Infernal Dick: the Road to Pandaemonium
When I opened my eyes again –something I wasn’t entirely sure I would ever do again- I was in the center of a huge, smoking crater of my own making. The ground burned into my back until I could no longer lie there and it burned the bottom of feet when I finally stood. You never get used to the burning down there, your hands, your feet. It always burned you, every step you took and it always hurt like a motherfucker.
I was naked and hairless, my skin cooked meat. Hell, eh? Wasn’t liking it so far. I looked up and saw something falling toward me, had barely moved out of it’s way as it crashed and exploded into the crater –my crater- right where my head would have been had I not gotten up. It was my bottle of Glenfiddich. What a waste of a fine booze. Coulda used a belt of scotch like Custer coulda used a few more guys.
I glanced back up. If the bottle had made it why not Ol’ Faithful? And sure enough there she was, at first just a flash then an object until she fell right where I needed her. I caught her delicately, like she was an egg.
“Lookin’ good, baby,” I whistled. She looked too good, truth be told. If the heat was enough to turn my fine belt buckle into molten slag it was more than enough to explode bullets. But Ol’ Faithful had been restored to her previous state of grace, missing one bullet which was no doubt still lodged somewhere in my frontal lobe. I still had shrapnel sticking out of my head from when she let me down, but Ol’ Faithful herself was right as rain and good to go as ever. Made me wonder if that’s how some things work down here or if maybe I had an ally in all this, a benefactor with another agenda that would be revealed to me at the right time, like when the trail gets hot. Or hotter. You want to watch out for gifts from mysterious benefactors when you’re on a real mind-bender of a case. No free lunches, right? Right.
But can Ol’ Faithful kill somebody who’s already dead? More importantly, could she kill the bastard who sent me here? My instincts told me yes. They also told me it would be sooner rather than later. In this business good instincts is the difference between life and death and I listen to mine like they were the Buddha. Just because I was dead didn’t mean I was going to give up any of my old habits, bad or good.
I climbed out of my crater, each handful of Hell an agony. But I had become a man on a mission again, like I was for the Jade Seal. I could feel it in me. A righteousness that dared all obstacle, feared no authority and demanded Truth. I vowed with each agonizing handful that I would use my pain to fuel the fire, my own personal fire. I was just gonna save it all up and when I was in the position to, I meant to give it to any and all persons involved with my death and the death of Margie.
I looked at the firey hole from whence I’d climbed, and the cracks that had splintered out around it. I don’t know if I dented hell or not but I damned sure left my mark, which was a good start. I like to make a good impression. With flames all around me I took my first painful steps, gradually picking up a respectful pace as my mind turned to the situation. Old habits died harder than me, I guess, because just like that I was on another case, and not a pro bono deal either. Somebody was going to pay handsomely for Margie and me, one way or another.
*
Hell, so you know, is a bizarre and garish nightmare, like some junkie’s twisted dream of Las Vegas at the end of days fused with Jack the Ripper’s London. The whole thing is aflame and yet, strangely dark. As many strange creatures lurked down cavernous alleyways. It is a vast and sprawling Metropolis, and the only cars are old-school carriages, like the kind that would be pulled by horses in the old days. Of course these were pulled by some of those same tortured human souls I’d seen skewered on my way down here.
“Hey, move it pal!” a voice warned me from behind. I whirled and saw one of these carriages boring down upon me. I stepped aside. There were nine souls, grey-haired and wearing power-suits moving faster than they could ever have in their mortal lives, pulling aong behind them a huge, nightmarish wagon. Up top sat a large black horse and an even larger demon howled and laughed as he sadistically whipped the nine souls. I started a light jog to keep up with the lead sled-soul who had warned me out of the way..
“Say, buddy,” I asked him, “whattaya know about a room 210?”
“Piss off!” he hissed. He was huffing and puffing, his face a roasted pork.
“No need to be rude,” I advised him. And there wasn’t. He wasn’t pulling my carriage around, was he?
“Piss off before he-“ and just like that he was interrupted by a sharp crack and a burning whip lashed across his back. My new friend screeched in agony, the flesh on his back ripped open and burning from the lash. He never altered his speed for even a second, I noticed. I looked over at the Demon who’d lashed him. Red, horns, tail, sure, but not my demon.
“Whattayou put up with this for?” I asked the soul, genuinely curious, “whattathey do to you to make you pull their fat red asses around for them?”
“PISS OFF!” he shouted at me. There was a sharp crack again and he cringed in anticipation, but the lash was not for him It was for me. It struck me in my left shoulder and hurt like a sonofabitch. I looked at my shoulder where the flesh was flayed open and aflame, patted it out and wheeled on my aggressor.
He was a big, fat malevolent prick and his lash was up and ready to strike me again. To hell with that. As his whip lashed out towards me I held up ‘Ol Faithful, counting on her cold blue steel to counter the flame. The lash whipped around her handle and held fast, so I grabbed it with both hands, ignoring the pain and yanked as hard as I could, upending the fat prick onto the ground. I lost a finger in the bargain, but it was somewhat gratifying to watch him wallow like the pig he was. For maybe a second.
“What the…” was all he managed to get out before I was on him. By the time the coach rolled to a halt I had the demon’s own whip wrapped tightly around his neck and gave it a tug to let him know I wasn’t in a cute mood. Which I wasn’t. You ever lose a finger?!? It fucking hurts, man! Even when your dead!
“210,” I spoke into his ear, softly. Gently, almost. Just to fuck with him. I’d of course done this before, a few times.
“What?” he grunted, so I tightened my grip.
“Room 210,” I repeated, “I have a date with the Devil.”
“Room 210,” he gasped, “right, sure, no problem.” I loosened my grip, a little bit. “It’s in Pandaemonium, naturally! Your new around here, ain’t you buddy?”
“Yup. How do I get in to this Pandaemonium?”
“Oh, certainly, that’s easy,” he responded helpfully, “mortal souls are dropped from above by the Hell-Harpies into the very pit of Hell, where they’re sorted and placed and put to good use. Actually kind of surprising they didn’t do that with you…say, why don’t we just whistle up the Malebranche for you? They’ll get you sorted.”
“Mala-nothing,” I responded, “I’m not getting dropped into anymore pits. I’m going in the front door.”
He chuckled as if that were the craziest thing he’d ever heard, until I tightened up again. “Thing is,” he groaned, “only a demon anointed by the dark master himself may gain entry to Pandaemonium.”
“You ever get anointed by the dark master himself?” I asked him.
“But of course!” he sniffed, a little bit insulted.
“Good.”
I dragged the over-sized demon head over to the front of the carriage and set it down for a second in front of the Suits, who stared in disbelief even as they tried to catch their breath. I walked up to the fellow who I’d spoken with before.
“Pandaemonium.”
“That way,” they all pointed, huffing and puffing, a few had begun straightening their ties. “Can’t miss it.”
Of course. It was like once I saw it amongst the dizzying madness of the place I would never unsee it again. Of all the towers and structures, the largest was of course Pandaemonium, a huge baroque nightmare and a hideous affront to all that was good. It was garish, ridiculous, ugly and terrible at the same time. Reminded me a little bit of a bar I’d went to in Winnipeg, once.
I walked off. Naked and charred. Demon-head in tow. Ol’ Faithful hanging loosely from my pinky-less left hand. Pandaemonium. I remember wondering if they had any good booze. I was developing a powerful thirst.
I was naked and hairless, my skin cooked meat. Hell, eh? Wasn’t liking it so far. I looked up and saw something falling toward me, had barely moved out of it’s way as it crashed and exploded into the crater –my crater- right where my head would have been had I not gotten up. It was my bottle of Glenfiddich. What a waste of a fine booze. Coulda used a belt of scotch like Custer coulda used a few more guys.
I glanced back up. If the bottle had made it why not Ol’ Faithful? And sure enough there she was, at first just a flash then an object until she fell right where I needed her. I caught her delicately, like she was an egg.
“Lookin’ good, baby,” I whistled. She looked too good, truth be told. If the heat was enough to turn my fine belt buckle into molten slag it was more than enough to explode bullets. But Ol’ Faithful had been restored to her previous state of grace, missing one bullet which was no doubt still lodged somewhere in my frontal lobe. I still had shrapnel sticking out of my head from when she let me down, but Ol’ Faithful herself was right as rain and good to go as ever. Made me wonder if that’s how some things work down here or if maybe I had an ally in all this, a benefactor with another agenda that would be revealed to me at the right time, like when the trail gets hot. Or hotter. You want to watch out for gifts from mysterious benefactors when you’re on a real mind-bender of a case. No free lunches, right? Right.
But can Ol’ Faithful kill somebody who’s already dead? More importantly, could she kill the bastard who sent me here? My instincts told me yes. They also told me it would be sooner rather than later. In this business good instincts is the difference between life and death and I listen to mine like they were the Buddha. Just because I was dead didn’t mean I was going to give up any of my old habits, bad or good.
I climbed out of my crater, each handful of Hell an agony. But I had become a man on a mission again, like I was for the Jade Seal. I could feel it in me. A righteousness that dared all obstacle, feared no authority and demanded Truth. I vowed with each agonizing handful that I would use my pain to fuel the fire, my own personal fire. I was just gonna save it all up and when I was in the position to, I meant to give it to any and all persons involved with my death and the death of Margie.
I looked at the firey hole from whence I’d climbed, and the cracks that had splintered out around it. I don’t know if I dented hell or not but I damned sure left my mark, which was a good start. I like to make a good impression. With flames all around me I took my first painful steps, gradually picking up a respectful pace as my mind turned to the situation. Old habits died harder than me, I guess, because just like that I was on another case, and not a pro bono deal either. Somebody was going to pay handsomely for Margie and me, one way or another.
*
Hell, so you know, is a bizarre and garish nightmare, like some junkie’s twisted dream of Las Vegas at the end of days fused with Jack the Ripper’s London. The whole thing is aflame and yet, strangely dark. As many strange creatures lurked down cavernous alleyways. It is a vast and sprawling Metropolis, and the only cars are old-school carriages, like the kind that would be pulled by horses in the old days. Of course these were pulled by some of those same tortured human souls I’d seen skewered on my way down here.
“Hey, move it pal!” a voice warned me from behind. I whirled and saw one of these carriages boring down upon me. I stepped aside. There were nine souls, grey-haired and wearing power-suits moving faster than they could ever have in their mortal lives, pulling aong behind them a huge, nightmarish wagon. Up top sat a large black horse and an even larger demon howled and laughed as he sadistically whipped the nine souls. I started a light jog to keep up with the lead sled-soul who had warned me out of the way..
“Say, buddy,” I asked him, “whattaya know about a room 210?”
“Piss off!” he hissed. He was huffing and puffing, his face a roasted pork.
“No need to be rude,” I advised him. And there wasn’t. He wasn’t pulling my carriage around, was he?
“Piss off before he-“ and just like that he was interrupted by a sharp crack and a burning whip lashed across his back. My new friend screeched in agony, the flesh on his back ripped open and burning from the lash. He never altered his speed for even a second, I noticed. I looked over at the Demon who’d lashed him. Red, horns, tail, sure, but not my demon.
“Whattayou put up with this for?” I asked the soul, genuinely curious, “whattathey do to you to make you pull their fat red asses around for them?”
“PISS OFF!” he shouted at me. There was a sharp crack again and he cringed in anticipation, but the lash was not for him It was for me. It struck me in my left shoulder and hurt like a sonofabitch. I looked at my shoulder where the flesh was flayed open and aflame, patted it out and wheeled on my aggressor.
He was a big, fat malevolent prick and his lash was up and ready to strike me again. To hell with that. As his whip lashed out towards me I held up ‘Ol Faithful, counting on her cold blue steel to counter the flame. The lash whipped around her handle and held fast, so I grabbed it with both hands, ignoring the pain and yanked as hard as I could, upending the fat prick onto the ground. I lost a finger in the bargain, but it was somewhat gratifying to watch him wallow like the pig he was. For maybe a second.
“What the…” was all he managed to get out before I was on him. By the time the coach rolled to a halt I had the demon’s own whip wrapped tightly around his neck and gave it a tug to let him know I wasn’t in a cute mood. Which I wasn’t. You ever lose a finger?!? It fucking hurts, man! Even when your dead!
“210,” I spoke into his ear, softly. Gently, almost. Just to fuck with him. I’d of course done this before, a few times.
“What?” he grunted, so I tightened my grip.
“Room 210,” I repeated, “I have a date with the Devil.”
“Room 210,” he gasped, “right, sure, no problem.” I loosened my grip, a little bit. “It’s in Pandaemonium, naturally! Your new around here, ain’t you buddy?”
“Yup. How do I get in to this Pandaemonium?”
“Oh, certainly, that’s easy,” he responded helpfully, “mortal souls are dropped from above by the Hell-Harpies into the very pit of Hell, where they’re sorted and placed and put to good use. Actually kind of surprising they didn’t do that with you…say, why don’t we just whistle up the Malebranche for you? They’ll get you sorted.”
“Mala-nothing,” I responded, “I’m not getting dropped into anymore pits. I’m going in the front door.”
He chuckled as if that were the craziest thing he’d ever heard, until I tightened up again. “Thing is,” he groaned, “only a demon anointed by the dark master himself may gain entry to Pandaemonium.”
“You ever get anointed by the dark master himself?” I asked him.
“But of course!” he sniffed, a little bit insulted.
“Good.”
I dragged the over-sized demon head over to the front of the carriage and set it down for a second in front of the Suits, who stared in disbelief even as they tried to catch their breath. I walked up to the fellow who I’d spoken with before.
“Pandaemonium.”
“That way,” they all pointed, huffing and puffing, a few had begun straightening their ties. “Can’t miss it.”
Of course. It was like once I saw it amongst the dizzying madness of the place I would never unsee it again. Of all the towers and structures, the largest was of course Pandaemonium, a huge baroque nightmare and a hideous affront to all that was good. It was garish, ridiculous, ugly and terrible at the same time. Reminded me a little bit of a bar I’d went to in Winnipeg, once.
I walked off. Naked and charred. Demon-head in tow. Ol’ Faithful hanging loosely from my pinky-less left hand. Pandaemonium. I remember wondering if they had any good booze. I was developing a powerful thirst.
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