| Bring the heid o' charlie Editor
Join Date: Oct 2003 Location: Staley Road
Posts: 10,293
| Fiction: The Devil Has the Best Tunes?
His bathroom is bigger than most men’s houses. The suite is white marble, the taps white gold and each separate tile that adorns the floor and walls has been hand crafted, etched with scenes from his family’s history, from fictional battles to long dead faces.
Squatting over the toilet he chokes, hacks and vomits pieces of himself into the bowl.
The cancer is in his lungs, eating away at him, rotting him from the inside.
Soon he’s going to die. Die in a mess of blood and shit.
This is not supposed to happen.
He mewls like the pathetic beast he has become, shuddering, spitting a mixture of blood, lung matter and phlegm into the toilet.
He had smoked thirty a day, every day, since he was fifteen. He has no regrets except for the fact he‘s dying. He has lived the life he yearned, played the music, had the women, spent the money, drunk the drink, took the fucking drugs and now he is dying. But he is not supposed to be able to die.
Gasping for breath, he curls up into a ball, dips a finger into his mouth and draws an intricate shape on the ivory floor with his own juices, a design that glistens and writhes once drawn, forever shifting and coiling and looping in and out upon itself. Choking back an insane giggle, he has to look away as black smoke boils forth from the shifting pattern, twisting into a solid form and suddenly, in a haggard breath, the dying man isn’t alone anymore.
The arrival is elegant and so perfectly formed it hurts his eyes. It stands naked, a giant carved from purest ebony, but it is far from human, this thing formed from smoke. It towers high above any man, and its face is a mask of pure diabolism, ruby red eyes burning out of a face that is locked in an expression of harsh, cruel mirth. The giant stands over the writhing, pain-wracked man, simply watching him, its arms folded for a few moments that seem like dreamy eons to the man, then the arrival speaks with a voice that stabs and vibrates in his ears like the crashing of a thousand gongs.
“Soon my master will take you, fellow,” it laughs.
“Nnno,” the man gasps,”this wasn’t the deal. I’m not supposed to die.”
“But die you will, my lost friend,” the thing replies, “most certainly you are going to die.”
“What have I done wrong?” the man manages, pushing himself up as much as he can,” I have lived a selfish life, I have espoused the great glories of the dark arts and ways in music, film and print ever since my path crossed your master’s and we made our pact. Why must I die? Why?!”
The thing bellows a laugh.
“You really don’t know, do you?” it sneers.
From out of nowhere it plucks a CD, dropping it before the man’s eyes.
“What? Cliff’s last Christmas single. What’s that got to do with this?!” the man shrieks.
“Well you played guitar on it didn’t you?” the thing sighs,” This sort of deed goes against the deal, as under paragraph 4, section 45 slash b where it clearly states any good deed of any sort will result in immediate termination of the immortality contract in the most nasty way possible before collection of soul prior to processing in Hell!”
“It was a joke! Doesn’t the devil get irony??!” he shrieks.
“No he doesn’t, especially where charity records are concerned.” states the thing.
Suddenly there is a deep quaking rumble and the floor cracks open violently, the man screaming as huge flames roar upwards and a smell billows outwards, a stink of blood, sulphur and tears.
“You, my friend, are fucked!” it says, plucking the man up as he shudders, black blood exploding from his ears, nose and mouth.
“How handy your time of dying!” it giggles, tossing him down into the hellhole, where damnation awaited the musician for all eternity.
Last edited by Woolies; 19th May 2006 at 4:47pm.
Reason: image tag swapped to header
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