Demonised - 5. Under New Management

Tommie stood still, like most of the damned in G² , and listened intently as the new, commanding voice echoed around. He wasn't scared, more intrigued, or puzzled. What was coming next?

“You know what? I thought that would get everybody's attention.”

Tommie joined the rest of the crowd in trying to see who was speaking to them. There wasn't a demon in sight. A constant low level of fractious murmurings, with the odd louder exclamation, showed how well the news was going down. Too much change in too short a time. He listened to a conversation going on close by.

“Don't they have to give us at least forty-eight hours notice of major changes? Sure I read it in the small print.”

“Yeah? So what? Did you see them doing that when they formed G² ? Dream on.”

“The bastards forget we're the clients, all the time. I'm thinking of making an official complaint. And I'll send it straight to Satan. No point in dealing with the small fry.”
“Clients? Of course, they forget. We're cannon fodder, more like. Nothing new there – it's been the same for aeons.”

“Don't think any of those management demons have ever been on a customer service course.”

“What makes you think that would improve things?”

The grumbles continued unabated.

Then suddenly a huge bank of floodlights were switched on, and a large expanse of staging became visible.

“Look! There he is!”

“Bloody hell. He's a damned, like us.”

“Not a demon?”

“How can he be in charge, if he isn't a demon?”

Tommie watched open-mouthed while their new leader made his entrance. An imposing individual, with long black hair, dressed in red, fur-trimmed robes … velvet, it seemed. Razzmatazz was the only word he could think of to describe the fanfares, cavorting imps, preening Medusa-lookalikes, and serried ranks of marching security demons which accompanied him. It was so over the top, Tommie found it hard not to laugh.

Tommie looked at Vlad more critically as he came to a halt at the front of the stage. On closer examination, there were so many things about him looked false. His hair, for one – the long locks didn't move like real hair. What were they made of?

Then Vlad continued addressing the assembled damned. “As I said, I'm Vlad, owner and founder of Impaler Enterprises. My company is now responsible for the running of G² , and for the welfare of all its residents. Within the overall direction of Satan, of course. He's a great guy. Believe me, once I appoint a new management team, we're gonna take care of things around here.”

Vlad smiled widely, showing a set of suspiciously even, white teeth. Tommie rolled his eyes – there was looking good, and there was looking Teflon-coated. When he was alive, he'd never have trusted anyone looking that fake.

“I have a number of points to cover, but first, anybody got any quick questions?”

“You bet.”

A confident voice from towards the back of the assembled damned. Tommie craned his neck, but was unable to see who it was. This could be interesting.

“How come you're in charge? What's going to happen to our demons? We know them, and they know us.”

A groundswell of agreement rippled through the crowd.

Vlad stood waiting, his meaningless smile seemingly a fixture. He held his hand up and kept it there until all became relatively quiet.

“OK. I'll keep my answers as short as I can. As Satan says, it doesn't fit into a tweet or two, don't bother saying anything.”

This was met by few sycophantic titters from amongst the throng. Tommie shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There were always people keen to keep in with the management. That had never been his style.

“Thanks for your valuable contribution to what will be our continuing conversation as we start this journey together.”

Tommie rolled his eyes – their new leader had certainly got his management patter learnt by heart. Although it sat rather awkwardly with Vlad's normal way of speaking.

“To answer your questions in reverse order. Nothing has happened to the frontline demons. They are as they were – they have simply been moved, seamlessly, to become employees of my own Impaler Enterprises.”

Tommie was still decoding this statement, when somone else from the crowd butted in.

“Sold down the river, you mean.”

Growls of agreement from those able to keep up.

“Less pay, and worse conditions of employment. Satan know of this?”

Vlad's face was fast turning a colour to match his clothes, although the smile somehow remained.

“As part of Satan's plans to make hell's operations cost neutral, we all have to make certain changes. Make sacrifices for the sake of the whole. As part of our contract, we have …”

“What 'sacrifice' you making, mate?”

This interruption was ignored, as Vlad continued with his reply.

“By winning this contract, we have been mandated to strip out unnecessary running costs from G²'s operating model. To deliver a leaner, meaner G², fit for the future and anything it might bring.”

Mutinous silence. Tommie thought of the times he'd heard that sort of talk – it was usually a signal for in-fighting, and everyone for themselves. He could look after himself if he had to, but he'd hoped he'd left that behind.

The questioner who'd been ignored, wasn't happy. “It's been said Impaler Enterprises has dealings with the Other Place. What's your answer to that, Mr Vlad? I've seen witness statements from angels …”

Another damned joined in. “And you give to charities. I've seen the balance sheets, and the annual accounts …”

Since he'd arrived, one of the things Tommie had trouble with, was how things got inverted in hell. Giving to charity was evil? Weird. Not that he'd ever indulged in giving his money away. When he had money.

“Fake news. All fake.” Vlad's smile now had the pitying quality which came from knowing his fellow damned were being led astray.

His redness had faded as he felt himself to be on firmer ground. Vlad held up a hand to silence any other interruptions. He also used it to emphasise his points.

“You should believe only what you hear from me, Impaler Enterprises, or Satan. We give you the real news, all the information that you could possibly need. Satan and Impaler Enterprises are united in our diabolical calling to make hell great again. To make it a fit and worthy place of punishment for each and every damned. The ordinary, toiling damned are the focus of our every thought. We'll succeed in making hell a place open …”

“Awh! Shut the fuck up, why don't you?”

At this point, the speaker was fortuitously drowned out by a loud chorus of chanting, apparently in support of Vlad.

“Fan the flames! Fan the flames! Vlad will re-light the fires.”

What? As if there was any shortage of flames? Tommie looked around. Hell looked as red, hot, and fiery as usual. Being unable to pinpoint source of the chanting, he wondered whether it was an audio-feed of some sort. None of the damned that he could see, were joining in. Vlad was nodding his head in time with the chants. Music to his ears, evidently. The few, scattered cries of 'Bollocks!' were soon silenced, as previously unseen security demons made swift forays into the crowd. The doubters were quickly removed.

There was one last question from someone in an area of the crowd that had been quiet up 'til then.

“When you gonna build a wall between us and those bastards in Lust, Vlad?”

Tommie frowned. He was all for meeting other damned – he was getting bored with the present company. 'The more the merrier' as far as he was concerned, though he might be a little more cautious with some than others.

“Yeah, Vlad! They can't seem to keep it in their pants. Lecherous sods.”

“We need protecting.”

Tommie looked on, as the wattage of Vlad's smile increased ten-fold. Planted question, obviously. Tommie shrugged. It was going to be a long, long contract.

Vlad nodded in approval. “Now that's the kind of question I like. Wouldn't that be great?”

The demon was sitting in a side office one morning, together with an older, earnest-looking demon from HR. For a moment, he took time-out to consider that acronym. They weren't human – why the fuck wasn't it called Demon Resources? Probably because some sodding intern somewhere had listened too hard to some bunch of consultants. Nobody ever bothered to spell it out. Yet another example of the kind of idiocy which was all too common. He took a deep breath to calm down. No point in glowing red this early on – plenty of scope for that later.

Malphas was there to assist in the formation of the demon's focus group. His boss had noticed him struggling with the reams of virtual paperwork, and instead of asking, had gone and called in reinforcements. Pain in the arse, more like. He been getting on slowly, but surely. He had functioning intelligence – unlike most of his co-workers. Malphas appeared to be a twonk of the first order, with a personnel handbook instead of a brain. The demon was finding it hard to keep up with the stream of techno-babble which was constantly assaulting his ears.

“You must have a representative, cross-sectional sampling of the current G² clientele to receive qualitative data.”

Malphas looked up, expecting an answer.

The demon was processing the last sentence as quickly as he could. It sounded like he needed a new vocabulary. He ventured a reply.

“Err … Well, I was aiming to have equal numbers of gluttons, misers, and spendthrifts. That's representative enough, isn't it?” The demon wasn't quite sure now.

The other demon looked pained. “Of course not.” He peered over a pair of half-moon glasses. “Are you sure you've received the appropriate training? I can't remember seeing you at any of the sessions I've delivered.”

Shit! The demon assumed an innocent expression while he thought hard.

“Yes, but I admit it was some time ago. When I hadn't long been in Greed …”

Malphas stared harder. “It's not the sort of personal development opportunity we roll-out to frontline demons. Take-up from other areas already exceeds our operational capacity.”

Really? The demon doubted that somehow. More extemporisation required.

“Oh … I remember my name being on the list that was doing the rounds. So I went. I never turn down a development opportunity …”

That at least was true. Only, not in this particular case because he'd never been anywhere near the wretched course. Usually, the demon's sense of professionalism was keen and well-developed. Unlike the prat sat next to him. The demon hoped that Malphas wouldn't go away and start checking up. That would be a little awkward … Anyway, he tried to keep his focus on the job in hand – he had places to be, people to meet later on. The focus group wouldn't spontaneously appear of its own accord.

The demon had found his thoughts wandering since the very start of the day. All for one reason – that evening was going to be his first time at Romantics Anonymous. He had no idea what to expect. A little surreptitious searching on the web had revealed that human organisations with 'Anonymous' in the title were usually engaged in stopping people from doing whatever it was. That wasn't what he wanted – no, not all. Romance? He wanted more and more of it, and wouldn't it be great if Thomas could be a member as well? He didn't even know if it was only for demons. Just thinking about it threatened to bring on his pinkness. There – a tingle in his tail flanges which signalled pinkness was imminent.

Malphas was still looking in his direction. The demon gulped, smirked, and tried to focus.

“Anyway, it would be most demonic of you, Malphas, to remind me of what I've so obviously forgotten …”

It didn't do any harm to suck up occasionally. The HR demon consulted something on his mobile device.

“To conform with the appropriate elements of hell's inclusion and diversity statement, together with some elements from the report produced by Satan's equalities taskforce …”

The demon's eyes were glazing over.

“It is imperative that you consider the following: race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, age, and religious persuasion. It would also be desirable to factor in how long they have been resident in hell. How to achieve this is spelled out in the handbook you received as part of the training pack.”

Which he didn't have. It was going to be a very long morning.

Malphas hadn't finished. “I must also advise against using demeaning and degrading labels when referring to our clients. …”

The demon thought back. He'd only described them as they were: gluttons, misers, and spendthrifts. And that was him being professional. Soft, almost. His co-workers employed terms which were much worse. They'd probably make the HR demon faint.

“As demons, it is our task to see only who they really are, and so, assist them in making their time in hell as personally fulfilling as possible. If our clients have behaviours that are challenging, then we must respond appropriately, and professionally. All such labels are meaningless, and it may harm the reputation of this administration if we are found to be using them.”

The demon ground his teeth silently. Why were demons like Malphas so far removed from the realities of life in hell? Did they think it was some alternative Other Place? Alternative universe. If hell wasn't about punishment, what was it about?

Then he tried to move the conversation on. “If we could consider the questions, Malphas?”

Meanwhile back in G², Tommie was trying to get to grips with some haggis. Really, what the gluttons thought of as gourmet food wasn't the same as him. None of the restaurants he'd ever eaten at had haggis on the menu. He hadn't seen a single piece of top-grade sushi, or a nitrogen-chilled dessert. And this haggis wasn't some sanitized, supermarket offering – the outer covering felt real in a way that made him a little ill.

The continuing public meeting was getting somewhat fractious. Tommie put his food down to listen. The first questioner had returned to the fray once more.

“You never answered my first question, Vlad.”

“The question and answer opportunity is now over. …”

“Not 'til I get an answer, it isn't.” Shouts of support. “How come you're in charge? What are your qualifications and experience, Vlad?”

Yeah … Tommie was interested in that, as well. His own demon had more about him than Vlad. 'Professional' was a word he'd heard the demon say quite often. He took his job as a demon seriously. Was Vlad serious about anything other than himself? Thinking about the demon made Tommie realise he did miss him. A lot, and not just because the current situation wasn't promising.

Vlad shook his head. “You know what? There are some bad people here today, stupid people.”

“You think I'm bad? Just wait until we invite some friends over from Anger and Violence.”

Renewed outburst of 'Fan the flames' in support of Vlad.

Vlad held his hand up until things quietened down again. “With Satan's authority, I am restricting the number of damned from elsewhere in hell who may visit G2. We're going to take care of those who pose a threat to our way of existence here.”

Cries of 'Bollocks' and 'Satan will hear of this'.

A barrack room lawyer made himself heard. “Hell isn't a free-for-all, you know. There's a charter, a contract between the demons and damned. You can't just waltz in and change things overnight.”

The pitying smile was back. “I have. Changed things. Moving on …”

Vlad's attempt to keep the meeting on message was doomed to failure. He started off OK …

“Be sure to follow me on Twitter @voivodevlad to get the real news …”

“Alternative facts, more like.” Laughter from many parts of the crowd.

“Oi, Vlad. You still haven't answered my question.”

“Crazy people don't get to ask me questions.”

Tommie shook his head. This was going precisely nowhere. The few phrases of management jargon had been replaced by something more combative, insulting. Vlad was the kind of opportunistic asset-stripper who even he would've regarded as being way beyond the pale. Presumably the contract included incentives and bonuses for targets achieved. He would have to give serious thought about moving to another level of hell. How, he had no idea. Tommie couldn't help thinking his demon had timed his departure just right. Why hadn't he taken Tommie with him?

Vlad gave his message another go. “Listen. As part of my programme to make hell the great place it used to be …”

“I want my answer!”

“Believe me, my fellow damned.” Vlad's smile upped the wattage again, while also managing to remain as inanimate as ever. “There are crazy people, here, in this gathering. And, you know, some of them even claim to read the failing Inferno. Sad!”

Cue staged gasps and murmurs of agreement.

“You better believe it. In the pockets of the Other Place, printing fake news, and conspiring against me. They can't stand that I won the contract. That, together, we're gonna win.”

Cheers and yet more chanting. Looking around, Tommie reckoned it was only isolated pockets of the crowd. But they were getting bigger – people deciding to get in with the guy in charge. That wasn't going to be him. Most the gluttons closest to him had yet to take any real notice of Vlad. They were too busy scoffing and slurping, the ambient noise blotting out much of what was being said.

The persistent questioner climbed up a handy outcrop of rock. Somehow, he had acquired a mic on the way. He immediately put it to good use.

“Vlad? Let me introduce myself. I am Aaron Boyce of The Inferno. Its lead reporter, in fact.”

Vlad shook his head in sorrow, though the smile remained. “Crazy guy. So wrong.”

“It's a simple enough question, Vlad. When are you going to give us an answer?”

“Satan – he's a great guy, by the way, great guy – had no issues in offering Impaler Enterprises the contract. That's all you need to know.”

“So, are you saying you only got the contract because of your personal friendship with Satan? Or, was it because the Other Place exerted undue influence on your behalf? Who did you meet from the Other Place, Vlad?”

The 'Other Place' was heaven? Tommie was puzzled – where had it ever been said that the two places communicated? Religion had been a complete non-starter as far as he was concerned, but he wasn't stupid. Weren't they meant to be entirely separate? That was the whole point, surely?

Vlad, his limited stock of patience exhausted, signalled to an aide. Several security demons appeared, bundled the hack out the back of the crowd, and confiscated his mic.

Vlad looked aggrieved. “Wrong! How wrong was that?” He paused for a moment. “You know what? To make hell great again, we all need to get fit. To eat properly, take exercise. So, as of tomorrow, I'm signing an order restricting what can be on the menu here in G². Believe me. There's no need to worry. There'll be plenty of good food; healthy, fresh, good food.”

Suddenly, nearly all sound stopped near Tommie. Then several gluttons nearly choked. The florid faces of others turned grey and merely flabby. Tommie nearly wept with barely surpressed laughter. They hadn't seen that coming. Neither had he, but he wasn't a glutton. Yes, he'd binged every now and again, but he'd always worked it off in the gym. In hell, with so little to do, he was having to watch what he ate very carefully. To his mind, better food, and more exercise were both to be applauded. Assuming they actually happened. Managing to swallow any late guffaws, Tommie listened in to the few gluttons who were still able to speak.

“Bleeding 'ell. What's 'healthy'? Anybody know?”

“Dunno. Err … Natural, perhaps? Unprocessed?”

“So this is 'healthy' then?” The speaker waved a fist full of goosefat, with the odd piece of toasted bread attached.

“Mebbes. Nothing the matter with cream – straight from the cow.”

Tommie craned his neck. This glutton was steadily slurping his way through a large bowl of thick, yellow cream. Occasionally, he dipped in large pieces of chocolate, which he then ate with a sigh of pleasure.

“And mead. Drink of the gods, that is. Ah … all that honey.”

“Me, I prefer a deep-fried Mars Bar.”

The present speaker, a Scot, was frowned upon by all the rest.

“A Mars Bar? How unhealthy is that? All that processed sugar.”

General shaking of heads and murmurs of agreement.

Tommie moved away, leaving his haggis behind. He wanted to catch up on what Vlad was saying. It might be his wish to go elsewhere in hell, but he still needed to know what else Vlad was planning.

That evening, the demon was walking through an industrial area of hell, eyes swivelling from side to side. Fortunately, it was fairly dark – the redness dulled with a blackish tinge. Still, he felt exposed. A target. He was sure his tail flanges were glowing pink. And he couldn't do anything about it. The excitement, the romance of it all. The demon breathed a sigh of relief. Finally. He'd reached his destination. Taking a moment to compose himself, he knocked on the shabby, anonymous door.