The thing about the commissary is that it’s located right next to the second circle of torment. That’s what I would call a design flaw.

The hopeless souls sentenced to remain there for eternity are none too happy. Day and night you can hear wails of agony, not to mention the grating sound of them gnashing their teeth. They make quite a racket next door while being buffeted to and fro by the carnal cyclones of their own making. It’s very distracting. All I’m asking for is a little peace and quiet, essentially some “me time” while I sit and sip a fiery hot cup of Café de los Muertos coffee in between shifts.

Then there’s my demonic coworker Abbadas, who’s going to interrupt my meditative state anyway.

He made a beeline directly for my table after helping himself to a handful of Dragon’s Breath peppers at the concession counter. I could sense he had some gossip to share.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s a rumor of another big layoff in the works,” he said. He popped a suffocatingly hot pepper into his mouth.

“Layoff is a euphemism for bloodletting,” I said. “You’d be more accurate calling it a massacre.”

“Keep it down!” he said. “They’ll hear us.”

“They hear everything, even over the noise next door. Why pretend any less?”

There’s not a lot of room for pretending when you work for the Domain of Darkness. They don’t tolerate any dissension among the ranks. It’s no use complaining. There’s not even a complaint department down here. There’s a consequence department but you don’t want to end up there.

 

The anguished cries of our neighbors increased in volume and intensity, shaking my cafeteria-style table so badly that my coffee spilled. I took one more sip of what was left and decided to get back to work.

I’ve never thought of Abbadas as a first-rate demon, but the guy can get the job done. That’s what the bosses are looking for, someone with stick-to-it-iveness who doesn’t cost them too much. Give him an assignment and he will see it through, no matter how mundane or insignificant.

He’s proficient at whispering in ears and tempting the vulnerable with prurient thoughts. His specialty lies with young adults; humans often refer to them as university students, but I wouldn’t deem many of them as scholarly. And he has a penchant for online gamers. He is the spirit of depression that imprisons them in a sort of social paralysis.

This sort of result is considered a “win” in Domain of Darkness parlance.

He doesn’t receive a gold star or anything, but it is a chore that must be done, and someone has to do it. The problem is, nowadays, this kind of unremarkable work is being called into question.

There’s this familiar Bible story where one of our operatives has been covertly inhabiting the mind and soul of a human. Without notice, he up and decides to vacate the premises. No reason why is given, and he leaves no forwarding address. After traveling far and wide, he finds the outside environment arid and uncomfortable, so he decides to return. He discovers his former abode warm and inviting, so much so that he invites some demonic friends over—seven of them, to be exact. They all have a rapturous time together, and the human they dwell in ends up in a worse state than he was in the first place.

Honestly, that’s sort of an old-school approach.

In contemporary times the Principalities and Powers will look to streamline that operation. Is there a way to squeeze more efficiency out of this? Can we get by with fewer spirits? Will only three do? Eventually they will even question the need for three.

In the end one unclean spirit will be assigned the work of eight and receive no additional compensation for it.

The higher-ups have become economic animals, bottom-line-obsessed creatures.

 

Abbadas admitted as much to me during a lunch break.

“Everything is so automated now,” he said. “It’s like I have nothing to do.”

He was dropping quarters into an old Satan’s Hollow video game console we keep in the corner of the commissary just for laughs.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should even put my feet on the floor in the morning,” he said, pressing the console button repeatedly that unleashes missiles at demonic buzzards.

“What about that big project you’ve been telling me about?”

“I lied about it.”

Nothing unusual in that. Demons routinely lie. It’s spelled out in our job description.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said in as encouraging a tone as I could muster. “I haven’t been up to much either.”

“I’m hearing more rumors. They might replace us all with artificial intelligence,” he said.

I hissed at him and pointed to the vent where the scorching air circulates. He nodded, covered his mouth with a taloned hand, and started to say something.

The caterwauling from the tortured souls nearby drowned him out.

“I need some more quarters,” Abbadas said when the screaming died back down. He headed over to the beverage counter to ask for more change.

 

It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. Sometimes there were so many of us—there was a time in the fourteenth century where we really flourished—that we would team up on every job, sometimes with two or three of us just standing around as auxiliary players.

It didn’t take long for the bosses to catch on. They eliminated with extreme prejudice whomever they deemed unnecessary or redundant. Demons can be considered dead weight when that happens.

I swear, during the Inquisition there wasn’t a day went by when I’d report for work and someone hadn’t gone missing. It was a demoralizing time period. We lost a lot of good soldiers then.

It’s not like they throw a retirement party or negotiate a severance package. There’s no pink-slip process.

One day your coworker is telling bawdy jokes around the water cooler and the next, he’s vanished. That’s it. There’s not even a posting on the Hell’s Gate email chain. It’s as if that demon had never existed.

None of us question it when it happens. You keep your head down, do your job, and hope you’re not next. We all recognized that we were just overhead at some point.

The people of the Enemy, they can become so obsessed with politics and finger-pointing that they can forget about the Enemy altogether. They lose their raison d’être, their authenticity. You’d think us demons would be ecstatic with that kind of result. But all it does is make us deadwood, superfluous. Why would management want to pay us for a job that the humans are doing, with great success, all by themselves?

There’s a lot of misperceptions about the role of demons. Pop culture has turned us into a Hollywood cliché. It’s as if we’re all dark creatures who think nothing of frightening a family of four in their new home.

That kind of misrepresentation might bolster sales of popcorn at the local cineplex, but they’re missing the whole point.

Our job, first and foremost, is deception.

Have you ever noticed how the humans can rationalize just about anything?

They kick their dog. Then they chalk it up to having a bad day.

Ignore their sick mother. Say they had more pressing things to do.

Cheat on their spouse. This is one of my favorites. They will argue that it wasn’t much of a marriage anyway.

You can thank our operatives for that kind of thinking. We come up with the rationalizations, then apply the guilt later.

Humans are capable of the most perverse acts all on their own. If you could peer deep inside the hidden thoughts of the most pious, altruistic person you can imagine, I guarantee you it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. You wouldn’t just be disappointed, you’d be nauseated.

As far as integrity, I wouldn’t trust a human as far as I could throw them. Of course, I’m capable of throwing a single human a long, long way.

They’re a miserable, backbiting lot. In effect, they would make for good additions to our ranks.

It’s our job to keep their thoughts occupied. And then accuse them of failing— themselves, their families, and even the Enemy himself. There’s no way they can assuage that kind of guilt. Their consciences can’t take it. And meanwhile, they inch closer and closer to the abyss.

Of course, I haven’t run into too many people of the Enemy who are sporting consciences these days. Piety has been thrown out the window in favor of straight-on self-righteousness. With all the hate-mongering and personal attacks, they should be careful they don’t devour one another.

It also doesn’t leave much for us demons to do.

One thing to keep in mind: there’s no pension around here, no retirement plan. When you’re no longer necessary, you’re done, over, out. It pays to keep your nose to the grindstone, at least when you think they’re looking. I avoided any problems with upper management. Sometimes you can goof off but only sporadically. Like any job, the boss will put up with a little nonsense. But don’t push it. And whatever you do, don’t blaspheme your supervisors. They take that personally.

 

While I’m at it, I might as well address some frequently asked questions when it comes to our culture.

First off, I can say without equivocation that Ouija boards and seances are gateway drugs to demonic involvement. Humans who delve into those things are unnervingly susceptible for us. People are literally inviting us into their lives.

But I’ll tell you what else leads in that direction and is just as powerful:

Hate. Hate for your fellow man. As much as the Enemy prohibits this, it’s surprising how common hostility and malice are among those who call themselves his followers.

Ignorance and neglect of others who are in need, those two are a close second.

These are the first steps toward the abyss for many humans.

To answer another popular question: Yes, I’ve been cast out of a human a few times. And believe me, it’s no picnic.

One minute I’m partying it up inside the daughter of a television evangelist, causing her to chant in Sumerian and vomit vile substances. The next thing I know, I’m hurled out onto the pavement, and someone’s chanting the Enemy’s name in my ears. It’s cacophonous and gives me uncontrollable shakes.

It’s much easier—and safer—to stick to the temptation protocol. Take it from me.

You might be surprised to know that demons are quite attractive. And not in a dark, mysterious, Marilyn Manson sort of way. Lucifer, for all his crass depictions in human art over the years, is quite lovely, I would say stunningly so. Let me explain it like this. There’s an Italian actress of some renown who is known to be so beautiful that both men and women drop what they’re doing and stare, if only for a moment, when she enters a room.

Lucifer is that kind of beautiful.

As for the heavenly host who chose to stay with the Enemy, well, that’s quite another matter. To coin a phrase, they scare the hell out of me.

They’re not the white-robed, fair-skinned beauties that most humans imagine.

There’s this species of angel, bulky battleships really, who resemble a human-animal hybrid. They feature four faces: one human, and then three more resembling various animals. Not to mention they have massive wings and polished bronze hooves. Intimidating, but I can’t help feeling as if they were designed by some celestial committee who couldn’t come to a consensus.

Then there’s my least favorite: the six-winged seraphim, creatures who worship the Enemy day in and day out. They are reputed to be invincible in battle. If you ran into one of these bad boys in a dark alley behind your favorite drinking establishment, you’d likely never forget the encounter. That is, if you survived it.

 

Looking back, I blame myself. I was too distracted to expect a sneak attack. It caught me off guard when I received a summons from the higher-ups. Usually they prefer to remain faceless, communicating via corporate-wide memos blasted out to everyone.

This time was different. I was ushered into the recesses of my supervisor’s office and given a sharp reproof. Told that he had evidence I was loafing on the job. And I had committed an unforgiveable offence (actually they all are unforgiveable down here): I had questioned authority.

Which is absolute Minotaur-shit. But it doesn’t help to argue with the higher-ups. They don’t tolerate that sort of thing.

I should have considered myself lucky. If they had planned to institute more severe consequences, I wouldn’t have seen it coming. They just axe people without remorse down here; one moment you’re tempting a Sunday school teacher and the next—poof—you’re gone. As it was, my supervisor dismissed me with a wave of his thorny talon, telling me not to do it again.

Obviously Abbadas had ratted me out, that scaly little caterpillar. Only he could have provided such detailed information. It was a preemptive strike on his part, drawing attention to me to keep the heat off himself. I shouldn’t be that surprised that Abbadas turned me in like that. I mean, there’s no honor among coworkers in this business. It would be out of character if there was.

Still, it galled me.

I was tempted to march back into that sulfurous office and point out that Abbadas was as lazy and slothful as a hornworm, and worse yet, he perpetually slandered his superiors. How’s that for size, Boss-man?

Instead, I tucked my pointed tail between my legs and headed back to work.

I was determined to avoid Abbadas after that. I was in and out of the commissary before he had the chance to approach me.

When we did cross paths, I gave him the cold shoulder, which didn’t amount to much. There’s nothing that you could legitimately call cold down here. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it; he spent his time depositing quarters into the Satan’s Hollow arcade game and generally keeping to himself.

I was well within my rights to castigate him, baring my teeth and snarling with all the venom in my soul. I imagined him standing in a pool of his own urine after that assault on his senses.

But honestly, it wasn’t in me. I was content to wallow in my own resentment.

 

I knew I was under surveillance after my little foray into my supervisor’s office. It was time to go all out, to make a big splash so management would forget all about that blemish on my record. I took some initiative and focused on a young church attender I had been targeting for some time.

At once I preyed upon her insecurities. I whispered reminders in her ear of everyone who had disappointed her. What a litany of losers. This naturally included her parents, several ex- boyfriends, and her current fiancé. On top of that there was her old high school chemistry teacher, the celebrated scientist Marie Curie (I admit the logic of that one escapes me), and a churchgoer who failed to acknowledge her at the last Sunday service.

In no time I had her ready to detonate. I was pretty impressed with myself; she was putty in my hands, and it was all my doing. I prepared to unleash her upon an unsuspecting church service. What fun, I thought.

Dead wrong. I could have had her crawling down a staircase backward, and no one would have batted an eye.

She shouted at the top of her voice, cursing those nearby in poorly conjugated French, a language I was unaware she had previous experience with. She waved her hands in the air and frothed at the mouth, demanding attention over some minor slight. When that failed to gain any attention, she heaved the eucharist table across the room. That was impressive; must have weighed forty kilos. Several other parishioners glanced over, then continued their conversations.

I should have known better. Bitching and moaning is commonplace among the faithful these days. They’re always livid about something. Compassion and meekness have been tossed aside in favor of calling down wrath on whoever you disagree with. One more participant wasn’t going to raise any eyebrows around that crowd.

I disengaged from the woman, allowing her own thoughts to rush back into her head. She responded by going limp, then sitting down on the ground to have a good whimper.

“You’ll be alright, little one,” I said. I surprised myself with that fleeting moment of empathy, but for the love of Hades, what difference was it going to make at that point? I had failed miserably. My gambit had garnered little notice from the humans.

But the higher-ups noticed.

I ended up being marked down for the whole affair. All that work ended up a colossal waste of time, and now I had two consecutive black marks on my record to show for it. I had been a fool to even try. It’s better to let the humans march silently toward the abyss, done in by their own failings, than to put too much effort into it.

 

After that little episode I became slovenly and haphazard at work. It took all the strength I could muster just to drag myself in for my shift. I couldn’t find much to care about.

I wondered if all the effort was even worth it, the constant grind of punching in day in and day out when we all know the end result. I don’t dare express this thought out loud and only ponder it at my own peril.

I’ve seen things that the rest of creation only wish they could. I’ve descended the circles of the abyss and encountered many a church elder there, each one spiraling in his own confusion as to how he got there. That’s the real wonder, the naïveté of those hypocrites. I’ve also admired the concentric curves of the Andromeda Nebula and tasted the nectar of the fruit plucked from the Tree of Contrition.

You should see the vacation pictures. They’re stunning.

Still, there’s this nagging thought that perhaps I’ve been marginalized all this time. There has to be more to this existence than whispering tempting thoughts into an altar boy’s ear or making a human host levitate. After hundreds of years on the job, it all begins to feel like cheap magic tricks.

I was a two-time loser in the eyes of the Principalities and Powers. I have my own eyes, as dark and soulless as they may be. I could see what was happening. Demons had proliferated to the point that they were superfluous, especially with the humans taking on the majority of the basic blocking-and tackling required for ungodliness. My existence was ebbing away. No way they would keep me on.

Better to accept my fate with some dignity.

 

The next day the commissary was nearly empty. Rows and rows of tables where demons spent their time kibitzing now deserted. There was no standing in line at concessions; you could walk right up and be served immediately.

Also the video game in the corner was left unattended.

The Principalities and Powers had authorized a workplace imbalance correction overnight. There was no warning, just a brief announcement afterward. Abbadas had evaporated, along with a legion of others.

In the end it had nothing to do with his attitude or performance. He was unlucky enough for his number to come up. The higher-ups needed to excise a certain number of demons just because, by their measure, there were too many. They employed some sort of Mephistophelian algorithm that chooses some demons for termination and others for…continuance. And my number had slipped through the algebraic cracks. Performance had nothing to do with it.

I suspected they would employ more artificial intelligence to cover some of the bases formerly handled by the lost demonic workforce. The transition would be neat and clean; pristine, if you like.

I sidled up to the concessions counter and ordered up a cup of Café de los Muertos java. I had my pick of seats but still sat over in my same corner and took a sip. There’s a sharp kick to it at first, before it finishes with a mellow resolution on my coarse tongue. I tried to savor the solitary time without interruption, but the condemned souls next door kept distracting me with their incessant howling and chattering of teeth. I bent over my cup of coffee and tried to lose myself in my own thoughts. But no can do. It was impossible to ignore them.

At least I wasn’t alone. Perhaps there was some comfort in that.

I still wish they would just shut the hell up.

THE END