Demonised - 4. Surprises

Tommie Hunt grimaced as he approached a group of damned one morning. He could hear an argument going on, loud voices, wagging fingers, with the accompanying red faces. It was the latest of many, following on from the formation of G² . Any management demon hoping that the integration of the two groups had been smooth and painless, was on a hiding to nothing. Tommie looked on, as the current disagreement continued. Greed and Gluttony – weren't they close enough to allow all the damned to get on? He shrugged. Obviously not.

A vastly overweight individual, all sweat and wobbling flesh, was waxing indignant.

“I am not greedy. Greed has no part in my world view. No. I am a glutton. A connoisseur. And, I am proud of it. Here I stand, a life-long lover of food, and drink, in all their multitudinous forms.” He belched, and waved a half-empty bottle of something or other at his opponent. His clothes were covered in stains, greasy marks, and accumulated fat.

“So? You're spouting complete rubbish. Of course, greed can be stuffing yourself silly with grub 'til you're the size of a small car.”

The rake-thin, ascetic man – a miser, perhaps – standing opposite the glutton, ignored the provocation of a boar's head which the glutton was now chewing on. Instead, he picked up a large, leather-bound volume, opened it at a particular page, and tried to get it close enough to the glutton to force him to look at it. Tommie grinned as he watched the manoeuvrings. Every time the book was thrust closer, it was fended off either by the part-eaten head, the bottle, or the glutton's belly.

After a while, the miser gave up. He fished around in the pockets of his moth-eaten trousers, and finally produced a pair of spectacles, held together by brown packing tape. Balancing them on the end of a large, bony nose, the miser then read from the book, in a mean, reedy voice.

“Greedy: ravenous, voracious, hungry. That's you in a nutshell. Recognise yourself?”

The glutton rolled his eyes, then took a long slurp from the bottle. “Ahh … Well, I think you'll find there was no mention of food, drink, eating, feasting, or anything else I so enjoy in that definition. If Doctor Johnson wanted it to refer to the consumption of food, he'd have written it that way. Now … gourmand. That's more like it.”

The glutton dropped the remains of the pig's head on the floor, and snatched the book from the miser. He pawed through its pages until he found what he wanted, leaving grease stains and little gobbets of fat everywhere.

“Here we are … Gormand: a greedy eater, a ravenous, luxurious feeder …”

“Greedy! Greedy, greedy, greedy!”

The triumphant nasal squawk from the miser brought the argument to a temporary halt. Until it started all over again, which it did, like clockwork, in a few minutes time.

Tommie looked on in frustration as much as amusement. Why couldn't they make the best of a bad job? Nobody, apart from the management consultants – who knew nothing – thought that the rationalisation was a good idea. But there it was, done, dusted. Why did people always want to classify themselves? Apart from the fact it gave them an excellent reason to despise everyone else.The current idleness was part of the problem.

The shortage of frontline demons was now chronic, and fairly widespread. Half the conversations amongst his fellow damned were of the 'in the good old days' variety. By which, they meant the time when the demon to damned ratio had been three times what it was now. He could hear one such going on now.

“Time was, I had to push that boulder up the hill twice every day. And I knew I'd be flayed if I slacked off. Now, look at things …”

Murmurs of agreement from his listeners. Much shaking of heads.

“If I said I'd done it twice in the last fortnight, I'd be exaggerating. And no demon has taken the slightest bit of notice. What are things coming to?”

“They're over-stretched.”

“That's no excuse. Have any of you ever read the terms of the service level agreement?”

Looks of incomprehension.

“I thought not. Well, let me tell you …”

Tommie thought most of the tasks might be restarted if any of the damned really cared, which they didn't. And that included him – he wasn't any better or any worse than the rest of them. No matter how hard anyone complained – it was all bluster. He'd enjoyed his work for his particular demon, and he'd become really quite attached to him. But once he'd been removed from that work, he was as bored and listless as the next damned.

They couldn't even play a game of football to occupy the time. Tommie look around at the potential candidates. Gluttons, who were used to being carried everywhere – the discipline in Gluttony had been notoriously lax, apparently. At the other extreme were the misers, who ate very little, and so, lacked the energy to do anything other than gloat over their few remaining possessions. That left the spendthrifts, like him, and especially those who insisted on wearing what they'd spent their money on. Bling, bling, and more bling. They were hardly going to be running up and down the pitch with umpteen pounds of gold bouncing around. Yes, he'd spent his money as soon as he'd got it, but not on jewellery, medallions, and other rubbish.

Thomas Hunt was a recent arrival in hell. A penchant for white-collar, systematic acquisitiveness had suddenly resulted in his unexpected appearance – a victim of his supposedly victimless crimes, had taken matters into their own hands. Hiring a hitman? Tommie felt faintly aggrieved about that. It wasn't as if he'd hoarded his loot, or used it for nefarious purposes. No, he'd spent nearly all of it in the local economy, aiding local businesses. At least some of them were legit. Well, the restaurants were … Possibly. And he hadn't had chance to say anything by way of a farewell to his then current boyfriend, or their poodle. Wasn't that a denial of his human rights? Did they stop just because he was dead? Hmm … he'd have to investigate that.

As he stood watching the many idlers, Tommie reflected on his first few months in Greed and then G². He'd been snatched in the prime of his life. How dare they! … Whoever 'they' were. One lunchtime, he'd been spending several thousand pounds with his friends in their favourite restaurant, and wham! The next moment, he was sitting in some dreary, institutional box of a room, along with another fifty or so unfortunates, being inducted into hell. And how did they manage to make hell sound so boring?

He remembered one shrivelled, greyish demon with a stoop and pince-nez. His dull, grey voice had been as monotonous as the subject matter.

“As you can see from the PowerPoint slide, each day you spend with us is divided into a number of two-hourly slots. You will each receive a personalised schedule by email during the course of the next twenty-four hours. While we strive to provide the optimum experience for all our clients, there are a small number of occasions when this might not be possible. Please be sure to read the small print, available on our website, hell_is.com, before considering making a complaint. In no circumstances will compensation be paid in respect of loss of earnings or inconvenience caused by your journey and / or residence here. … So, in hell, we pride ourselves on our customer service ...”

At which point, he'd felt like shooting himself … As boring as hell. That was actually quite accurate – the tasks were generally monotonous, and never-ending. Somebody, somewhere, was doing an excellent job in projecting a different, dynamic, hotter picture of hell to the outside world than it was in reality. Even the welcome speech from Satan had been the usual corporate pap – full of bland, upbeat, unquantifiable aspirations – plus the occasional empty promise.

“Thank you for choosing hell. We value your custom. For those of you who don't know me, let me introduce myself. I am Satan. As the chief operating officer of this thriving, long-established institution, it is my pleasure to welcome you all here. You, our latest recruits, ready to take our corporate vision further than ever before. Yes, you are clients – but you are also a vital part of the symbiosis necessary to produce a dynamic, forward-looking hell. A powerhouse of innovation …”

He'd zoned out after that. The rest of the poor bastards were still hanging onto Satan's every word. He only resurfaced in time for Satan's parting shot.

“And, remember, my door is always open, to demon and damned alike. Ciao.”

So, he'd been assigned to Greed – no surprise there – and started to get settled down. It hadn't been easy to fit in, become invisible. Tommie frowned. Being young, and fit, and good-looking, it was inevitable, perhaps, that he stood out amongst the crowd. Add in his distinctive red hair, and freckles, and he'd attracted attention from all quarters. Most of it undesirable in one way or another. He didn't want any suitors from the damned, thank you. Most of them were too old, or fat, or warped in so many ways. Fucking was all part of the days' activities – demons saw it as just another one of the punishments available. Then, one particular demon had started to take an interest in him. He'd been so lucky – such a demon was a rare find.

Tommie expected to become some kind of private toy, a fuckbuddy of sorts. But instead, the demon hadn't touched him – he'd contented himself with looking, and sometimes talking to him. If he wasn't in hell, Tommie might've convinced himself that romance was involved. What was the last thing the demon had said?

Thomas … love … I'm coming back.

For some reason, that had given him goosepimples. But could it really be love? Did demons know about love? Or, was it his mind playing tricks? Tommie shrugged. There was definitely affection on the demon's part. Him? It was kinda weird. He had trouble seeing past the horns, the hooves, and the tail. Yes, OK. Tommie knew he should concentrate on personality, not looks, but … Maybe, he should work on it – looks had always won out in his previous life. If he ever got back to being in the demon's company. … Still, it had been good to have a protector, a mentor, almost. It wasn't that the demon held back from meting out punishments – he didn't – but rather, he seemed to have an inner life. Interests beyond the day to day existence of a rank and file demon. Most of the demons he'd met seemed to exist for their work, Oh, and serving Satan.

The cat was an excellent example of his demon's quirks, for all it was a ferocious brute of a beast. Weeks later, his scratches were still healing up. Bloody thing. Even the demon had seemed scared of it. Still, the demon having the cat as a pet gave him the perfect opportunity to escape from Greed. Only for limited periods, but anything was better than nothing. Then had come the holiday … Holidays? Hell and holidays didn't go together, surely? He hadn't been able to get his head round that.

Anyway, somehow the demon had wangled his absence from Greed for the duration. Bliss. Then despair, when he'd been unceremoniously hauled back to Greed, and its monotony. And his demon, gone. Removed from frontline duties, apparently. Tommie was surprised – he missed his demon a lot. Not just for his protection, either. Fortunately, everybody had been so caught up in the re-organisation that his reappearance had gone virtually unnoticed. Long might it continue … Tommie chewed his fingernails nervously. That was what the place had done to him. Where was the confident financial fraudster now?

He was about to move in the direction of where the gluttons were congregating – he was hungry – when a loud, booming voice suddenly drowned out everything else that was going on.

“Right! Listen up, you miserable specimens. I am Vlad, your new section leader. Things are going to change round here.”

The demon stared gloomily at his computer screen. Convening a focus group for G² had seemed so easy when he'd taken it off Pithius. Find some semi-willing victims, make sure Thomas was included, ask them an anodyne question or two, then write it up. No bother … So why was his screen full of official paperwork? His sampling method for selecting the participants? Err … What were his projected outcomes? Ehm … Were any deliverables likely to result? If so, who for? How the fuck should he know? What were deliverables anyway? And his questions needed to be vetted before he could ask them. … Could he have his Fraud survey back? Please?

Then he remembered Thomas. He had to keep focussed on his damned, and the pinkness. The … love? It would all be worth it if Thomas came back into his existence. The demon ground his teeth, and managed to restrain himself from headbutting the screen. What he wanted, what he really wanted at that moment, apart from Thomas, was to be reading a romance. Not slaving over a hot keyboard in a bloody office. The demon had a brief fantasy of lounging in his quarters, reading an endless supply of romances. He could be as pink as he wished there. The brief flurry of visitors following the hacking of Satan's twitter account, had gone away, and his privacy was restored. Ahh …

“How's the Fraud questionnaire coming on? I rather expected it to be on my desk this morning. Any problems?”

The demon was jolted back to reality. Trust his most recent manager to sneak up on him. Bastard!

“Ah … err … Pithius and I did a swap. He's doing the questionnaire 'cause he knows Fraud. I don't.”

“Tut tut.”

Tut tut?! Who the fuck ever said that for real?

“That's why I gave you the task. How are you going to achieve your personal development goals if you don't ever stretch yourself?”

The demon's manager walked over to the next desk to drag a seat closer.

Personal development goals? The only ones he cared about were to have a garden, in which he could read his romances, and to do so in the company of someone he … loved. Would he ever used to using the l word? Meanwhile, he needed an answer, quick.

His manager then sat close by him, as if they were going to have a confidential chat. The demon tried to give the appearance of being a model employee. He sat up straighter, and plastered an 'I'm interested and engaged' expression on his face.

“Yes, indeed. But I've never organised a focus group. I've done several questionnaires, or surveys – so, I thought that would represent the greater challenge.” The demon waited hopefully.

“Ah-ha …”

His manager seemed to be expecting more. The demon dredged in his mind for more meaningless phrases.

“To do this will really push the envelope in terms of my personal development. There are a number of things in this project that I've never attempted before.”

“Hmm …”

The other demon was now tapping away at a mobile device. Then he looked up.

“Good, good. I've made a recording of our conversation – just for your file, of course. It helps me when it comes round to annual review time. It's so difficult to remember who's doing what nowadays, with so many jobs needing to be done.”

Failing totally to have any sympathy with his manager, the demon turned back to his screen, leaving his superior to inflict himself on his next victim.

Turning to his emails, instead of getting on with his work, the demon noticed a new, suspicious-looking communication in his list. There was nothing in the subject line and the sender's name was hidden. Not giving a toss, the demon opened it anyway.

Looking for r*****e?

What?! Yes, he was … In a way. The demon started sweating. He had to fight the impulse to look around. Where was his manager now? He continued reading regardless.

Books are available, at a price. Use this link. Link will expire in 10 minutes. Tell no-one.

Anonymous group meeting. Use this link. Link will expire in 10 minutes. Tell no-one.

The demon swallowed hard, then clicked. Could it be true?