Supply and demand
the starved with need
the full with more
the
mercantile utopia will
supply and demand
sustenance
from her drones, and I
supply my demand
to be supplied
So this is it? No welcoming barbecue party? No smoking hot devil chicks? And here I thought I was good at being an asshole…
I always knew I was going to hell if there was one – got told that by quite a few, too – but this place really doesn't deserve the advertising it gets. Just-
"God! Fuck!"
Okay. No fire, but razor sharp dirt: one point to the devil, zero to me. If there is a devil. Looks pretty darn barren here to me. Riiight… am I supposed to just stand here and wait? Can't exactly move around. Or… maybe I can…
'Necessity is the mother of invention' but right now I could fuck Necessity up her dry, sarcastic cunt. Move shirt, step on it; move pants, step on them; move shirt – this is going at snail pace! And I'm naked. And there's no hot devil chicks. There's not even dramatic doom-ish background music. Hell sucks. And I was about to land such a good deal in Nigeria! Fuck Africa and its fucking niggers with their fucking parasite infections! I could'a been a millio- billionaire right now!
I was big, man. I was gonna be the top dog, live the dream; have five cars and a hot wife and eight yappy little Yorkshire terriers that crapped all over my neighbour's lawn. There's two kinds of people in the world: the rich guy with eight yappy terriers and the guy who gets to pick up the shit from the rich guy's eight yappy terriers. That's the world between your thumb and index finger: hierarchy. Those who're on top and those who're below. And I was gonna make it to the top or die trying.
Turns out I did. What a fucking joke. Ha ha. My ex-girlfriend would've loved that one.
Maaaaan wonder what they're doing with all my cash now. I didn't write any friggin' will. Why didn't I write a friggin' will? 'cause I wasn't going to friggin' die of some stupid disease at thirty six!
That's what we all go around thinking, isn't it? "It doesn't happen to me." "Five people in the world die of this thing every year what're the odds it's gonna be me?"
I always fucking hated people who went around pointing out that we think like that. I hate them even more when they're right. It's the same people that go around talking about climate awareness and sustainable living and "it's your future too haven't you thought about that?" Bitching self-righteous fuckers. Why aren't they here, huh? There should be a spot in hell reserved for all those holier-than-thou pricks that look down on everyone else. Hah, the looks on their faces! What about sustainable living now, eh? Can't have thought so much about your future if you ended up here, eh?
Fuck this place.
I don't know how long I've been in this shit hole. I made it to these rocks and I'm not going one step farther – can't go another step farther, for that matter. I've got this fucking shrapnel sand in my feet and it hurts like fuck. I hate this shit. I'm just gonna sit here on my ass and wait for the devil or his granma to come pick me up. It's not like I need to eat or sleep or anything. I'll be fine.
I would give half my fucking market shares for some of that anaesthetic gel stuff dentists give you before they prick you with the needle. Half my shares, I'm not even joking, my feet hurt that fucking much. What's the name of that stuff anyway? Xylo… phone? Xylocardine? Xylo…
Xylo-fucking-mega-phone. Give me anything and I'll be happy, man. This place is fucking crawling up under my skin and all I can do is sit on this rock like some bloody Little Mermaid statue and look pretty in my dainty little hospital loincloth.
I used to think hell was about physical torture. It ain't. It just slowly eats into your skull and makes you lose it.
…well I'll be a fucking coconut.
"Hey! Hey, you over there!" Quit looking around like that, who the fuck else do you think I'm talking to? "I'm over here!"
I feel like bloody Robinson Crusoe seeing another human being for the first time in twenty years. Well who cares. There's another human coming over to my little rock island and this beggar ain't gonna be a fucking chooser.
Guy looks like total shit. I've seen bums sleeping in their own piss that look better than that. It's an old man in something that looks like it used to be a pretty decent suit, but I'm guessing Razor Sand happened.
He's got shoes, though… He can walk through this shit like just another beach stroll…
"Hey there, granpa! You're the first human being I've seen in this hellhole."
God, he looks like a coke head. He's got that haunted look they get when they haven't had a line for a while and start to feel the itch. And he's old and puffy and probably needs diapers. Alright, just be civil. He looks like he's been here longer than you, he might know some tips and tricks.
"Holy shit! What the hell?!"
Did the guy just fucking kick sand at me?! Why not spray me with acid you old son of a bitch – that would hurt less!
"You're real, then?" the crazy fuck asks, sounding like he's been lining his throat with this razor sand. He's ducked down behind a rock, but now he looks at me like I'm some kind of rare hallucination – and he's the guy with a bunch of flowers in his hand and some untied apron round his neck.
"Yeah, I'm real."
It's so fucking disgusting when old people's eyelids start to sag like that and you get that pink wet half moon under their eyes. Christ's sake, plastic surgery can't be that expensive. Who'd want to walk around looking like a bloodhound?
"Oh. I'm sorry. Sometimes they look like humans, that's all."
"Who does?"
Now he looks at me like I'm the one hallucinating. …and scratches his balls. And I'm not talking about a quick just-adjusting-the-jewels here, he's taking his merry time rubbing his hand in his crotch like it's nothing out of the ordinary.
I get this yucky feeling I can guess what got him to this place.
"The demons", he replies, and that floppy turkey neck skin jerks under his chin. Gross.
"So there are demons here? Whaddaya know – I was starting to think I'd gotten to the wrong place. Could've said 'nice meeting ya', but I guess this is the last place you'd want to meet at. Still. I'm Peder; you…?"
I thrust a hand out and flash my business grin. I know how to talk to people. I just have to tell myself this guy is "people" and that the hand I'm shaking hasn't just been rubbed in his wrinkly old man balls.
…what the fuck is wrong with his hand?
"I'm… Claude", he says, sounding like he's surprised to even have a name.
Am I gonna become like that if I stay here…? It's like going senile and then nuts and then- Yeah that does sound like hell.
"Right. Claude – that French? Well, I suppose that doesn't matter anymore. Come, sit down." I pat the stone next to me and try to discreetly wipe my hand on it at the same time. His palm felt like some rubber toy a fighting dog mauled. "It's not like we've much else to do in this place but to swap stories, eh? What'cha here for, granpa?"
"Rape. Maybe adultery. Maybe both – I don't know."
"Forgot to ask at the reception desk?"
It's like trying to make a fish smile. The most dead fucking fish you ever saw. He just keeps staring at me with that creepy-ass drug addict gaze. I'm not even sure he's picking up on what I'm saying. And he makes these disgusting noises, like he's slurping in his own saliva and swallowing the whole damn time.
"She was pretty. I was drunk – a little. I just assumed… she wanted it." I get the irrational thought that I'm on a movie shooting and that I'm watching the main character psychopath practicing his lines to get that creepy monotone right. This is exactly like that. Except Claude's real. "Or maybe… I wanted it, and therefore I told myself that she wanted it."
Give the man the Nobel prize, someone: he just cracked the ages old question of why men become rapists. And if he ever did star in a film he should be given an Oscar, 'cause that staring, haunted gaze and that monotone are some of the creepiest things I've seen.
"I think you're onto something there, granpa. Me, well – if I'd chance a guess I'm here for being a greedy son of a bitch. All businessmen are, so at least I'll have the pleasure of seeing my competitors here sooner or later. I was into oil. North Africa. Loooads of cash to be made, if you could just get the indigenous off your land. And now I'm here", I finish with a grandiose, self-ironic gesture at my loinclothed Little Mermaid impersonation. "Done in by some damn mosquito. So, how did you die? Well, sorry if it's a touchy subject, but you can't blame a guy for being curious." I sweep my hand at him instead of me. "In what kind of situation does a guy die in suit and apron? Cooking accident at the dinner party?"
Claude doesn't catch on this time either. I'm giving up on this guy, man. I feel some cheesy pun about "dead serious" itching in the back of my mouth but fuck it, it'll be a while before I'm that desperate.
"They haven't come to you yet?" the guy says at long last. As if I'm supposed to understand exactly what he means by that.
"Who has? The demons?"
"These." Claude puts his wedding bouquet to his apron and I'm not two shits wiser.
"Flowers? No I haven't seen any flowers around. No wardrobes or kitchens either, but I wouldn't say no if you could show me where I'd find that."
"In your mind." Oh sweet, go Matrix on me – there is no spoon, but feel free to help yourself to some flowers if you can convince yourself they exist. "Hell is in our minds. Then it turns inside out. Then we're in hell, and these things drop out of our minds."
Right. Giving up on having a normal conversation with this guy. I could have this kind of chat with my ex-girlfriend sometimes. She'd read books by Coelho-something and every time she did she wanted to hold some kind of book review session about expanding one's mind and view of the world. It always ended with me zoning out and humming in agreement to how "deep" it was. She would probably think Claude was deep. But you know what? Get too "deep" and the pressure will crush your skull: plain, trusty physics.
"Do you feel it yet?"
And there we are: I zoned out. What's he talking about now?
"Feel what?"
Creepy old fucking man: all that's missing is the milky eye and he'd be the ideal horror movie actor. Won't he stop rubbing his balls all the time? While he's looking at me and slurping? I swear to god, if he's one of those homo rapists I'll beat him down and choke him with his apron without a moment's hesitation.
"Your sin." I do not like that feverish glaze over his eyes. Actually there isn't a single thing I like about this old creep except that he has shoes. "Do you feel it? That's what we are, when we come here. We're purified, until we become the sin. You see?"
Yeah, I see. Now that he's sitting down I see the boner poking a tent in the apron. That sick son of a bitch.
And I can't get away from him, because he has the shoes.
"No, I haven't felt any sin. It's not like money's gonna do me any good here anyway, is it?"
The bastard is rubbing his dick again and he doesn't even seem to notice what he's doing. Just stares at me. If a woman stared at me like that it would be hot, but this is just wrong. All of him is wrong. Hell or not, you don't fucking start jerking yourself off while staring at somebody's face like that.
"When you feel it I'll help you. We can help each other." He wets his lips, and I'm tensing up to hit him if he makes a move. "I can't do this myself, I've been- I've been trying for a long time." This is the first time he smiles. I wish he hadn't. "I can't finish it off, not by hand. If you help me out now, I'll help you out later. Right? We will help each other. We will survive this and come out pure. Right?"
This is the moment I truly realise that I'm not on earth anymore. I think. A crazy old homo in a suit is asking me to blow him while he's jerking himself off through a kitchen apron. In the desert.
"You'll help me if I help you?"
Now that part, I get. That's business: supply and demand, service and payment. That's my game.
And I ain't gonna fucking go near a wrinkly gay dick.
"Yes. I help you and you- I mean you help me and I help you, yes", he nods so fervently I can almost hear his fake teeth rattle. He forgets his slurping and gets that gross quiver in his lips like some mental patient about to have a seizure.
"Of course I'll help you – Claude." I barely remember his name in time but throw in a charming smile to cover it up. "That's how we survive here, right? That's how we'll make it through, right?" I don't know if he's really hearing me, but he keeps nodding and his hand jerks faster so I guess some part of what I say is getting through. "Just sit right there and I'll help you o- Ah, dammit! Looks like you'll have to help me a bit already, Claude. Can I borrow your shoes so I can get a good position?"
"Of course, of course!"
He's been having a long dry spell if he's that stupid. But hey, I'm not complaining. The faggot is undoing his shoelaces and I'm scanning the place for the best route to take away from here. I'm not staying another second once I've got those shoes on.
"Thanks. You're a great guy, Claude. See ya!"
The shoes are a bit small but who cares? I can walk and the faggot can't.
There comes a shriek like I-don't-know-what from behind, and next thing I know I stumble from the weight of Claude latching onto me like a fucking leech. He's just a bag of bird bones underneath that suit but holy fucking shit he's humping me?!
"Get the hell off!"
"You have to help me!"
"I'm not gonna fucking help you!"
He keeps howling about help and dry humping my leg, and when the old faggot actually trips me into that needle bed of a ground I just lose it. I fucking lose it, man. The razor sand goes straight into my knuckles when I punch his face in but I don't fucking give a damn. I punch. Lowlife is lowlife and I'm the top dog – dead or not fucking dead, I'm on top and that piece of paedophile crap deserves far worse than I can dish out to hi- Oh god the apron has slipped and his dick is out like a shredded earth worm. Holy hell that's the most disgusting thing I've ever- The sick fuck tried to jerk himself off even when he had splinters in his palms?
"You sick bastard." I honestly can't look at it, I'll fucking throw up. God… "You sick bastard…"
I leave him on the ground. He's going to look like a porcupine if he ever gets up, but that's not my problem. This is hell. Every man for himself – and people like him deserve hell. People like him are barely fucking people at all. I'll go find a nice spot to settle down on and then I'll have myself a good time picking these splinters out of my arms and forget every memory of shredded paedophile dicks. God, my hands hurt. Damn Hollywood, making fist fights look all easy-peasy. Nicholas Cage wouldn't look so tough in reality if he had-
Oh. Oh shit.
Yeah, they look like humans. If it weren't for the horns and the ears they could've been human. Almost.
What the fuck do I do now?
"Wait!" The short one who looks like some teenage punk took a step but actually stopped when I held up my hands. I just hope to high heaven they can understand what I say. "Is there… Is there anything I can do for you?"
I can do this, I gotta believe I can. Be smart, Peder. Everybody wants something. You can always deal with somebody who wants something.
The punk just snorts derisively; he's got this wild look about him that I don't like. Bad vibes there. He's the kind that would corner you in a dark alley with a maniac grin on his face – not for the money, no no, this guy would mug you for the kick of watching you piss yourself. The other one feels more like the negotiating type. She's all blue, like something out of Hindu mythology, and she seems to really fancy bells; they're all over her clothes.
"You can put up some resistance", the punk suggests with that kind of sadistic grin you don't get outside Disney movies. Yeah I was right about that one. The little freak would've torn me apart in a blink if Blue Lady hadn't held out a jingling hand – claw – to stop him.
"You want souls? Is that what you want? I can get you that."
"So can we. Why would we need to go through you?" she says and I know right away she's the same as her buddy, just a different way of getting off. This is the female Bond villain kind that doesn't carve you up right away, just drags the knife over your skin and tells you about every little cut she's going to make when she turns you into Peking duck.
For the first time it really hits me. I'm in Hell. Actual Hell.
"Well, it's a matter of convenience, miss." Focus, Peder, focus. Keep your voice steady. Easy does it, mate, you can do this. Can't miss the deal of a lifetime. "Same reason we humans build convenience stores to get our food from instead of going out hunting in the woods." Do they even know what a convenience store is? Fuck it, just keep going and don't lose the flow. "I've got a soul waiting for you right there behind the rocks, all yours. I can get you more, if you let me." If you let me live. I can't get the whole sentence out, my throat's tight as a straw. I bet they can hear my pulse racing two hundred kilometres per hour.
And they just stand there, shooting each other looks and smirks. I'm a rat stuck with two cats and I'm fucked.
"Why don't you show us that soul."
Oh she's good. In a bad way. I hold a reputation as a business shark – not to brag – but in this company I'm a school kid on educational visit. It's not a question when she asks, it's not an assent that she'll accept my offer. She wants to see my goods, and she'll walk off with them without paying if she feels like it.
I lead them over to the rocks where I left the faggot lying, and every step of the way I hear the shrill jingle of Blue Lady's bells. Like being stalked by a rattlesnake.
I didn't get a good look at Claude before I left. He looks about as shitty as I'd pictured. From the looks of it he hasn't gotten up yet 'cause he doesn't want to move around in the razor sand too much. He's panting and convulsing… Is he crying? I don't get what's going on, there's no tears or anything but his face is scrunched up and his lips drawn back like he's crying, and I guess those spasms he's having could be sobs. As soon as he sees my company he gets a fire under his ass, though.
I jump him before he can scramble up on his feet. He's not going anywhere. Not when my fucking life depends on him.
I look absolutely pathetic, I realise somewhere in between the flailing arms and legs. The old faggot gets some crazy kind of death-angst-adrenaline-rush and fights me nail and tooth, and all I can do is fight back and grab whatever extremity I can get my hands on to hold him in place. I'm no brawler and this is as far from MMA and pro wrestling as you get but the prize is way more than those knuckleheads could ever get into their concussion-scarred brain tissues. This is the struggle for survival, and for one split-second blaze of a moment I feel it, I am one with all the hairy, grunting man-apes that clubbed each other to death for a shot at passing their genes forward to create the grappling bag of dead meat that is me, and I feel it. I'm enlightened. I'm alive – more alive than when I lived – and it's kill or be killed.
I'll get eaten unless I keep this fucker on the mat, okay? I've got a shredded paedophile cock poking at my thigh, okay? Okay? That is not fucking okay in any fucking dimension, and I go off again. I see red, man: I'm a Neanderthal, I'm a firework – one of those big ones thicker than your arm – and I'm going off on this disgusting shit's face and I'm gonna live.
I come to again when he doesn't move anymore. Did a number on that one. His skin is split everywhere – on his lips, over his eyebrow, on his jaw – and I swear I can see bone shining through on a scraped cheek. My hands feel like I've been packing fresh asphalt with them. Fuck you, Nicholas Cage.
"What do you think?" I hear her voice behind me. She's amused. I'm sure two guys fighting for their lives must look very amusing.
"He's funny – I say we keep him. Hey, Gluttony: move it."
"Gluttony…?" I can only assume he's talking to me, since Blue Lady doesn't respond to it.
"Your sin. Gluttony." A pair of legs in denim jeans appear in the periphery of my vision and a foot – they walk around in this shit barefoot? – shoves me off the prone body.
I forget myself. I brace the fall with my hand. God. I think of Claude's palms and then of Claude's dick and I feel like puking; but I'm not stupid enough to snap at a demon. He bends down to look at the body, cocking his head from side to side like, I don't know, an owl or something. His nostrils are flaring. He's got four nostrils, I realise. They all quirk upwards when he suddenly crinkles his nose.
"Lust. All yours."
"Told you~"
Blue Lady jingles when they switch places. She's barefoot, too – and when I look closely I swear I can see small cuts in her soles closing up as soon as her foot leaves the ground.
Then I don't look anymore, 'cause the moment her hand rams through the faggot's ribcage and it just cracks I can't hold it in any longer. I turn my head and puke. I try to. I feel the gag and I feel the burning of acid steaming up my throat but nothing comes out. Not even that icky string of saliva that dribbles out when you've emptied all there is in your stomach. I get nothing.
But I want to.
The hell is that sound…? Or, or thrumming or whatever it is.
Reminds me of freight trains. Freight trains create that kind of sound, when there's just vibrations and you can't tell if it's sound waves or if it's the ground shaking and you're shaking with it. Blue Lady lifts the vibration out of Claude's busted, hyperventilating chest like it's a wounded bird and brings it to her mouth. Or maybe it's wind and not vibration. I don't know what it is, though I can guess. The more that flows into her mouth, the more does Claude's twitching, writhing flesh turn grey, then crack, then... oh god his eyes are cracking like fucking windshields in a car crash
There's the sound of marbles clattering against each other, or rain coming down real hard and real fast on roof tiles. The husk collapses in on itself in a million tiny, grey, shattered… shards.
…and I'm alive.