 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
| Jackson Kent woke up one morning to discover that he was alive. This
was a curious incident, if only because the previous night he went to
bed convinced that he was dead. His conviction was due to the twelve gunshots
that had been fired at close range into his head and chest, but perhaps
he was mistaken after all. Instead of lamenting his continued existence,
Jackson took a shower, changed his bloodstained clothes and made a pot
of coffee to drink as he pondered his new-found non-non-existence.
After the second mug of slightly burnt coffee and another change of shirt (it quickly became apparent that when one is riddled with bullet holes, it becomes difficult to retain liquids) Jackson decided that he was going to get to the bottom of this non-death issue. It was not immediately clear who would be responsible for such a drastic faux-pas as to forget to ensure that he had passed away, but it seemed that the Prince of Darkness would be a good place to start his questioning. For as long as Jackson could remember, there had been a field on the outskirts of town that was always being written up in the paper as a possible new site for such-and-such shopping mall or this-or-that housing development, but nothing was ever done with it. It had always seemed that somebody had begun constructing something there, but never got further than building a staircase leading into some unseen foundation or basement. He was sure that local teenagers probably went there to do … whatever it was that kids did when parents weren’t around. Somehow it seemed like the proper place to communicate an angry complaint to The Morning Star. Despite the fact that it was late on a Friday evening, there were no gas-huffers or binge-drinkers or R-rated-movie-watchers or what-have-yous around when Jackson arrived. He supposed he would have to figure this spirit communing thing out by himself. As he reached the top of the staircase, which was level with the surrounding field, he peered down to discover that somebody had painted a large, red arrow along the wall, pointing deep into the Earth. Feeling that if there was an arrow, there must be a destination (perhaps with some sulking goth kids or a Ouija Board at the bottom) Jackson began to decend. As he walked, it became increasingly apparent that there was not a basement or a bunker at the bottom of this staircase, but rather Hell itself. This was the only thing he could think of that would explain the sound of crackling flames, the scent of sulfer, and the screams of souls being tortured. Finally, a door came into view at the bottom of the staircase. As he approached, Jackson braced himself to find a heavy leaden door, or perhaps one made of human femurs, or some ornately-carved cathedral-styled affair. He was rather disappointed, if he were to be honest about it, to find that the Door to Hell was actually a brushed aluminum door on swinging hinges. He felt that Hell at least owed him the satisfaction of turning a knob after walking down the excruciatingly boring and dimly lit flight of steps. The door opened into what seemed to be a fairly pleasant field, rather like the one he had just left, with a mansion somewhere off in the middle distance. As the door swung shut behind him, he realized that the sounds and smells of Desolation became muffled – Hell itself smelled vaguely of overripe fruit and wilting flowers, but was otherwise fairly pleasant. The screams were replaced with a comfortable but eerie silence of abandonment: there was not a soul in sight, dammed or otherwise. Jackson set out for the large marble house, hoping that Beelzebub might still be ruler of this empty domain, when somewhere to his left a voice called out to him. He turned to see a rather irritable looking, pudgy man in a rumbled dress shirt and tie, standing with arms akimbo and eyes squinting. “Hey! You! Yeah, yo – eeeeh, what happened to your face? What are you doing here?” “I was shot. And I’m looking for the King of Devils.” “Yeah, what do you want?” Jackson matched Mephistopheles’ defensive stance, “I want to know why I’m not dead.” The Prince of Darkness sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “C’mon, let’s go to my place and we’ll talk.” Lucifer – or Lou, as he preferred to be addressed as – explained as they walked: Hell is in the business of torturing souls, not collecting them. Gathering souls is a contract job which, up until now, had been carried out with very few minor hitches. Unfortunately, the centuries-long agreement which had bound the soul-collectors into the service of Hell had expired and, despite the availably of a copious number of lawyers, tax accountants and other business professionals, Lou hadn’t been able to reach a contract renewal agreement. And so the Minions of Death had been put on temporary strike while things were figured out. There was still some measure of activity in Hell: the demons were keeping their skills sharp in the back rooms by practicing on the not-entirely-dead. All over the world people were slipping into comas or getting into accidents, having traumatic near-death experiences and then coming to again, alive but terrified. “You know,” said Lou, glancing sideways at Jackson, “Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement.” And so it was that when Jackson left the Palace of Hell he underwent two nearly imperceptible changes: impressively sturdy calves from the seemingly endless stair climbing, and the strange ability to cause catastrophic incidents wherever he went. In exchange for creating the potential for disaster among the living, he would be allowed to be properly dead once his contract had been fulfilled. Multilated face hidden by a large scarf, Jackson strolled about the streets of the living world, brushing against people and tapping strangers on the shoulder to ask the time. What these oblivious citizens never realize was that exactly five minutes and twelve seconds after this passing interaction, they would find themselves in what would once have been life-or-death situations but which were now more akin to life-or-termpoary-partial-death-that-involves-quite-a-lot-of-painful-torture situations. So Lou had his souls – if only on loan – and Jackson quietly yearned for the day when he would be allowed to die properly and would cease leaking coffee from his punctured intestines. ...And they all lived (that is, not-died) happily ever after (excluding the tortured souls and Jackson and really Lou and all of the out-of-work Soul Collectors and pretty much everybody else)! The end. |