Demonised - 6. Mismatched

No sooner had the demon knocked at the anonymous door, than a cheerful voice called out a greeting.

“Come on in, dear. I've got everything just nice for you. I sure you'll like it.”

The demon froze in the act of crossing the threshold, his tail mid thrash. What the fuck was going on? That was a woman's voice. A woman! Where'd she come from? He'd never seen a single woman in hell … Now he thought about it, that was strange. Why had it never occurred to him before?

Earth was populated by both male and female human beings, wasn't it? If his version of hell was single sex … Then it would make sense that there was another hell, also single sex, but this time for women. Perhaps? Women weren't all good, were they? The demon gave that thought several seconds' worth of consideration, but didn't have enough information to go on. Surely not? Why should the female of the species be inherently better? … The demon didn't want to get caught up further in all the metaphysics of the situation, but now the idea was in his head, he'd have to come back to it.

However, the idea wouldn't go away. His brain was fizzing. Hell as a multi-site operation? How far away was the other hell? Were visitors allowed? Was it the same kind of place or something very different? If it was part of the same organisation, shouldn't it at least have the same branding? There'd never been the slightest suggestion, that he'd heard, of an off-shoot, something that had been spun off from the main institution of hell. Was it a question of a subsidiary? In that case, which hell was the lesser of the two?

The demon quietly closed the half-opened door. He bent over and carefully rubbed his horns with a cloven hoof as he was thinking. He didn't want any scratches on them. Numerous demons had told him his horns were his best feature. He'd spent quite a large part of the previous evening polishing them so the surfaces were gleaming. Though he didn't know then he would be doing it for a woman. Well, he fervently hoped the woman would only be there at the start of the proceedings.

The demon refused to countenance the possibility of his hell being the lesser of the two. The natural order of things dictated that. Didn't it? Their clients wouldn't stand for it either. Just think what it would do to trade. Nobody would want to be seen in a second-rate set-up. Where was the kudos in merely ending up in some lame excuse for hell? … When had it all happened? The separation. Why didn't Satan ever mention it? Was he in fact in charge of both hells? Was the other hell independent in some way? Management buy-out? Employee take-over?

Maybe it was one of those open secrets? Never spoken about, just there, in the background. Only he wasn't in the know. While all these thoughts were whizzing round his skull, the demon's over-riding feeling was that he was put out. Angry even, at being ignored. He was a model employee, except in certain minor respects, and wasn't he worthy of being let into secrets like that? Who should he complain to? Satan? No … The demon imagined Satan's response to such a complaint. He winced. Maybe he'd start with his line manager.

His thoughts slipped sideways. Was the Other Place run on the same lines? The demon stopped what he was doing for a moment. No … At least, that was his impression. A faint memory of seeing some propaganda popped up. Sunlit, peaceful surroundings with both men and women in the picture. It could've just been done to shock, of course. To dissemble and confuse. The demon stood up straight again, and shook his head vigorously. There was a time and place for everything. He was there for romance, and that was what he was going to get.

Only … the female didn't bode well. The demon's pinkness was wearing off fast. He tried to hang on to his enthusiasm. It wasn't as if he was expecting a partner to appear out of nowhere – his damned, Thomas, was the man he wanted. But how would he learn about romance and love with a male partner if his tutor was a woman? It just wouldn't be right. The demon hesitated, scuffing one of his hooves against the doorframe.

Should he go in, or not? Hell's teeth! Here he was, a full-grown, professional, hard-working demon, skulking in a doorway because he felt nervous. Yes, he knew what that feeling was called – he'd had it before. Hmm … Wouldn't it be more prudent to just turn around and go back the way he came? The demon stopped and snorted two small balls of flame which singed the heat-resistant paint on the door. Prudent? Where the fuck had that word come from? Right. That settled it. He was going in.

As he slammed the door open, the female voice started up again in welcome.

“There you are, dear. I thought you'd got cold feet. It's been fifteen minutes since you first knocked on the door. Many do give up, you know. There's nothing to frightened of. Quite on the contrary – it'll be your dream come true.”

Oh yeah? The demon was temporarily blinded by the sheer amount of pink on display. Every possible shade and hue must've been included in the room's décor, its furnishings, lighting. Was there anything that wasn't pink? As the demon's eyes settled down, he turned to see an elderly-looking … demoness? Female demon. No. … She-devil? No. That didn't sound right either. The demon took another, closer look. Where were the horns? And the tail?

He'd better say something. “Err … Hello. It's good to be here.”

The female smiled back at him. “Welcome to MissMatch, a contracted-out, accredited personal service, proud to have been serving hell for generations. MissMatch is operated by Wicked Wiccans, a subsidiary of Witchest, a family-owned firm dedicated to delivering a quality service to the denizens of hell. My name is of no consequence, and we don't require yours. I just need to record how you came to hear of us. Word of mouth, advertising, personal recommendation, social media, or invitation?”

Err … The demon took a moment to take it in. So why all the subterfuge if it was an authorised service? Was it all a front? A trap? His eyes quickly scanned round the room, though he had no idea what he was looking for. Hidden security demons? Highly trained counter-terrorism imps? The demon forced himself to remain at his optimum temperature, and took a deep breath. He needed to have a clear head. So it was a witch in front of him. Did witches even know about hell? Either of them. Playing it straight seemed to be the best course of action until the situation became clearer.

“Ah … I received an email with a time-limited link. Which I clicked on. So I'm here, not really sure what going to happen. I wasn't expecting …”

“A witch, dear? Don't worry, you and I'll be best friends very soon.”

Somehow the demon doubted that.

The witch smiled. “It is most unusual to have a demon respond to one of our invites. You sure the email was meant for you?”

The demon nodded. The whole situation was getting weirder by the minute.

“Well, dear. You see, our regular clientele comprises those damned who miss the piquancy, the torment of a relationship denied. Or otherwise withheld. They are high-value individuals who find the general hell experience has palled for them over time. Individuals who are valuable to the organisation and whose wishes the management of hell are keen to fulfill, These clients believe what hell generally offers no longer holds enough pain, torment, and mental anguish to make them feel appreciated.” The witch looked the demon up and down. “Does that describe you in anyway, dear?”

The demon stared at the neat, primly dressed witch in disbelief for several seconds before he rediscovered his voice.

“No. No, it doesn't. Not at all. I came here for …” The demon wondered whether he should say the word. He did anyway. “Romance. With a man, not a woman.”

He thought he'd better make that clear, given the cold, wet quagmire he'd suddenly slipped into. The witch flinched as if he'd started to pray out loud.

There was a tense silence. The demon went back to the witch's earlier remarks. How dare she suggest that there were damned who weren't satisfied with the service on offer? When he worked on the front line, that had been his sole concern. Keeping his damned occupied, stimulated, engaged. How much of his off time had he spent thinking up new ways of flaying, or employing hot pokers? The most difficult area was the repetitive, pointless, never-ending tasks. Even for those, he'd thought up some new ones.

For example, one damned sent out a tweet, another replied, the first damned responded, and so it went on for several hundred exchanges until the tweet was summarily deleted. Then it started all over again with exactly the same tweet, and the same replies. That was where the fun came in – if there was any deviation from the original message string, it was a wonderful excuse for some ad-hoc flaying. That was his favourite. He'd even been in the running for employee of the month with that one.

The implication of professional incompetence was insulting, grossly insulting. Then the dispassionate professional in him took a step back. Maybe that was a real theme a customer focus group could use? Not something he'd manufactured with his manager breathing down his neck. Yes … It would be something of real worth. Original research almost which ought to result in increased client satisfaction. The demon was about to indulge in a fantasy of Satan rewarding him for his work, when the witch cleared her throat.

“Here at MissMatch, we aim for complete client satisfaction. However on this occasion, it does appear that there has been a lapse in our normally excellent systems. Please accept our apology for any inconvenience this may have caused you. As a token of goodwill, I am authorised to offer you a number of vouchers, redeemable at any store or other retail outlet in hell. Please do read the exclusions, and terms and conditions before entering into any transaction. MissMatch cannot be held responsible for any problems which may occur once you leave the building.”

The demon stared, speechless. So was that it? What the fuck had gone wrong? That link had specifically mentioned romance, he was sure of it. The pink all around now looked unbearably garish. Mocking. The demon closed his mouth abruptly, making sure not to trap his forked tongue as he did so. Could he sue? For what though … He hadn't been sold anything, no money had been lost. It was breach of something. … The demon snarled, superheated steam rushing from his nostrils and threatening to set alight the lurid pink furnishings.

The witch sat right back in her chair. “Be careful! Any damage incurred will have to be paid for.”

“You offered romance. The link specifically mentioned romance.”

The demon's glowing redness clashed badly with room's colour scheme.

“Sales technique. Nothing more. All above board.” The witch sounded bored.

“How the fuck can it be 'above board' to lure me in like that?” The demon's redness intensified.

“Caveat emptor. We don't force anyone to do anything they don't want. Unlike you.”

The witch's apparent boredom concealed a pair of beady, calculating eyes. The demon looked into them and didn't like what he saw. He wasn't sure if the witch's spells would have any effect on him, but he wasn't going to hang around to find out. Gathering up what was left of his pride and without saying a word, the demon turned and stalked out of the same door he'd used not that long before.

A couple of weeks later, Tommie Hunt was standing in a very long queue of damned, all of whom wished to relocate to a different circle of hell. Or those circles that still remained. Five out of the nine original levels were still operational. In the room, only two service windows were open out of a total of ten, both staffed by elderly demons with their eyes firmly on the clock and their lunch. So was this some kind of retirement scheme for demons who could no longer hack it?

He looked around the small, dingy office. If anyone else arrived to join the queue, they'd have to wait outside. Already the queue snaked back and forth, occupying nearly all the available floor space. The décor and furnishings seemed to have been lifted wholesale from a 1990s Job Centre. The orange exterior signage and tacky, plastic-heavy interior, which must've looked dated and tired as soon as it was put in. Tommie frowned. In a way, it was right – Job Centres had been places of hell for all too many people.

But, once again there was this mismatch between the public image of hell, and its branding, and the shabby, bureaucratic outcrop he was currently standing in. The dramatic, fiery pictures of hell in all its glorious, glowing red and black finery were so much marketing hype. The demons who featured were almost certainly models with the time and single-mindedness needed to keep themselves looking perfect. He'd never seen anything like that in his time in hell. Most things were dull – in colour, in being, and in effect. And the demons came in all shapes and sizes. He'd seen all sorts – fat slobs through to thin, wiry, almost 'pocket' demons. His own demon was almost model standard – he knew what made him look good and he wasn't afraid to show it.

The queue hadn't moved for several minutes. Tommie shifted his weight around to try and get himself into a more comfortable standing position. He'd come to the conclusion it was going to be a very long wait. And why was he here? The same as everyone else: to get away from G2, and Vlad and his cronies. There didn't seem much point in staying alert. As he was about to switch off from his surroundings, Tommie noticed that one of the two service windows had just closed up. The entire queue let out a sigh in frustration.

When he'd first arrived in hell, Tommie had felt quite lucky to be where he was. As hell went, G² was quite vanilla compared with Lust or Treachery. However, in his previous life he'd always been somewhat nomadic, changing flats and locations every eighteen months or so. Sometimes boyfriends as well. So it would be no great problem for him to move on. Where to, though? His preferred options were Fraud, or Limbo. But until he knew where his demon had been moved to, making a final decision would be difficult. Asking around hadn't produced anything concrete, and he lacked the wherewithal to get himself better answers. Still, he needed to queue up to get permission to change – he had to have that before he could start on the next process. More altered perceptions. Hell as an operation where there was just Satan in charge, letting demons get on with what they did best? Fat chance, as Tommie was learning to his cost.

The introductory speech from Vlad had been a curious mixture of bombast, heckling, and promises. Hnh … 'Making hell great again'? There appeared to be even fewer demons on duty now – the damned were becoming rudderless. Apart from those who went around yelling 'Fan the flames' every few minutes, and picked on anyone who was different. It was as though they thought nobody would give toss. Tommie gave a mental shrug – that was pretty much the case. The promised exercise regimens lasted less than a week before the damned got bored and wandered off. Of course, there weren't sufficient demons to enforce attendance. He recalled one conversation.

“What's this?” One overweight damned brandished a skipping rope at his companions.

“Dunno, mate. Anyone else got a clue?” The speaker looked round at the others for inspiration.

“Err ... some kind of measuring tape?”

“What?”

“A belt, for tightening?”

“Possibly …”

“You place it on the floor and walk along it? Kinda tightrope, but without the fall?”

In the end, they'd tossed it to one side and gone on their way.

And the healthy eating had been just as successful. Overripe fruit, rotten veg, and pre-packed salad stuff which gave the few damned who tried it gastroenteritis. The thing that had really spooked him though, was a report in The Inferno which had appeared a couple of days previously. An investigative reporter had discovered that Vlad and Impaler Enterprises had overbid for the contract to run G². There were rumours swirling around that Vlad was going to run out of money in days, despite his loud denials. That was probably another reason why there were no demons around – anyone with any sense was looking to move. Who would be next to take on the contract? One of the Borgias? Caligula?

Suddenly the queue lurched forward. Tommie looked up to see that three positions were now open. About bloody time too. The line of damned stretched out into the open for as far as he could see. Idly scanning the hordes for anyone of interest, his gaze suddenly alighted on a tall, athletic man of African heritage. Fuck, he was gorgeous. Really, really hot. And about three quarters of an hour behind him. Tommie was torn between getting his official note of permission, and losing his place to go and introduce himself to the vision. Which would it be?