Chapter Text
Of all the places I could be on this massive rock, of all the things I can see, of all the curiosities that strike my thoughts… I’m here. In a laundromat in the middle of Vermont, glancing between gummy worms and roasted peanuts in a vending machine, wondering which side had the bright idea for laundromats.
In some weird way, I have a hunch both had a hand in its creation. On one side, Heaven sees the ever-exhausted souls of humans return home after wasting a good third or more of their depressing day at a job they despise, ready to wash away the memories, only to find that little Timmy wondered the aftereffects of dropping a brick or some dirt from the backyard into the fancy contraptions. As Timmy’s promptly shipped to the furthest military academy in the state, the featherheads notice the less-fortunate reduced to putting the kitchen sink and tubs to other use. So of course it’s natural to believe that the first schmuck to come across a building lined to the brim with those clunky squares is going to fall to their knees and praise all those Above, right?
At first.
The thing about the majority of the human race, at least what my experiences have taught me while venturing the west, is that most corporations adored a common vision: Monday through Friday shifts. Absolutely love it, they do (were I the demon to plant in their head, I’d likely still be down there boasting about it); their pawns of employees wake up at the crack of dawn, dump an unhealthy amount of caffeine down their throats while imagining places they’d rather be, then sit stuck in traffic while hoping the next day would be so much better before passing out face-first on the bed. Clothes piled up before busted machines, tensions boiled in the household before wives turned to shoving table scraps into a sickly green jello for the doting husband to obviously devour… I’m digressing. Anyway, the shifts. Friday comes and goes, you envision pure peace and relaxation from the chaos, ready to kick back and turn your brain off for some entertainment, and what happens?
You’re at the laundromat. Around you, there’s anywhere between ten to fifteen other people who, much like yourself, don’t want to be there. The idea they’re there sickens them. No one’s looking at each other, more than half the machines are already out of commission or leaking subs on a floor that hasn’t been cleaned for almost a year. Small talk is attempted, and about a minute later it’s back to an air of uncomfortable silence. Pretty sure anyone who thanked the Above mentally requested a refund for that praise.
Gummy worms. Roasted peanuts.
I feel like I’m forgetting something big… like I missed some kind of… Ah, I can’t remember. Must’ve not been that important.
It’s a hot summer day in Vermont, the air conditioner is a trio of sputtering fans in the corner, and I've been standing in the same spot for about an hour, three quarters rolling between my fingers as I juggle between two items a college student would classify as a nutritious meal. On the folding table, a small radio plays for the fifth time a song better suited for a surf shack on either coast. I don’t think anyone noticed the repeats, but it would only take a quick miracle to quench that observation for good. In my head, I chuckled. Surfing tunes in Vermont of all places. Humans are an odd bunch.
It’s then that my attention catches something off.
For about the whole time I’ve been standing here, on the third row, the coil for an empty slot has been going non-stop. Turning and rolling, rolling and turning, squealing and squeaking. In a way, it goes with the surfing song, mixing in a nice rhythm with the saxophone solo.
The squeaking and rolling’s stopped.
Actually, everything’s stopped. The young woman stands mid-step between her hamper and the dryer, a handful of towels hovering in the air, her two kids once pushing the stroller of their unfortunate infant sibling remain still by her legs, and the much older man eyeing the woman in a manner many would find creepy as he fails to notice the amount of water dripping from his clothes… all have stopped in place.
The radio continues on. Sixth repeat.
Bzz, bzz, bzz…
My eyes didn’t leave the vending machine; her reflection was clear as day save for the gummy worms obstructing her eyes. Shame, her eyes were one of her best features. Ah. Digressing again.
“Beez. You look as hellish as ever. New coat?”
“You should be lucky it’zz not your skin. Your disappearing act from Below zzpoke louder than the praises you’d spout out.”
Deep down, I’m really glad the worms blocked her eyes.
Outside, I feigned a look of shock. “I’ll have you know that thanks to my loyalty to the prince, I single-handedly increased Satanism in a whopping twelve states in the last fifteen years. I hardly think any demon can top that record.”
A low bzz. “And for the other 654 years?”
I opened my mouth, shut it, opened it again, then half-assed a shrug. “Give me five minutes and I’m sure I can think up a crappy excuse. But, it looks like my absence didn’t really leave that big of an impact down there since you only now just find me. You got seven others down there who know what they’re doing. Ish.”
“They lack your prowess. It’zz sloppy work, they only perform for a crowd.”
The corners of my lips tipped upwards, and the rolling of my quarters came to a pause. “I’ve a feeling you didn’t bring yourself all the way topside just to insult those hacks Below and interrogate my whereabouts. That kind of thing seems more appropriate for, ah… what’s her name… Francine.”
“Dagon,” Beelzebub quickly corrected, her own lip curling. “I’ve a tazzk for you. Do it right, and I’ll forget your unplanned vacation to the top.”
My mind’s teetering on the roasted peanuts as I roll on the heels of my sandals. “For the prince of Hell, I’m all ears. Though, if all ears was my true form, that might be a little revolting now that I think about it. Yeuch.”
“I need a rogue demon removed from the surface. Dizzcorporated by your hand. Hunt him down, tear him to shreds, I don’t care how you do it. I want him back in Hell and sent to the deepest pit.”
Then again… the gummy worms don’t look half bad. “Pardon my intrusion, Lord, but that job sounds more suited for a bounty hunter. Tracking and hunting targets isn’t really in the job description of an Executioner.” I paused. “Though, Executioner-Hunter? Hunter & Executioner? Play around with it enough and I can think up a good ti-”
The bag of worms formed two, icy orbs glaring in my direction and I pantomimed my lips zipping.
“I don’t want a bounty hunter mucking this up, and we already know where he izz. All you need to do is go there, discorporate him, and leave the rest to me. Anything in your way is free game, human or…” Her lips twisted again. “Or angel.”
“Huh, never did away with an angel before. Be one for the books.” I clinked the quarters together. “What’d he do, told Dagon she smelled as pretty as a valley of lilies? Blessed a sneeze?”
“Aided the enemy, killed a fellow demon… Ruined Armageddon.”
All five levels of panic rang on full volume in my head, and suddenly the roasted peanuts were looking absolutely delightful in comparison to the other. “Ah… yeah, that’s, that’s waaaay not good. I mean, heck, I was really looking forward to all the… Armageddon stuff, y’know? All the fire and the… burning, and…”
“Drop it,” Beelzebub snapped, and her wish was my command. “You’ll find the demon in London, often frequenting a… place most humans go to admire nature and creatures.” It was her turn to pause, she leaned forward to look in front of me, then behind. “Your weapon?”
“Wea… oh, yeah. That.” I jabbed a thumb to the bench by the wall, where a lumpy, grey duffle bag rested lopsided. Protruding from a small opening in the middle was a sleek, wooden baseball bat.
Beelzebub stared at it, then to me, then back to the bag, her brows furrowing.
“Oh, yeah, it’s uh… apparently, it’s not considered ‘neat’ to walk around with sharp weapons around humans. Had to blend in with the meatsacks, and no one really questions your intent with that on your person. They just think you’re out to have a spot of fun with the… guys.”
“Clearly,” she muttered. “I want you in London as soon as you’re able. Memorize the whole city if you muzzt, I want him robbed of any sanctuary or shelter. I want him to ever regret siding with us. I want him gone. ”
“London’s probably really nice this time of year,” I mused to myself, and with a graceful turn of my feet I bowed, extending a hand. “Lord Beelzebub, prince of Hell, consider your wishes granted. Give me a name, and I’ll hand-deliver him to the deepest pit of Hell with you as my honored audience.”
“He has many names I’ve called him, but he goes only by Crowley. I’ll await your return… But should you even consider failing, I’ll reserve the pit for you.”
Slowly, I straightened myself out, my eyes meeting the top of her hat and venturing down to her face. A mirthless smirk ran across my lips.
“If I consider failure, I’ll expect more than just a pit.”
In an instant, the laundromat burst alive with a mouthful of swears from the man as the entirety of his front becomes soaked in water and soap, the clothes from the washer dropping from his hands. The kids push and pull the stroller, blissfully ignoring their mom’s pleas to quit traumatizing their sibling as she shoved piping hot clothes into the hampers. Where Beezlebub once stood was replaced by nothing, and the radio goes on to play the song for the eighth time.
“Right, that was… right. London, neat. Back in business, okay, but after a quick ol’ sna…”
The roasted peanuts were gone.