I have returned! Sorry, sorry, sorry for the long wait! Too many other obligations got in the way. Don;t worry I won't bore you with the details. Shout outs to Lori Gray Skies, Ajac, The Fool's Hope, ruff1298, Talon88.1, immovinout, onewhowatches, and Jennistar1. Thanks and apologies to all and to anyone I may have forgotten to include. I sincerely hope that this long-overdue chap begins to make up for it. Read and enjoy!
1313 Beverly Hills, Hollywood California
5 AM
He had stood at Cain's side as he murdered his brother.
He had walked alongside the nephilim.
He had escaped the Great Flood and watched the Tower of Babel, man's monument to his own vanity and hubris, crumble to dust.
Through countless millennia, he walked amongst mankind, passing himself off as one of their own, standing at the shoulder of tyrants, gangsters, and a certain cannibalistic hippy, building up kingdoms and tearing down empires and starting all over again through all the ages. He had many names, but in this era he went by the alias Nicholas Scratch.
He was the Kingmaker, the Mouth of Darkness, the Devil's Advocate, and the Herald of the Antichrist...or at least he was supposed to be. He did everything he was instructed to do; he went to wait at the Valley of Magheddo on the appointed day to crown the Antichrist and declare his rulership over all the Earth, thus inciting the Final Battle. But when the kid finally showed up - wouldn't you know it? - it was the wrong kid!
It took a special kind of idiot (1) to mess up something this big. The Battle never took place, despite all the signs being there, the worshipers, confused, angry, and more than a little disappointed, dispersed to the four winds, and the kid who wasn't the kid, went home bewildered and none the wiser.
As for Mr. Scratch, he gave up politics and went into show business. With his powers of persuasion and negotiation skills, honed by centuries of cutthroat manipulation and vicious backstabbing, he swiftly clawed his way to the position of network executive of Wormwood Studios, producing a string of hit shows including Let's Make a Deal...At the Crossroads, Devil of a Time, and Days of Our Deaths.
Soon he made enough profit to buy several other studios and went into the movie business, creating such box office hits as Prom Date From Hell, Damien's Day Out, Ernest Goes to Hell (2), as well as the less than noteworthy I Was A Demonically Possessed Teenager From Pasadena Vacationing in Venice 8: Don't Eat the Pea Soup.
Yes, after an unprecedented rise to power in the course of two years, Mr. Scratch had done quite well for himself. He had wealth, prestige (3), and all the creature comforts he ever desired. Yeah, life was good. Who needs the Apocalypse? Screw that overstuffed infernal bureaucrat Beelzebub! Screw Satan and His grand vision for reality! And especially screw the Antichrist!
The Cross Road Blues ring tone on Scratch's cell phone suddenly playing startled the immortal from his slumber along with the super model twins sharing his bed. He persuaded them to go back to sleep as he slipped on his spectacles, a mauve robe, and a pair of bunny slippers and went to answer his phone. He didn't hurry about it or anything. After all whoever it was woke him up at 5 in the f-ing morning! Let them wait! Besides, he was Nicolas goddamned Scratch, the single most powerful man in Hollywood. Whoever it was could afford to be patient.
He looked at the caller ID, but didn't recognize the number. His phone was unlisted so how did they get this number? After a moment of consideration, he flipped open the phone and answered, "You got Nicholas Scratch. Talk to me."
"Is that what you're calling yourself these days?" inquired a sultry, intoxicating and all-too-familiar voice.
"Babs?" asked Scratch.
"The one and only babe," she answered. "I'm surprised to find you surprised. Surely you were expecting me."
"A-actually," answered the immortal. "I wasn't. You see..."
"And where's my grand capitol?" interrupted Babs. Scratch could almost hear her pouting. "When I woke up all I found were a construction crew building an amusement park over the ruins. Wasn't my betrothed supposed to revive Great Babylon in anticipation of my arrival?"
"Babs..."
"And what about my Ten Nation Army?" demanded the Dark Queen. "I was very specific in that I wanted command over Ten Nations. So far all I've found was a gawky towel-headed truck-driver. No offense sweety."
"None taken," answered a male voice (4).
"Anyway," continued Babs. "Instead of a dragon drawn chariot for me to ride triumphantly to the alter of the Dark Lord where His spawn and I would exchange vows of eternal carnal bliss to one another, I find myself bumping along in a rusted old clunker careening toward England of all places."
"England?" asked Scratch, incredulously.
"Yes, England," confirmed Babs. "My senses indicate that my husband to be is on the British Islands...in a place called Tadfield to be precise. What's he doing there? And what are so many humans doing walking about? I thought the majority of the population was supposed to have been wiped out by plague or something while the remainder got enslaved. Where is all the suffering and devastation of humanity?"
"Where are you now?"
"We've just crossed the boarder to Greece," answered Babs.
"Then it's about 20,000 miles behind you," finished Scratch sardonically. "Listen Babs, it didn't happen."
"What?"
"The Rapture. The Rise. The Apocalypse. None of it. The Antichrist didn't even show up. The worshipers brought me the wrong kid."
"But that makes no sense!" protested Babs. "Why would I have awakened if the Antichrist didn't conquer the world?"
"I don't know," answered the immortal. "But I think perhaps it'd be better if you went back to sleep."
"Not a chance," said the Dark Queen imperiously. "I've waited and waited and I'm not waiting anymore. Adam Young will be mine, and once he is, I'll kick start him into Armageddon and the world will burn beneath our feet as we glut ourselves on the blood of innocents and devour the hearts of those foolish enough to oppose us..."
There was a stunned and apprehensive silence before Babs giggled, "Oopsie. Guess I got carried away there for a minute. Sorry Achbar."
"I-it's n-n-no p-p-p-problem," stammered the male voice. "R-r-r-r-really."
"Babs," sighed Scratch calling upon all his persuasive powers. "I rEaLlY tHiNk YoU sHoUlD gO bAcK tO sLeEp."
Momentary silence on the other end gave Scratch the fleeting hope that he had succeeded, but it was quickly dashed to bits when the Dark Queen spoke, "Try that again and I swear I'll eviscerate you. Now, here's what's going to happen: I am going to Tadfield, but before I get there, I want you to do some reconnaissance on my destined king. I understand you're a busy man now, but frankly I don't give a crap. Whatever appointments you have, cancel them. From now on Adam Young is your top priority. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes Babs."
"Goodie, goodie gumdrops!" gushed Babs happily. "See you in Tadfield."
Then she hung up and Scratch listened to the dial tone for a few moments before deactivating his phone. Then he went to his closet, selected his wardrobe and stood before his grand fireplace.
He ignited the plaster logs, and muttered an unholy incantation. The flames writhed and expanded and tightened until they formed a portal. Agonized screams and malicious laughter rose from out of the portal and Scratch hesitated. The whole point of becoming immortal was so that Scratch could avoid worrying about the afterlife.
He knew far too many people in both Heaven and Hell who, frankly he was content not to see again (5) and now here he was about to enter into the worse of the two options. But desperate times and all that. His comfy lifestyle was at risk of literally being blown to Hell - or Kingdom Come, depending on who won - and the only person who could help him was in the Pit, so taking a deep breath, Nicholas Scratch, immortal maker and breaker of empires and Hollywood executive stepped through the fireplace and into Hell...
- - -
The Master wandered aimlessly through Tadfield park, a concerned Dog trotting close behind him. His Master hadn't been the same since the night that chubby bald man with the desirable pants dragged him to the Young residence and threatened to write an angry letter or something. Dog didn't know what a letter was but it couldn't have been what was bothering the Master since chubby bald man had made the threat on dozens of occasions - many of which immediately followed Dog's activities in his yard - and never had they affected him to this extent.
For a fleeting moment Dog worried that his Master was doing what he did two years ago when the world almost ended. Despite being a great deal smaller than he was as a hellhound, Dog had grown quite comfortable in this world of cats, cars, lawns, old socks, and especially pant legs and would really prefer it if it wasn't brought to an end.
But then it occurred to Dog that his Master wasn't behaving in the manner that he was on that day. On that day he was mad-crazy with power, now he's just mad-sad with...something. It was an unfamiliar scent emanating from the Master that Dog couldn't quite place. It was kind of like the scent bitches gave off at certain times of the year when it was customary for canines everywhere to sniff one another's backsides, find a suitable bush and &^%!, mixed in with something else.
He heard a pair of noses discharge unwanted dust particles and turned around to see a pair of gentlemen tailing them. One was a blonde man with a gentle countenance, while the other was lean with slicked black hair and a pair of shades.
They saw Dog looking and with exaggerated casualness, hid their faces behind newspapers. Dog wasn't fooled. He didn't know what was bothering his Master but he did know that he would rather be alone at the moment. So bounding toward the two gentlemen, baring his fangs, eyes blazing red, growling as menacingly as he could manage.
"Shit!" said the shade-wearing man crumpling his newspaper and sprinting away. "Run Aziriphale! RUN!"
"Oh, pooh on you Crowley!" scoffed the sweater-vest guy. "He's just a little doggie, aren't you little doggie, doggie, doggie...OW! Wait! Aieeeeeeeeee! GETHIMMEOFFGETHIMOFFME! Don't just stand there Crowley! No! Not there! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH! GETHIMOFFMEGETHIMOFFMEGETHIMOFFME!"
Oblivious to Dog's gnashing and tearing and the sweater-vest guy's cries of dismay and the shade man's muttered blessings, the Master made his inevitable way to the old quarry his childhood chums had claimed as their territory, affectionately nicknamed: the Pit.
- - -
To most of Lower Tadfield's citizenry, the Pit was an unremarkable rock quarry and a general eyesore. Several times, one R. P. Tyler had petitioned to City Hall to have it turned into a dumping ground so that at least it would be put to some constructive use, but was denied every time and had to content himself with writing letters to the Advertizer complaining about all the left-wing hippies active in politics nowadays.
To Adam Young and the rest of the Them however, the Pit had special significance, not just because Adam became aware of just who and what he was that almost-fateful day two years prior, but because it was here that they had mapped out their futures, here where they determined the day's activities, here where they plotted their plans of attack against Greasy Johnson and the Johnsonites in their perpetual turf wars.
Everything wondrous and fun that happened to Adam in his sort thirteen years of existence happened here. He was hoping that the sight of it would lift his spirits a bit, but all it managed to do was make him think about Pepper, just like everything else did these days. Thinking about Pepper had never made him feel like this before. It was no different from when he thought about Brian or Wensleydale, but everything changed when they shared that kiss, even after they had agreed that nothing would.
Pepper would return his calls, and when he found her at the Tadfield Mall Food Court, she turned crimson and made an excuse to get away from him before he could even start to speak. Not that he could if he tried. His own face had heated up and the words got stuck in his throat until she was out of sight at which point they came out in a jumbled, "Ithinkweshouldtalk!" Everyone in the food court thought that he was spouting nonsense to the decorative Ficus plant and did their best to ignore him.
For the first time in two years, Adam considered using his powers to erase that kiss from existence. He had decided that after facing the Horsepersons and his father - his real father - the world would be better off if people like himself stopped messing with it and just let life progress in the manner it was intended. And for the past two years he had coped with having all this raw supernatural power in his person by using it as little as possible (6), but now he wanted nothing more than for things with Pepper to go back the way they were before. He wanted his friend back.
Soft guitar music filled the air and a gentle voice began to sing a soothing melody:
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Adam looked about himself before he saw a young man sitting on the large rock that was Adam's habitual place whenever the Them had their meeting. The man was dark complexioned with long hair tied into dozens of thin braids, mauve-tinted spectacles, a tie-dye T-Shirt with a white cross on the chest and sandals. He was strumming a battered old guitar with bandaged hands and tapping to the rhythm with his bandaged feet.
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Adam carefully picked his way through the stones and dirt until he reached the quarry floor.
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
Adam then went to stand in front of the guitar-player until he stood in front of him, then waited politely for him to finish his song.
The answer my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind
The man then put aside his guitar, looked at the thirteen-year-old and smiled, "You look like you have a lot on your mind, Adam."
"Hallo Jay," said Adam, returning the smile.
- - -
Hell was not a nice place to be.
The fire and brimstone and even the Michael Bolton music aside, it is very unpleasant. There are things in the furthest corners of the Underworld that there aren't even words for, and the damned have an entire eternity of torment to look forward to. There in lies the problem. Eternity is a long time. Thus it stands to reason that, after centuries of torment, the damned grow a bit numb to their suffering. As initially exciting and terrifying as Hell is, after a thousand years or so, it gets to be, well, dull. At some point, the damned stop caring, and its not nearly as much fun to break someone once they're already broken.
To solve this problem, Dante's Crapper Kareoke Bar was constructed, as a place for the damned to go one every century or two and enjoy themselves so that they could go to their torments fresh. It's here that we find a certain son of Iscariot, strutting his stuff and singing that there was no tomorrow...because, really, there wasn't.
Go on now go! Walk out the door!
Just turn around now!
Judas began strutting in a manner reminiscent of Mick Jager as he grew more and more impassioned by the sound of Gloria Gaynor's lyrics.
'Cause you're not welcome anymore
Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye?
You think I'd crumble?
You thin I'd lay down and die?
Oh no, not I!
I will survive!
As long as I know how to love I know I'm still alive
I've got all my life to live
I've got all my love to give
Judas paused, panting into his microphone, pouring all his bitterness and despair into the final words:
And I!
Will!
Survive!
Cheers and applause resounded throughout the building as the host, a squat rotund little devil came and recovered the microphone from the singer.
"Alright, that was Judas Iscariot, a rising star here at the Crapper, with Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive," he said jovially. "Next we have Bundy, Gacy, Dahmer, and Hansen sing Journey's Don't Stop Believin'."
The room applauded once again as the four serial murders walked up on stage and Journey's guitar and piano began to play and Judas made for the exit.
"Leaving already?" inquired a man in a hooded cloak.
"I've got a long day tomorrow," sighed Judas. "I'm on Cerberus Duty (7)."
"Unfortunate," said the hood drily. "But surely you could stay for one drink."
I really don't have time," said the Iscariot once again making for the door, before the hood grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards him, saying, "I'll have to insist!"
Judas peered beneath the cowl and gasped, "You?"
"That's right," grinned Scratch. "I've got a proposition for you Judy baby!"
"Just a small town girl," sang Gacy. "Livin' in a lonely world..."
1.) A continent and an ocean away, Crowley and Aziraphale gave a collective sneeze and a few miles further, Mary Loquacious, former Sister of the Chattering Order of Saint Beryl and moderate Satanist had the overwhelming urge to point out to somebody that she was merely a regular idiot at best
2.) He had managed to revive Ernest through necromancy and the film was an unmitigated success, though Scratch had to hire the best makeup artists money could buy to disguise the deceased actor's advanced stage of decomposition.
3.) He was named Man of the Century in Conceited Hollywood Jerkoffs Monthly and number 3 in the Top 10 Rich Shmucks Most Likely to Chew You Up And Spit You Out But You'd Sleep With Them Anyway, right behind Ben Affleck at #2 and Bobby Brown at #1.
4.) For the sake of smoother storytelling Achbar will henceforth be inexplicably able to speak fluent English. Thank you.
5.) It would definitely have been awkward to meet that German fellow again, considering that it was Scratch who had persuaded him to take poison with his girlfriend and then shoot himself. Redundant, yes, but Scratch really detested the guy. After all, even a manipulative immortal bastard like him had standards.
6.) In truth, he had only two occasions to use his powers; once to bend reality so that he had a decent anniversary gift for his parents and one other when he accidently ran over Greasy Johnson's cat and healed its injury. They were sworn enemies, but that didn't mean they had to be barbaric about it.
7.) Imagine picking up the turds of a fifty-foot demonic pit-bull with three sets of foaming gnashing teeth and you'd have a broad idea of what Cerberus duty entails
Yes it's another cliffhanger, but what did you expect? I'm an incorrigible tease! I'll hopefully have another chap ready for you soon, until then R/R and all that. Till next time! Shibui out!