A Demon's Dull, Dastardly Duty

By: Norman Dudley

      At dusk, In the shadowy nave of the St. John Catholic Church, Father Pestis sat hunched over a small desk. The desk was old and decrepit, having been in that church longer than any one person could remember. Father Pestits wiped his sweaty brow, then went back to concentrating on each word that he meticulously inked onto his paper. He used all fashioned pen, quill, and ink to keep the integrity of his words. The setting sun shined through the stained glass, projecting various colors of light onto the ceiling like some kind of Christian kaleidoscope. However, the rest of the church was cast in darkness by the harsh shadows of dusk; the only light puncturing the black was that of a flame dancing upon a candle wick that Father Pestis used to illuminate his paper as he planned the next day’s sermon.

 
     If one were to look into the inky darkness surrounding Father Pestis, and if one happened to have the proper eyes for it, then one might, possibly, though unlikely, just barely see the outline of something lurking in the shadows.

 
     It was the outline of a dastardly, ominous figure. That shapeless figure that could barely be seen bears a name, and that name is Andromalius, the Great Earl of Hell, Leader of 26 Legions, Punisher of Thieves, Discipliner of Wicked Souls and  Seeker of Evil; though he is known by his friends (and most enemies) as Andrew.

 
      Andrew looked over Father Pestis, who only stopped writing to occasionally to scratch at his grey, bushy eyebrows in thought. Andrew sighed as he thought about how he was going to try to tempt Father Pestis, maybe he would drop in his mind-lustful thoughts about the young women who came to the church that day, or maybe cast doubt in his mind about Jesus, or better yet, have him stumble upon heavy metal music.
Andrew sighed again, bored by his thoughts. He remembered when heavy metal was a new, exciting tool for stealing the innocence of the youth, but now it was just another dull detail of Andrew’s dull duty. How did he get here? Stuck in a dead end job luring souls to Lucifer’s land. When you’re already The Great Earl of Hell, Leader of 26 Legions, Punisher of Thieves, Discipliner of Wicked Souls, and Seeker of Evil, there’s not really a whole lot of space for job growth. 

 
      It seemed to Andrew that he’s been doing the same thing for centuries, but that’s only because he has. The centuries change but the people don’t and tempting souls had become, to Andrew, as drab as washing dishes. His job had become repetitive and predictable. See a young, bright eyed Christian boy? Tempt him with a little premarital sex. Easy. A young, generous woman wants to run for office to help the poor of her city? Tempt her with a little greed and bribery. Done.

 
      And ask any person who washes dishes for a living, either they grow tiresome of such a menial task, or they get carpal tunnel from the constant repetitive motion.

 
      Andrew leaned over Father Pestis’s shoulder. The candle light shook, which was flickering like a glowing ballerina, but was now waving like an angry ocean. Pestis blew on his hands for warmth, for he felt a sudden chill wash over his skin, then went back to writing his sermon. Andrew read the words the Father wrote, “Our great lord sent his son unto us because we are sinners…blah blah blah.”

 
      Thousands of years later, thought Andrew, and priests are just as hackneyed and unoriginal as thousands of years before.

 
      Andrew got lost even further into his thoughts. He asked himself once again, how he got to this point. He had to have been angel at some point, right? All demons were…weren’t they? Angels…They, like, stumble or fall or something, and boom! They’re the chump that’s now a demon. He shrugged his shapeless shadowy shoulders, if he was an angel he certainly didn’t remember being one, and was vaguely grateful for the fact that he didn’t.

 
      Suddenly, the kaleidoscope light of the ceiling got slightly brighter; not too much brighter that a person would notice, but bright enough that a dastardly demon like Andrew would. Bits of dust danced and swirled around a vortex in the light and Andrew could see the subtle, white outline of a perfectly chiseled person. It hovered above the darkness of the church, frowning upon the scene of the demon and the father.

 
      Andrew rolled his eyes. The angel, like all angels, had a perfectly fit figure that made Andrew self-aware of his shapeless body. It was the type of body that, in life, would be almost impossible to maintain, sculpted by a symmetry obsessed artist; the angel’s complexion was as pale as milk and just as spotless,  it had eyes  as blue as the planet Neptune, and its hair was golden yarn that fell down to its perfectly chiseled shoulders. Essentially, if it were a person, it would look like the type of person Hitler would have wet dreams about.

  
      It pointed down at the shadowy figure known as Andrew and spoke, with a voice of powerful silk, “Demon!”

 
      Andrew thought about the usual responses when being confronted by an angel: screaming in fear and disappearing in a wisp of smoke, hissing and crawling away etc. Andrew wasn’t in the mood for such theatrics (and he was sure he had injured himself last time he excessively hissed). Instead, without really thinking, he spoke, in an irritated voice “Andrew.”

 
      The angel, which had smaller wings than most, was washed over with a confused look on his face, clearly not expecting such a response from Andrew. He scrunched his eyebrows together, clearly trying to think of a response, but all he could let out was a guttural, “huh?”

 
      “I’m Andrew” said, obviously, the figure that is called Andrew, “…you saw me and the first thing you did was point and shout ‘Demon!” 

 
      The Angel still looked confused and perplexed by the conversation. Yet, still trying to maintain a demeanor of self-importance and, to Andrew, one of whom has a stick up his ass, the angel puffed out his chest before saying, quite eloquently, “so what?” 

  
      “You wouldn’t go up to a Chinese man then point and yell,  ‘Asian!’ at first sight. My name’s Andrew... well technically its Andromalius, the Great Earl of Hell, Leader of 26 Legions, Punisher of Thieves, Discipliner of Wicked Souls and Seeker of Evil,” Andrew sighed and rubbed, what might be considered hair on a shapeless head, “…but that tends to be a mouthful. ”

 
      A very uncomfortable silence set in at this last statement. The Angel was clearly at a loss for words, all words erased from its mental dictionary; meanwhile, Andrew silently judged it and its masturbatory self-importance. All angels are the same, Andrew thought, thinking they’re the most important beings in the universe. How narcissistic.

  
      The Angel coughed into the uncomfortable silence then asked, “uhhh...why didn’t you…” the angel cleared its throat again, “why didn’t you run before the righteousness of god?” The Angel coughed again for good measure before Andrew got a chance to answer. Obviously, the coughs where forced, for angels couldn’t get sick.

  
      “I didn’t much feel like it,” Andrew said simply.

 
      The angel lowered himself, letting his perfect feet just barely skim the darkness below, then he spoke, in a whiny voice (which was strange to hear from an angel), “c’mon, don’t be this way. This was supposed to be easy.”

 
      “What’s supposed to be easy?”

 
      “You know…,” The Angel said clearly getting frustrated as he scratched his golden locks, “this whole spiel. I come, you run, and I guide this Christian man’s soul away from your temptations. I’m told that’s what normally happens when an angel runs into a demon.”

 
      “No need to worry about this man’s soul,” Andrew motioned towards Father Pestis who was rereading his words, completely unaware, like most humans would have been, of the conversation taking place, “I’m not really in the mood.”

 
      “Oh,” quietly muttered the angel. They once again sat in silence. The Angel scrunched his face together in serious thought. Every now and then it would make a slight squeal from its mouth, as if it was going to say something, but then stopped as it thought better of it.

 
      Andrew, once more, let out a long, reluctant sigh “is there something you want to say?”

 
      The Angel, who of course could not get sick, coughed, then continued “why…then why’re you here?”

 
      “Same reason you are, I suppose,” Andrew slithered closer to the angel, “job reasons. I’m just finding that… I don’t enjoy my job like I used to it’s like-“

 
      The Angel interrupted Andrew, “look, let me be honest with you,” The Angel looked over his shoulder as if he were being watched (which of course he was, as we all are), “I’m new to this whole angel thing. For the past five decades my job has been making sure the favorite football teams of true believers win their games when they pray for it. This is only my second real job, so can you just, like, do the normal thing? This feels rather unprecedented, this’ll look bad on me.”

 
      “I told you,” said Andrew (he was now getting frustrated), “I’m not going to tempt this man, so your job is done.”

 
      This oaf of an Angel was starting to bite at Andrew’s nerves. It was just his luck to run into something so idiotic.

 
      “Yeah, but…the whole way this went down. I don’t know if he’ll like it.”

  
      “Who?” Then Andrew palmed his shadowy, shapeless face in realization. He then interjected, “never mind, I know who.”

 
      “Will you just leave? But like in the way that demons normally do. With the hissing and screaming and all that.”

  
       Andrew did not leave screaming and hissing and all that. Andrew had actually been thinking about leaving, but being told to by this bafoonish angel made him need to stay; not because he wanted to stay, but merely to defy the angel who was annoying him so.

 
       “I can’t,” he said.

 
      “Why?” Pleaded the Angel, “if you don’t do it that way it kind of puts a hole in the whole ‘almighty’ god thing, makes us looks weak. You don’t have to be this way. Why cause a scene?”

 
       Andrew looked at the Angel with a condescending look, or at least more condescending than usual, “I’m a demon.”

 
      “Right…” muttered the angel.

  
      “Finished!”  Andrew jumped at the sound of Father Pestis’s voice, he had almost completely forgotten he was there. Father Pestis beamed at his own writing, clearly happy with his work, “this should deliver the proper message!” Father Pestis ran off to the little office in the back to add some last touches.

 
     Although he couldn’t exactly tell himself why, Andrew found himself profoundly irritated by Pestis’s demeaner. He scowled at the old man whose head looked like a flesh balloon bound by its tight collar (if the collar were loosened, his head would most likely deflate). He was just as self-important as the Angel.

 
      “You alright?” Asked the Angel who was now sitting with his legs crossed in boredom, still floating just above the darkness.

 
       “Why wouldn’t I be alright?” Asked the shapeless, figure known as Andrew.

 
       “I don’t know,” said The Angel was scratching himself, “I know Demons are supposed to be like trouble makers and stuff, but I’ve never known them to be so…moody.”

 
       The dark spot that the shadowy figure known as Andrew resided suddenly became slightly blacker, “did you just call me moody?”

 
       The Angel shrugged, “you’re in a mood. That makes you moody.”

  
      Andrew knew deep down that the Angel was right. He was being exceptionally moody. His job was going nowhere and, although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, he wasn’t happy with his life. He subconsciously longed for someone to talk to about his problems but he knew, in the back of his mind, buried with his other insecurities, that no one wanted to hear Andromalius, the Great Earl of Hell, Leader of 26 Legions, Punisher of Thieves, Discipliner of Wicked Souls and Seeker of Evil complain about his problems.

  
      Yet Andrew couldn’t help it, he had meant to say something snarky and rude, but soon he found himself him blabbering on about his problem, unable to stop.

 
      “You’re right! I am moody!” He ranted with every fiber of his formless being, “I’m tired of it! Is it any life at all doing the same thing over and over! Century after century! Am I expected to do this until Armageddon?”

 
      “Yes actually--“

 
      “The worst thing is I used to love it! Tapping and ticking away at people’s souls with torrid temptations used to be fun! Now I hate it almost as much as I’m supposed to hate you! And even that,” Andrew slumped down in Father Pestis’s rickety chair and sighed, “I can’t even find any excitement in. So, forgive me if I’m moody.”

 
      The Angel looked down at the at the figure meant to cause dismay wherever it went slump over in the desk in dismay; it looked upon Andrew with a look that was very hard to discern, only that it was a look of contemplation and deep thought. The canopy of colors projected through the stain glassed window began to shrink ever more as the sun kissed the horizon. Suddenly, to Andrew’s shock, the Angel descended into the darkness below and sat down, his back resting against the legs of the desk that Andromalius, the Great Earl of Hell, Leader of 26 Legions, Punisher of Thieves, Discipliner of Wicked Souls and Seeker of Evil was lurking in.

 
      Together they sat in silence for many moments until the Angel coughed his cough that was not a cough, and spoke “I think I understand.”

 
      Andrew didn’t respond. What could this Angel know about such things?

 
      The Angel continued, “You know how tiresome it is having to constantly be a condescendingly pure spirit? Constantly having to act better than everyone else. It’s practically in the contract…you’re righteous and holy and you got to let everybody know it, all the time.” The Angel sounded genuine in his musings. Genuine and tired.

 
      The thought had never occurred to Andrew. He never considered that Angels could possibly be just as boxed in as he. That, just as he is condemned to be completely flawed, that Angels are practically punished by having to be flawless. This Angel no longer seemed quite so self-righteous. Andrew suddenly felt for him.

  
      “We’re condemned to our jobs for life,” sighed Andrew, “which is forever until the inevitable great war. It’s times like these that make me wish I could get drunk.”

 
      “Me too,” Said the Angel who immediately started laughing, “…I don’t think I’m allowed to say that.”

 
      Andrew laughed along with the Angel, “don’t worry I won’t tell him. I don’t think he’d believe me anyway. I’m not exactly wanted up there.”

 
     “Trust me,” said the Angel, “it ain’t nothing special. Just a bunch of asses constantly kissing his ass. Asses kissing asses. Like damn, no one can come up with something else to talk about other than then his greatness?”

 
      Andrew laughed harder than he ever had. “God, bless you,” chuckled Andrew, then added, “wait, are you allowed to curse?”

 
      “Are you allowed to bless?” responded the Angel.

 
      “Touché.”

 
       Andrew was suddenly aware of his positive thoughts towards the Angel. Never had Andrew thought that he might befriend an Angel; of course, as is normal for an agent of evil, a pessimistic thought bubbled to the surface of the black concoction that what his mind: what did it mean for Angels if they could befriend demons? Then another thought surfaced: What did that mean for demons if they could befriend Angels?

 
      “Damn it!” Father Pestis yelled as he exited the office. At this point in the day, there was practically no sunlight, just a little stream of blue light that pierced through the darkened ceiling. Father Pestis’s craggily, old face was lit up by the translucent glow of a smart phone as his old eyes peered down the screen, he angrily shouted, “Why did the Seahawks have to lose!”

 
      Andrew jumped, startled by Father Pestis’s sudden outburst. As he did so the shapeless thing that could be called his hand smacked the ink container on the desk and sent it scattering across the floor, spilling black liquid everywhere.

      Andrew stood from the desk. He said the only thing that he could think to say, “oops.”

 
      The Angel got up, and spoke reassuringly, “it should be harmless…”

 
      Father Pestis stood frozen in place. He was sure there was no one else in the church but him. He shook himself out of shock and fumbled around with his phone, swiping like a madman looking for the flashlight app, he grumbled an angry “aha!” as he tapped it and illuminated his desk. Of course, there was nothing there but his desk, a chair, and a small flicker of a candle.

 
      Father Pestis loudly muttered to himself, “ink goes flying across the church! Seahawks lose! This can only be the work of Satan himself!”

 
      Before Andrew or the Angel could blink, Father Pestis was producing a pocket bible he carried everywhere from his clothes. He pulled a silver crucifix from deep within his constricting collar and held it up along with bible; he then began speaking rapidly in, what many consider, a dead language.

 
     “Cum robore superare et flammeum...”

  
      Andrew had seen many such events before. Priests tried to vanquish him or exorcise him before to varying degrees of success. Sometimes it ends with Andrew’s sudden need to relieve himself. Others with a searing burning pain that burrow between what could be called his eyes. These words the priest spoke he did not recognize, which could only mean it was practice so ancient that even Andrew could not recall the method he was using. This naturally, was very unsettling, to Andrew. He anxiously leaned close to the Angel and asked if he knew what Father Pestis was attempting to do.

 
      The Angel didn’t sound worried at all, “quite an ancient way of protecting oneself from supernatural threats. He’s summoning a holy spirit with flaming sword to protect his physical and spiritual self.”

 
      If Andrew could sweat, he would be out of pure anxiety and nervousness, “I should get out…”

 
      The Angel interrupted, “there’s no need to worry. I’m the nearest holy spirit, so as long as you don’t tell, I will refrain from burning your disgustingly evil self with it.”

 
      “Thanks?” 

 
      “No problem.” The Angel grinned at the shapeless figure.

 
      Andrew was only slightly soothed. Very slightly soothed.

 
      Abruptly, piercing the blackness of the church, blinding white light exploded from between the Angel’s perfectly perfect pecs. Andrew shielded what could be considered his eyes  from the awesome might of holy power.

 
       “Run before the might of god!” Yelled Father Pestis.

 
      Andrew peeked between the things that could be considered his fingers.  There was something protruding from the center of The Angel’s chest; it was shiny and glistening, sticking out like a long silver thumb. The Angel took his hands and grasped tightly the thing coming from his perfect torso, he began to pull and a blade, of pure white, came from his body in a birth like way. It was as tall as his torso and commanded power and reverence. It erupted in a holy fire brighter than any sun, anywhere else in the universe.

 
     Andrew recoiled, slithering as far away as possible from the holy sword.

 
     The Angel held the weapon as if he had held nothing like it before (because he hadn’t held anything like it before). “I feel so strong,” he gasped, “Like I could strike down a thousand armies.”

 
      Andrew pressed the thing shapeless thing that could be considered his back against the wall, this time he coughed a cough that wasn’t an actual cough, then spoke, voice shaky, “I’d feel so much better if you could, uhhh, put that away.”

 
     “You have nothing to worry about, I won’t do anything with it,” said the Angel turning the weapon in his hand, examining every detail like a mother examining her newborn baby, “though to be honest, it does seem a little redundant to have a burning sword. It’s already a powerful blade, seems a little overkill to cover it in flames.” The Angel mimed with the weapon, pretending to be fighting dangerous invisible enemies that only he could vanquish.

 
      With each hack and slash The Angel presented, Andrew flinched and cringed.

 
     “Okay, you’ve had your fun,” he muttered to The Angel, “but really, you should-”

 
     “Ahh don’t be scared,” He said pretending to stab a mighty enemy, “you’ll only be hurt if I point it at you.”

 
     Without thinking, in demonstration, he pointed the sword at Andrew who immediately burst into white flames.

 
      The pain must have been the pain that he inflicted on many wicked souls over a long career. The pain would be wholly impossible to relate in words, unless you yourself have tortured millions of people in the most gruesome way possible, in which case just imagine those foul deeds as if you were the one being tortured in the same ways, all at once (and also, hello mother).

 
      “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” the Angel repeated as the flames burned away Andrew’s essence, “fuck, that was an accident, I swear. Shit. Shit. Shit!”

 
      The Angel took to blowing on the flames, trying to put them out. He gasped and huffed mighty puffs of ineffective air. If Andrew had not been crying out in pain, he most likely would have yelled something along the lines of, “that’s clearly not working!”

 
     Suddenly, a grand voice echoed through the halls of the church, a perfect voice, the only voice, “good job, Zuphlas, you have destroyed this demon with mighty efficiency.”

 
     “Oh hey God,” spoke The Angel in a sad voice “Yeah, I uhh…totally vanquished this demon with my might.”

 
      Father Pestis called out in triumph, “I can tell that there shall be one last evil spirit in this world!”

 
     To Andrew, the world began to dim as the holy fire grew brighter. The Angel, Zuphlas, tried to stand triumphantly before god, but his face was twisted with tortuous confused emotions. Andrew felt his grasp on the Earth slipping, as god called for Zuphlas to return.

 
    “Yeah, God, can’t wait to tell the folks…”

 
      As Andromalius, the Great Earl of Hell, Leader of 26 Legions, Punisher of Thieves, Discipliner of Wicked Souls and Seeker of Evil burned to his permanent death, the only thought that went through his mind (besides ‘ahh, this really hurts’) was that he was going to die in the exact way that everyone expected.