Aloha from Hell

He’s pissed enough about Mrs. Hulk that he lets go of Mammon and prowls around the edges of the light, listening, trying to figure out where my voice came from.

“Get back here,” shouts Mammon. “He’s goading you.”

I take out Mason’s lighter from my pocket and toss it onto the nearest couch. The ice-cream man spins and blasts the enemy furniture.

I throw the black blade. He sees it at the last second but can’t get out of the way, and the blade buries itself in his right eye. He’s dead before he hits the floor.

Mammon finally sees me as I step out from behind his floating map of the universe. The room is empty except for us. Mammon’s dead officers have all winked out of existence and are on their way to Tartarus, the Hell below Hell.

I get Mason’s lighter off the couch and put it back in my pocket.

From the floor, Mammon gives the room an expansive wave like he’s addressing the multitudes.

“Lo, the prodigal coward returns. It’s been a long time, assassin. How have you been? Enjoying your life upstairs? That’s a breathtaking tan.”

I take my time getting to him.

“You’ll notice I’m not rushing over. I want you to get used to seeing the world from floor level.”

He looks me over.

“Nice coat. But I hate the shoes.”

“I like what you’ve done with the place. Is that why you threw in with Mason? He got you a good decorator?”

“I’m with Mason because I appreciate winners.”

“Like the five I just slaughtered? Or was it that time when you threw in with Lucifer to take over Heaven. Face it. You’re completely shit in the picking-winners department.”

Mammon’s legs are splayed at funny angles. He’s propped on his elbows, trying to look comfortable. I circle him so half the time he’s talking to empty air.

He shrugs.

“We were young back then and swept up in the excitement that we could throw out the old ways and rebuild the world. I’m older now and understand. Our plans weren’t thorough enough back then. This time they are.”

“I’ve got my fingers crossed for you, doughboy. I have a feeling if you fuck up one more time, there’s nothing left for you but Tartarus. Unless you know somewhere lower than that?”

He keeps smiling, but his lips do a little involuntary micro-twitch. Tartarus is the only thing that truly frightens all these Hellion bastards. Even they don’t know what’s down there. Maybe Lucifer does, but he’s not around to ask.

Mammon manages a little mocking laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It’s a private joke. You wouldn’t understand. There’s wine and Aqua Regia on my desk. I hear you’re quite the drunkard these days.”

“Did you hear that when Kasabian was still spying for Lucifer? That intel is out-of-date. I’m strictly a social drinker these days.”

“That’s what all drunks say. In any case, enjoy yourself.”

I give the bottles on his desk a sniff. They don’t smell poisoned, but it’s hard to tell with Aqua Regia since it’s already mostly poison. I start going through his desk.

“Where are the Maledictions? I’d strangle the Pope for a smoke.”

“Sorry. I quit.”

“You’re a Hellion. All you do is torture and smoke.”

“You’re right. I lied. But I’m out of cigarettes. Maybe if you let the guards in, one of them could bring some.”

“How’s the view from the carpet, Tom Thumb? Does the world smell different down there?”

I go through the rest of the drawers. There’s a silver flask in a bottom one. I take it out, admiring Mammon’s family crest on the front. I hold it up and he says, “Be my guest.”

While I’m pouring Aqua Regia into the empty flask, Mammon says, “You’re going to be dead tomorrow, you know.”

When the flask is filled to the top, I tighten the cap and slip it inside my coat.

“Dead, huh? That sucks. How are your legs? Any pain yet?”

Mammon shakes his head.

“None, thank you.”

“It’ll start soon.”

Metal scrapes near the wall.

I snap out the na’at to its full length and twist it so barbs sprout along its length. A scared, muffled voice screams where the na’at is pointing. It sounds like it’s coming from a weird metal sculpture across the room. It’s about six feet tall and covered in hand-hammered silver in roughly the outline of a human body. It looks like something from Muninn’s discount bin. I get closer, letting the na’at keep some distance between us.

There are openings in the sculpture, like eye slits. There’s movement behind them. I shove the na’at right up to the opening. The muffled screaming starts up. When I get closer I can see eyes inside the helmet. They’re brown. The pupils wide and dilated with fear. They’re human.

I point at the caged man.

“Who’s the gimp?”

Mammon pushes himself up a little higher on his elbows.

“That’s Mr. Kelly. Say hello, Mr. Kelly.”

The Hellion upper classes love to talk about the damned with mock formality.

The slaved soul in the metal restraints squeezes out what I guess is a muffled greeting.

“Why’s he locked up? Is he dangerous?”

“Only to your kind. He’s a murderer.”

“Is that what’s in this year? Collecting killers instead of baseball cards?”

He tightens his lips in a look of mild disgust.