with. There is no way I could stop him from enjoying this. After all, he's giving me what I wanted, the chance to create, in the worst possible way. My head is running in circles. Repeating itself in my abject distress. I breathe, almost take another bite of food to buy time, but one look at it… and I gag. I steel myself and return my gaze to Crowley.
"Fine. I'll make my own."
"Wonderful." Another shaky breath and shakier exhale and I begin.
"Grammy star. Sold their soul to win a Grammy. Melt it. In front of them. Draw it out into long strips, warp it. Wrap it around them. Show them the ephemeral nature of the thing that they sold their soul for. Do it for years. With their Grammy, with others'. Show them the numerous awards they didn't get because they were too eager to have theirs. They could be up there working to earn it, but no, they needed one right then and there. Easily replaced, forgotten within five years, never able to get it again." I frown and shake my head. I couldn't believe I was doing this. I glare at his slight smile as he sips his coffee. "Happy?"
"No. Next." I cringe. I had a bad feeling.
"Surfer. Sold his soul for a contest, a new board. Whatever. Give him an eternal feeling of riding a wave, but not moving. Causes motion sickness and nausea if you feel like you are moving but don't see it. Same for the other way around. Turn his love into something he hates. Something that makes him barf just at the mention."
"Next." I grit my teeth. I feel nauseous. I was getting what I wanted. I was getting a chance to be creative and have my work used, and he pointed my brain in the worst possible direction and said 'go.' And it scared me, how easily it came, the fact that I still enjoyed creating even in such a twisted situation. I mean, I wrote horror for fun, but this? It might actually be used. Was he right? Was I just evil? I need this to be over. Just keep talking, and it'll be over soon.
However my mind is in such turmoil I'm having trouble coming up with ideas that are good enough for him, but don't make me cringe at the thought of saying them aloud. I'd get to them eventually, but I was going to stall. Hopefully that didn't void my contract. I had created to the best of my ability after all, I was just slowing down a bit now.
"Demon. Can you trap a demon in a jar? Outside a vessel? Use a trap. Whatever. Force him to watch as other demons torture his preferred whatever."
"Boring. These are getting worse every time." I twitch. He knew. Knew I wasn't giving him everything...but he wasn't punishing me for that. Why? I had another feeling… a question.
"Then ask what you really want to know."
"Astute. How…" he takes a sip. "Do I torture...an artist?" My gut drops. I snarl. This was never about advice.
"You're doing it." I hiss out. He raises his coffee and toasts me.
"Lovely chat."
And he's gone.
(Hi again, it's me, the writer. So, how do you twist something someone loves against them? According to Crowley, subtly. Muahaha)
