Post by Deleted on Sept 3, 2007 8:38:59 GMT -5
Burgeoning twilight cocooned the neighborhood in a homely darkness. The last fitful rays of sunlight peeked feebly over rooftops, retreating from the purplish sky as their nightly ritual demanded. Shadows stretched across the road and reached up the lawns on the other side, and dark clouds whisked by overhead, roiling and tumbling into one another, joining and separating, passing lightning back and forth as if it was a game. Thunder swelled and crumbled. A storm was brewing.
Inside the Cadillac, cruising smoothly and soundlessly through the darkness, it was already raging. Or, more accurately, inside the head of Pierce Deville. The car itself was quiet, as appeared The Deville. Outwardly serene and composed, watching the road with half-open eyes, he might have been out for a leisurely drive. Beneath the surface, though, pandemonium reigned.
Anything, Pierce pledged heatedly, desperately. Beyond desperately. I'll do anything, give you anything, just don't do this! Not to her. She doesn't deserve it. Please! He paused, panting, waiting for a response. All the stories about Satan painted him as a dedicated negotiator, someone always looking to strike a deal. But as much as Deville wanted to believe otherwise, he knew silence was not a bargaining tactic The Devil employed. I surrender! The frustrated shout echoed uselessly in the silence that followed. Whatever you want, it's yours. Just name it!
Satan heaved a long-suffering sigh, and Pierce felt a flutter of hope at the sympathetic undertone. When his response finally came, not in the form of a proposition or acceptance, not even in words, that hope was crushed. A long warbling note trembled across their shared mind, immediately followed by another, and another, and more, each one somber and tragic by itself, together they became a symphony of mock pity. An image of Satan decked out in a jester's garb, strumming sadly on a violin, formed in Deville's mind, searing his hopes to ash.
Cursing, pleading, and threatening all at once, Deville railed against the imperturbable Devil and his wretched violining. He knew it was a hopeless struggle, but he had no choice except to writhe against the inevitable disaster. He certainly couldn't give up, not with so much at stake.
This wasn't just some random neighborhood Satan had chosen to terrorize on a whim. It was on these very streets that Pierce had spent most of his formative years, where he had grown up and blossomed into a man. After his father died, his mother moved them here in a noble yet vain attempt to allow Pierce a normal life. She thought that by immersing him in a world of regular people and children, he might be able to escape the life that had stolen her husband well before his time. It might have worked, too, if not for the diligence of Salvatore.
Much to his mother's chagrin, he bought back his father's house many years later and moved himself in, making it his home until the FBI forced him to blow it up. She wasn't upset by the fact that he had repurchased the home, but by the unspoken announcement that came with it. That Pierce was in the Mob.
She had begged him to turn his back on it with tears in her eyes, hugging him tightly one moment and beating her thin arms against his chest the next. Pierce almost broke, seeing his mother sobbing, hearing her soul tearing as she re-lived the death of both her husband and father. Having grown up in the business, she knew all too well what it was about, and what it ultimately came down to. She begged Pierce not to take that dead-end road, begged him not to force her to his funeral.
But he promised her it would be different, swelled up with the ignorant pride and arrogance of a twenty-year-old millionaire who had ties to the very top of the underworld. He smiled and cupped her cheek, told her everything would be all right and not to worry, kissed her on the forehead. He even laughed when she pressed the matter, telling her he got more heat from her than he ever did on the street. That earned him a glare, of course, and a lecture about the reality of the business that he had heard plenty of times before. Eventually, though, she realized he would not be diverted, and from that moment on whenever she looked at him there was a sense of mourning in her eyes, as if she was looking at someone already dead.
"I have a plan, mom," he had declared self-importantly, tilting her head back so she had to stare into his eyes. "It's going to take me through Hell, but in the end everything will be okay. You'll see. I promise."
Five years later, at his funeral, she wept for that broken promise.
He had never gone to tell her he was alive since returning from Hell, to tell her the promise still held. Though confident his plan would work, he didn't want to risk making her experience the pain of his death again if things went awry. She thought he was dead, and had come to terms with it. Letting her discover he was alive again before he really was simply had too many risks attached, risks that would scourge her heart. So he vowed to stay away from her until it was settled.
Another promise broken. Soon enough, at least.
Satan hadn't come right out and said it, or blessed Pierce with gruesome images foretelling it, but there was little doubt that he had brought them here to kill Pierce's mother. How else did he plan to drive Pierce out of his head?
Anything, Pierce repeated firmly for the millionth time. Just tell me how to leave, and I'll leave. My life is yours. You've won. It grated thinking that, especially since Satan showed no surprise at the revelation, as if he knew it had to come to this eventually. Just leave my mother alone. I'll give you anything.
Abruptly the violin stopped. Anything, Satan mimicked in a whiny voice. Anything. Not my mommy. Please. Pierce wanted to choke him, but of course he couldn't. Which only made him want to choke him all the more. Pfft. Wake up, Pierce. What do you have to offer me that isn't already dangling within my grasp? Your life? That's mine already. Peace of mind? That'll be coming along shortly. Your friendship? He paused long enough to snort. No offense, but I'd rather do without.
Pierce simmered in silence, trying to think of what to offer. He wasn't used to begging for things to go his way; he was used to forcing them to. Bargaining without power and leverage was something he was wholly unaccustomed to, and he wasn't getting the hang of it. He sincerely doubted he ever would.
Friendship is already out of the question, Deville grated, beginning to come to terms with the fact that there would be no deal struck. But enmity is not. Right now I'm willing to forgive all you've done, and even forfeit my body and life to you, with no hard feelings or plans of vengeance. We'll never be friends, but I'll steer wide of you. I won't do anything to hinder you in any way. You won't even know I exist. But if you kill my mother, if you do anything to her, we are enemies forever. I won't rest for even a second until you regret every evil thing you've ever done a thousand times over. I may not be able to kill you, but eternity is a long time to make you suffer. You think being cast out hurt? You think banishment to Hell is bad? You'll weep for fond memories of those happy times. God ain't got crap on me.
There was a long moment of silence, then, You're a class act, Piercey. I'm going to miss you.
Pierce didn't respond. He knew now it was beyond useless trying to strike a truce, and his time was running out very rapidly. With no hope of a treaty, Pierce had no choice: he went back to war, trying to take his body back one inch at a time, focusing all of his attention on moving just his index finger. There would be no more pleading, no more talking, just fighting. Trying to conquer himself.
He knew he had as much chance of getting the finger to wiggle as he did getting Satan to sing God's praises, but he threw himself into the effort regardless, frantically trying to devise new ways to approach it. He wished he had more time. With more time, maybe he'd be able to clear his head enough to think of something.
They were only a few houses away now, though, and Pierce felt doom closing in around him, suffocating him. Panic scattered his thoughts in all directions. He was going to kill his own mother, helpless to do anything about it. What would--
Suddenly his mind was a razor sharp line of confusion. Though his foot was heavy on the brake, Satan bypassed his mother's driveway. There was no doubt he knew what house it was -- he was staring right at it, staring at the light in the upstairs window that said she was home -- but he still drove right by, turning up into Deville's neighbor's driveway instead.
Curiosity was killing Deville, but he held to not talking to Satan, throwing himself back at the finger. Maybe he was being given the time he needed. If so, he wasn't about to waste it.
Thought we'd drop in on a few old friends, Satan told him with the hint of a cunning, devious smile in his voice. Put you in the right frame of mind for what must be done. Way more than a hint.
Deville refused the bait. From Satan's words he assumed his old neighbors were still living beside his mother, but what the Simbolico brothers had to do with anything Deville couldn't even wager a guess. Maybe Satan wanted to do a little warm-up before the feature performance with his mother. Like the haunted house wasn't enough. Maybe he thought to further Pierce's pain before they separated by torturing his childhood friends.
If that last was the case, Pierce wasn't fazed. The Simbolico brothers had moved in when Pierce was in his teens, two young men whose parents had died in a car accident, leaving them orphaned. While they and Pierce had never been at odds, they had never become friends, either. Pierce ignored them, and they ignored Pierce. If Satan wanted to spend the entire night re-painting their house in blood, Pierce couldn't care less. It would put off the real torture for a while, give Pierce time to wrestle control back.
With that in mind, he broke his vow of silence. Leave them alone, he warned Satan sternly, trying to make it sound like he cared. You're already killing my mother, must you kill my friends too?
The cutting smirk, like bones splintering, told Pierce his ruse was transparent. As did the disgusted oh shut up flowing across the barrier in their mind.
Shutting the car off, Satan got out of the car and made his way along the driveway, circling up to the front door. A layer of drying, un-raked leaves crunched beneath The Deville's leather shoes, the only sound on the street save the muted buzz of distant traffic. There was no porch or step to ascend; the path ended right at the heavy wooden door, which was chipped and peeling from neglect. The entire house was falling apart, though that didn't surprise Pierce. The brothers had never been much for fixing things, or making changes where needed. They just sort of coasted along, hoping for the best. For a moment, thinking of their immediate future, Pierce felt a stab more pity than contempt.
The Devil never rang the bell, or knocked, of course. Such things as announcing himself or asking permission to enter somewhere were beneath him. He just rattled the doorknob, tsked when he found it locked, did something Deville couldn't quite figure out, and swung the door inward. Two voices raised in argument somewhere deep within the house greeted them, along with the stagnant smell of sweat, rotten food, and long-undone laundry. Satan -- The Deville -- stepped into the doorway and closed the door silently behind him.
Inside, the house was a pig sty, easily as dilapidated as the outside and much more worse for wear. The entryway opened up into a hallway and a set of stairs leading up, the hallway eventually opening up to a kitchen and the stairway leading to the voices. All along both routes was clutter and refuse, ranging from stacks of old pizza boxes to dirty clothes to crumpled up pieces of paper marked by crayon drawings and child-like printing.
Ignoring it all, Deville followed the voices, his footfalls silent on the stained carpet. Seemingly impossibly, the stench intensified with each taken stair, until at the top his nose actually twitched, as if flinching from an assault. The entire upper floor was one gigantic room, a combination of kitchen and living room and bedroom, with couches, a television, two unmade beds, a table with two chairs, and a fridge covered with magnets scattered haphazardly throughout the mess. Compared to this room, the downstairs was sterile and immaculate.
A huge whale of a man rolled up from the patched leather couch, his bare legs, pale and distended like two inverted snowmen, making a sucking noise as he stood up for what Deville assumed was the first time in a very long while. Sporting a pair of shorts and a tank top that could have doubled as a tent, the gigantic man rumbled forward, face gesticulating angrily.
"Oi!" he shouted in a ridiculous British accent, for all the world as if it was a greeting. "Whattaya think you're doin' up here, eh?"
Deville took a step into the room, uncaring of what he crushed underfoot, and eyed the large man askance. "Sit down, fatass. I'm not here to talk to you."
He jiggled indignantly, mouth opening with some clever retort, but his brother, a thin fellow with a mushroom cut, as odd-looking as his brother was fat, rocketed up from the chair beside the couch.
"Oi!" he shouted. Someday Deville was going to find out what language that passed as a salutation in. "Nobody talks to my brother like that! You bloody well show him the respect he deserves! He's not a fatass! He's The Fatass, mate!"
The Deville expected the older brother to take offence and perhaps try to eat his sibling, but instead he gave a satisfied nod and glared haughtily at Deville, as if he'd been put in his place. "I don't care what you call him. Just tell the fatass to sit down before he gets hurt . . . or before he gets too close and pulls one of us into his orbit."
The younger brother, Dane, barked a laugh, eyes going wide with mirth. "Mate, that's bloody beautiful!" He marched across the room, deftly stepping between the debris, and thrust his hand out. Deville looked down at the hand, then arched an eyebrow at Dane, then looked back down at the hand.
"What the hell do I want with that?"
Confused, Dane followed his gaze, then laughed and slapped his head with his other hand when he saw the rubber ducky nestled in his palm. He gave the filthy thing an affectionate kiss and tucked it into his armpit, then extended his hand anew. "Sorry about that, mate. I've become so used to having him around; sometimes I forget he's there." He flashed a daft grin. "You're Pierce, right? Used to live next door, eh?"
Taking the hand and shaking it, cringing only slightly when he found it damp, The Deville nodded that it was indeed him. "It's been a long time, Dane. How've you been holding up?"
Dane gestured around himself as if at a beautiful palace. "Exceptional, mate. Bloody exceptional."
Deville nodded, resisting the most obvious joke. He settled for the next most obvious. "Glad that hasn't changed. Still riding the short bus?"
"Nah, I dropped out of school the year you l--" Actually looking at Pierce for the first time, Dane frowned. "You wouldn't be makin' fun of me now would you, mate?" It spoke volumes that his voice was suspicious, not insulted.
"Would I do that?" The Deville asked, looking and sounding the paradigm of innocence.
"I hope not, mate. I thought I was gonna have to kick your arse," Dane shrugged, looking around, "only I don't see any fire pokers nearby. Lucky for you, either way."
"I'm sure."
"How did you get in here?" The Fatass interjected, collapsing back to the couch like an avalanche. "I know I locked the door." Both brothers looked at him expectantly.
The Deville just shrugged. "When I want something," he stated plainly, "no obstacle can bar my path."
"Amen mate," Dane said approvingly, shooting a meaningful look at his brother. "I was just telling The Fatass that that's the attitude to have." Alarmingly, he pulled the duck out from under his arm and regarded it affectionately. "Wasn't I, Ducky?"
The Fatass was ignoring his brother, or trying to at least. "And what is it that you want?"
"All in good time, my dear The Fatass. All in good time." Both of them were still eyeing Pierce expectantly, so he gestured to the game of Monopoly propped atop the mess between the couch and chair. "Who's winning?"
"What?" Dane asked, stupefied, then saw what Pierce meant and laughed uneasily. "Oh, we're not actually playing, mate. That there is symbolic."
"Symbolic?" The Deville sounded as skeptical as he looked.
"Aye, symbolic."
"Symbolic of what?"
There was a long pause filled with head-scratching and pained looks. "I don't quite know yet," Dane finally answered, slowly, "but it'll come to me eventually. Everything is symbolic, mate." He nodded at Deville as if from a height of great wisdom.
"I see," Deville said, now completely at ease writing the man off as a crank. Suddenly his attention was drawn to the yellow rubber duck clutched in Dane's grubby hands, and a disturbed look crossed his face. "What about the duck?"
"Ducky," he beamed, thrusting the duck up beside his head as if in comparison, "is symbolic of me."
Deville blinked. "As in you're hollow and yellow?"
"Nah, mate," Dane grunted, looking momentarily perplexed. "As in we're both the underdog. Nobody ever gives us a chance, or sees any potential. You look at Ducky and see only a harmless plastic toy, right?"
The Deville nodded.
"See? That's your mistake." He thrust the plastic duck out threateningly and shook it at Deville. It squeaked quietly as his overzealous fingers pressed in a little too hard on the sides. "You don't expect anything out of him, so you turn your back, and then WHAM!, he's all over you, mate. You wouldn't know what hit you. He's an animal, mate."
"Of course," Deville replied dryly, eyeing the ridiculous duck o' doom with a tinge of sympathy for the company he kept. "I don't know how I missed that."
Unheeding of the sarcasm, Dane grinned happily. "Bloody glad you understand, mate."
"I'm just glad it doesn't symbolize what reason says it should."
"Which is what, mate?"
"A benign desire to be in a fetid pool of tepid water with naked children."
Dane's eyes bulged. "Haha . . . ha! Oh mate, that's, uh . . ." Blushing, looking around nervously, trying to hold the smile on his face but failing miserably, he finally stuffed the duck behind his back. "That's just, uh, ridiculous, mate. Complete hogs wallop." Scanning the room desperately for something to change the subject to, he continued chuckling half-heartedly. "Pure foolishness." His arms twitched, though; he was stroking the duck behind his back, comforted by its cold smoothness.
"OI!" he suddenly shouted, seemingly randomly, as he darted across the room. "Please tell me you brought some water with you, mate!" Before Deville could ask why, Dane grabbed a small potted plant from the table and thrust it out before him. "My poor plant is dying! It needs water!"
Deville couldn't help it; his eyes jumped immediately to the sink over beside the fridge. Flickering his gaze back to Dane, he waited for the joke, but it never came. The poor idiotic sap just continued staring at him pleadingly, sad puppy dog eyes begging him to do something. Clearing his throat, trying not to sound like an ass but unable to see a way around it, Deville pointed at the sink. "Doesn't that work?"
"Not for this plant, mate." Dane's eyes gleamed maniacally. Not the brooding, dangerous glint of someone about to do something disastrous, just a general sort of derangement.
Deville nodded sagely. "Symbolic?"
"Very."
Nodding, Deville grinned, promising he'd think of something before he left. He knew what the plant symbolized.
"Didn't you say you were here for something?" The Fatass put in again. Somehow, he had a half-eaten hot dog in either hand. Two breaths later they were gone.
"No rush," Dane answered for him, grinning deviously as he marched over to the television. His brother watched him suspiciously, almost fearfully. Bending down and rummaging around for a moment, he suddenly popped up with a videocassette clutched in his hand. "The Fatass and I were just about to watch a movie, and you're welcome to join us, mate."
"We were n--" The Fatass began to protest, but Dane interrupted him, talking to Pierce but looking at The Fatass.
"Have you ever seen . . ." He paused dramatically, then shoved the movie right under his brother's nose. "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure?!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!" Shrieking like a pierced balloon, The Fatass leapt up from his seat and bounded for the stairs with surprising quickness, running as if for his life, or for a free all-you-can-eat buffet. The entire house rumbled as he moved, but then the front door slammed, leaving Dane and The Deville in silence.
"Sorry about that, mate," Dane said, tucking the movie away. "He gets a touch annoying at times, interrupting business and such, so I have to pull out the big guns."
Deville furrowed his brow. "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure is the big guns? I know it's a horrible film and all, but come on now . . ." He gestured towards the stairway to finish his statement.
Dane chuckled, shaking his head. "Not the film itself, mate. The symbolism." He winked at Deville as if they shared some secret. "About two years ago he wanted to become a wrestler and entered himself in this bloody big tournament. He said he was gonna win, but in the quarterfinals he went up against this idiotic surfer dude who stole his persona from that movie. The Fatass lost, and he's been inconsolable ever since. Can't watch the movie or even talk about it, can't stand someone saying 'dude' or 'tubular', and mate, you should see him at the beach. Bloody hilarious."
"I can imagine," Deville chuckled, "what with all the harpoons flying at him."
Dane skewed up his face, uncomprehending. Shrugging, he let the comment pass by. "Hopefully his failure doesn't run in the family. I've recently been entered into one of those wrestling showcases myself."
"Really," Deville said, trying not to let on that he didn't care. "Me, too." He grinned impishly. "And I don’t ever lose."
"Dang, mate, that's splendid." Face slack with awe, Dane looked at the duck, plainly about to ask its agreement, then turned crimson and tucked it behind his back again. "Uh . . . Right. Any advice?"
"Yeah." Nodding, Deville couldn't help but spread his grin at the hopeful look on Dane's flushed face. "Don't lose."
It was Dane's turn to nod, humming thoughtfully as he tapped his chin with his free hand. "Y'know, that's almost crazy enough to work, mate."
Deville could only stare.
"So," Dane began off-handedly, "what is it you wanted to see me about?"
"You know."
Grinning, Dane nodded and made his way across the room, stopping in front of a rickety closet door. "Indeed I do, mate. Indeed I do."
When he flung the closet door open, he and Deville were joined by a third voice, an incoherent rambling voice whose source was obscured by a heavy cloud of smoke. Dane coughed as he waved it away, muttering something about spitting on the ashes next time. Peering over his shoulder, Deville caught sight of the man behind the voice, a small Native man sitting cross-legged in the closet, a huge pipe nestled between his legs. Apparently, they had caught him mid-sentence.
". . . and the unholy demon laughed, mocking one and all with its disturbing cacophony of bent humor, a sound to make Baby Jesus cry in his cradle, with wise men all around him scratching their heads in confusion, wondering what was going on, trying to get to the bottom of it, a bottom that had no end as surely as the sun rises in the east to greet the world, shimmering exuberantly with the innocence of . . ."
The rambling went on unhindered as Dane effortlessly pushed him out of the way and snatched something from behind him.
". . . only then will the true reality manifest itself, the real scheme in this timeless quagmire of tricks and swerves, brought on by the lord of chaos and darkness, the crimson angel, doused forever in the blood of those countless he has slain, The Deville himself, from which all . . ."
Shaking his head, Dane slammed the closet door, shutting the madness inside.
"What was that?" Deville demanded, disturbed.
"Don't worry about him, mate. He's no bother to anyone. Not anymore." Dane looked back at the closet proudly, swelling with a sense of triumph. "Just an old relic who likes to rise from the ashes every once in a while."
The Deville was as close to stunned as he'd ever been. "But how do you put up with it? It'd drive me mad inside of five minutes."
Inside the Cadillac, cruising smoothly and soundlessly through the darkness, it was already raging. Or, more accurately, inside the head of Pierce Deville. The car itself was quiet, as appeared The Deville. Outwardly serene and composed, watching the road with half-open eyes, he might have been out for a leisurely drive. Beneath the surface, though, pandemonium reigned.
Anything, Pierce pledged heatedly, desperately. Beyond desperately. I'll do anything, give you anything, just don't do this! Not to her. She doesn't deserve it. Please! He paused, panting, waiting for a response. All the stories about Satan painted him as a dedicated negotiator, someone always looking to strike a deal. But as much as Deville wanted to believe otherwise, he knew silence was not a bargaining tactic The Devil employed. I surrender! The frustrated shout echoed uselessly in the silence that followed. Whatever you want, it's yours. Just name it!
Satan heaved a long-suffering sigh, and Pierce felt a flutter of hope at the sympathetic undertone. When his response finally came, not in the form of a proposition or acceptance, not even in words, that hope was crushed. A long warbling note trembled across their shared mind, immediately followed by another, and another, and more, each one somber and tragic by itself, together they became a symphony of mock pity. An image of Satan decked out in a jester's garb, strumming sadly on a violin, formed in Deville's mind, searing his hopes to ash.
Cursing, pleading, and threatening all at once, Deville railed against the imperturbable Devil and his wretched violining. He knew it was a hopeless struggle, but he had no choice except to writhe against the inevitable disaster. He certainly couldn't give up, not with so much at stake.
This wasn't just some random neighborhood Satan had chosen to terrorize on a whim. It was on these very streets that Pierce had spent most of his formative years, where he had grown up and blossomed into a man. After his father died, his mother moved them here in a noble yet vain attempt to allow Pierce a normal life. She thought that by immersing him in a world of regular people and children, he might be able to escape the life that had stolen her husband well before his time. It might have worked, too, if not for the diligence of Salvatore.
Much to his mother's chagrin, he bought back his father's house many years later and moved himself in, making it his home until the FBI forced him to blow it up. She wasn't upset by the fact that he had repurchased the home, but by the unspoken announcement that came with it. That Pierce was in the Mob.
She had begged him to turn his back on it with tears in her eyes, hugging him tightly one moment and beating her thin arms against his chest the next. Pierce almost broke, seeing his mother sobbing, hearing her soul tearing as she re-lived the death of both her husband and father. Having grown up in the business, she knew all too well what it was about, and what it ultimately came down to. She begged Pierce not to take that dead-end road, begged him not to force her to his funeral.
But he promised her it would be different, swelled up with the ignorant pride and arrogance of a twenty-year-old millionaire who had ties to the very top of the underworld. He smiled and cupped her cheek, told her everything would be all right and not to worry, kissed her on the forehead. He even laughed when she pressed the matter, telling her he got more heat from her than he ever did on the street. That earned him a glare, of course, and a lecture about the reality of the business that he had heard plenty of times before. Eventually, though, she realized he would not be diverted, and from that moment on whenever she looked at him there was a sense of mourning in her eyes, as if she was looking at someone already dead.
"I have a plan, mom," he had declared self-importantly, tilting her head back so she had to stare into his eyes. "It's going to take me through Hell, but in the end everything will be okay. You'll see. I promise."
Five years later, at his funeral, she wept for that broken promise.
He had never gone to tell her he was alive since returning from Hell, to tell her the promise still held. Though confident his plan would work, he didn't want to risk making her experience the pain of his death again if things went awry. She thought he was dead, and had come to terms with it. Letting her discover he was alive again before he really was simply had too many risks attached, risks that would scourge her heart. So he vowed to stay away from her until it was settled.
Another promise broken. Soon enough, at least.
Satan hadn't come right out and said it, or blessed Pierce with gruesome images foretelling it, but there was little doubt that he had brought them here to kill Pierce's mother. How else did he plan to drive Pierce out of his head?
Anything, Pierce repeated firmly for the millionth time. Just tell me how to leave, and I'll leave. My life is yours. You've won. It grated thinking that, especially since Satan showed no surprise at the revelation, as if he knew it had to come to this eventually. Just leave my mother alone. I'll give you anything.
Abruptly the violin stopped. Anything, Satan mimicked in a whiny voice. Anything. Not my mommy. Please. Pierce wanted to choke him, but of course he couldn't. Which only made him want to choke him all the more. Pfft. Wake up, Pierce. What do you have to offer me that isn't already dangling within my grasp? Your life? That's mine already. Peace of mind? That'll be coming along shortly. Your friendship? He paused long enough to snort. No offense, but I'd rather do without.
Pierce simmered in silence, trying to think of what to offer. He wasn't used to begging for things to go his way; he was used to forcing them to. Bargaining without power and leverage was something he was wholly unaccustomed to, and he wasn't getting the hang of it. He sincerely doubted he ever would.
Friendship is already out of the question, Deville grated, beginning to come to terms with the fact that there would be no deal struck. But enmity is not. Right now I'm willing to forgive all you've done, and even forfeit my body and life to you, with no hard feelings or plans of vengeance. We'll never be friends, but I'll steer wide of you. I won't do anything to hinder you in any way. You won't even know I exist. But if you kill my mother, if you do anything to her, we are enemies forever. I won't rest for even a second until you regret every evil thing you've ever done a thousand times over. I may not be able to kill you, but eternity is a long time to make you suffer. You think being cast out hurt? You think banishment to Hell is bad? You'll weep for fond memories of those happy times. God ain't got crap on me.
There was a long moment of silence, then, You're a class act, Piercey. I'm going to miss you.
Pierce didn't respond. He knew now it was beyond useless trying to strike a truce, and his time was running out very rapidly. With no hope of a treaty, Pierce had no choice: he went back to war, trying to take his body back one inch at a time, focusing all of his attention on moving just his index finger. There would be no more pleading, no more talking, just fighting. Trying to conquer himself.
He knew he had as much chance of getting the finger to wiggle as he did getting Satan to sing God's praises, but he threw himself into the effort regardless, frantically trying to devise new ways to approach it. He wished he had more time. With more time, maybe he'd be able to clear his head enough to think of something.
They were only a few houses away now, though, and Pierce felt doom closing in around him, suffocating him. Panic scattered his thoughts in all directions. He was going to kill his own mother, helpless to do anything about it. What would--
Suddenly his mind was a razor sharp line of confusion. Though his foot was heavy on the brake, Satan bypassed his mother's driveway. There was no doubt he knew what house it was -- he was staring right at it, staring at the light in the upstairs window that said she was home -- but he still drove right by, turning up into Deville's neighbor's driveway instead.
Curiosity was killing Deville, but he held to not talking to Satan, throwing himself back at the finger. Maybe he was being given the time he needed. If so, he wasn't about to waste it.
Thought we'd drop in on a few old friends, Satan told him with the hint of a cunning, devious smile in his voice. Put you in the right frame of mind for what must be done. Way more than a hint.
Deville refused the bait. From Satan's words he assumed his old neighbors were still living beside his mother, but what the Simbolico brothers had to do with anything Deville couldn't even wager a guess. Maybe Satan wanted to do a little warm-up before the feature performance with his mother. Like the haunted house wasn't enough. Maybe he thought to further Pierce's pain before they separated by torturing his childhood friends.
If that last was the case, Pierce wasn't fazed. The Simbolico brothers had moved in when Pierce was in his teens, two young men whose parents had died in a car accident, leaving them orphaned. While they and Pierce had never been at odds, they had never become friends, either. Pierce ignored them, and they ignored Pierce. If Satan wanted to spend the entire night re-painting their house in blood, Pierce couldn't care less. It would put off the real torture for a while, give Pierce time to wrestle control back.
With that in mind, he broke his vow of silence. Leave them alone, he warned Satan sternly, trying to make it sound like he cared. You're already killing my mother, must you kill my friends too?
The cutting smirk, like bones splintering, told Pierce his ruse was transparent. As did the disgusted oh shut up flowing across the barrier in their mind.
Shutting the car off, Satan got out of the car and made his way along the driveway, circling up to the front door. A layer of drying, un-raked leaves crunched beneath The Deville's leather shoes, the only sound on the street save the muted buzz of distant traffic. There was no porch or step to ascend; the path ended right at the heavy wooden door, which was chipped and peeling from neglect. The entire house was falling apart, though that didn't surprise Pierce. The brothers had never been much for fixing things, or making changes where needed. They just sort of coasted along, hoping for the best. For a moment, thinking of their immediate future, Pierce felt a stab more pity than contempt.
The Devil never rang the bell, or knocked, of course. Such things as announcing himself or asking permission to enter somewhere were beneath him. He just rattled the doorknob, tsked when he found it locked, did something Deville couldn't quite figure out, and swung the door inward. Two voices raised in argument somewhere deep within the house greeted them, along with the stagnant smell of sweat, rotten food, and long-undone laundry. Satan -- The Deville -- stepped into the doorway and closed the door silently behind him.
Inside, the house was a pig sty, easily as dilapidated as the outside and much more worse for wear. The entryway opened up into a hallway and a set of stairs leading up, the hallway eventually opening up to a kitchen and the stairway leading to the voices. All along both routes was clutter and refuse, ranging from stacks of old pizza boxes to dirty clothes to crumpled up pieces of paper marked by crayon drawings and child-like printing.
Ignoring it all, Deville followed the voices, his footfalls silent on the stained carpet. Seemingly impossibly, the stench intensified with each taken stair, until at the top his nose actually twitched, as if flinching from an assault. The entire upper floor was one gigantic room, a combination of kitchen and living room and bedroom, with couches, a television, two unmade beds, a table with two chairs, and a fridge covered with magnets scattered haphazardly throughout the mess. Compared to this room, the downstairs was sterile and immaculate.
A huge whale of a man rolled up from the patched leather couch, his bare legs, pale and distended like two inverted snowmen, making a sucking noise as he stood up for what Deville assumed was the first time in a very long while. Sporting a pair of shorts and a tank top that could have doubled as a tent, the gigantic man rumbled forward, face gesticulating angrily.
"Oi!" he shouted in a ridiculous British accent, for all the world as if it was a greeting. "Whattaya think you're doin' up here, eh?"
Deville took a step into the room, uncaring of what he crushed underfoot, and eyed the large man askance. "Sit down, fatass. I'm not here to talk to you."
He jiggled indignantly, mouth opening with some clever retort, but his brother, a thin fellow with a mushroom cut, as odd-looking as his brother was fat, rocketed up from the chair beside the couch.
"Oi!" he shouted. Someday Deville was going to find out what language that passed as a salutation in. "Nobody talks to my brother like that! You bloody well show him the respect he deserves! He's not a fatass! He's The Fatass, mate!"
The Deville expected the older brother to take offence and perhaps try to eat his sibling, but instead he gave a satisfied nod and glared haughtily at Deville, as if he'd been put in his place. "I don't care what you call him. Just tell the fatass to sit down before he gets hurt . . . or before he gets too close and pulls one of us into his orbit."
The younger brother, Dane, barked a laugh, eyes going wide with mirth. "Mate, that's bloody beautiful!" He marched across the room, deftly stepping between the debris, and thrust his hand out. Deville looked down at the hand, then arched an eyebrow at Dane, then looked back down at the hand.
"What the hell do I want with that?"
Confused, Dane followed his gaze, then laughed and slapped his head with his other hand when he saw the rubber ducky nestled in his palm. He gave the filthy thing an affectionate kiss and tucked it into his armpit, then extended his hand anew. "Sorry about that, mate. I've become so used to having him around; sometimes I forget he's there." He flashed a daft grin. "You're Pierce, right? Used to live next door, eh?"
Taking the hand and shaking it, cringing only slightly when he found it damp, The Deville nodded that it was indeed him. "It's been a long time, Dane. How've you been holding up?"
Dane gestured around himself as if at a beautiful palace. "Exceptional, mate. Bloody exceptional."
Deville nodded, resisting the most obvious joke. He settled for the next most obvious. "Glad that hasn't changed. Still riding the short bus?"
"Nah, I dropped out of school the year you l--" Actually looking at Pierce for the first time, Dane frowned. "You wouldn't be makin' fun of me now would you, mate?" It spoke volumes that his voice was suspicious, not insulted.
"Would I do that?" The Deville asked, looking and sounding the paradigm of innocence.
"I hope not, mate. I thought I was gonna have to kick your arse," Dane shrugged, looking around, "only I don't see any fire pokers nearby. Lucky for you, either way."
"I'm sure."
"How did you get in here?" The Fatass interjected, collapsing back to the couch like an avalanche. "I know I locked the door." Both brothers looked at him expectantly.
The Deville just shrugged. "When I want something," he stated plainly, "no obstacle can bar my path."
"Amen mate," Dane said approvingly, shooting a meaningful look at his brother. "I was just telling The Fatass that that's the attitude to have." Alarmingly, he pulled the duck out from under his arm and regarded it affectionately. "Wasn't I, Ducky?"
The Fatass was ignoring his brother, or trying to at least. "And what is it that you want?"
"All in good time, my dear The Fatass. All in good time." Both of them were still eyeing Pierce expectantly, so he gestured to the game of Monopoly propped atop the mess between the couch and chair. "Who's winning?"
"What?" Dane asked, stupefied, then saw what Pierce meant and laughed uneasily. "Oh, we're not actually playing, mate. That there is symbolic."
"Symbolic?" The Deville sounded as skeptical as he looked.
"Aye, symbolic."
"Symbolic of what?"
There was a long pause filled with head-scratching and pained looks. "I don't quite know yet," Dane finally answered, slowly, "but it'll come to me eventually. Everything is symbolic, mate." He nodded at Deville as if from a height of great wisdom.
"I see," Deville said, now completely at ease writing the man off as a crank. Suddenly his attention was drawn to the yellow rubber duck clutched in Dane's grubby hands, and a disturbed look crossed his face. "What about the duck?"
"Ducky," he beamed, thrusting the duck up beside his head as if in comparison, "is symbolic of me."
Deville blinked. "As in you're hollow and yellow?"
"Nah, mate," Dane grunted, looking momentarily perplexed. "As in we're both the underdog. Nobody ever gives us a chance, or sees any potential. You look at Ducky and see only a harmless plastic toy, right?"
The Deville nodded.
"See? That's your mistake." He thrust the plastic duck out threateningly and shook it at Deville. It squeaked quietly as his overzealous fingers pressed in a little too hard on the sides. "You don't expect anything out of him, so you turn your back, and then WHAM!, he's all over you, mate. You wouldn't know what hit you. He's an animal, mate."
"Of course," Deville replied dryly, eyeing the ridiculous duck o' doom with a tinge of sympathy for the company he kept. "I don't know how I missed that."
Unheeding of the sarcasm, Dane grinned happily. "Bloody glad you understand, mate."
"I'm just glad it doesn't symbolize what reason says it should."
"Which is what, mate?"
"A benign desire to be in a fetid pool of tepid water with naked children."
Dane's eyes bulged. "Haha . . . ha! Oh mate, that's, uh . . ." Blushing, looking around nervously, trying to hold the smile on his face but failing miserably, he finally stuffed the duck behind his back. "That's just, uh, ridiculous, mate. Complete hogs wallop." Scanning the room desperately for something to change the subject to, he continued chuckling half-heartedly. "Pure foolishness." His arms twitched, though; he was stroking the duck behind his back, comforted by its cold smoothness.
"OI!" he suddenly shouted, seemingly randomly, as he darted across the room. "Please tell me you brought some water with you, mate!" Before Deville could ask why, Dane grabbed a small potted plant from the table and thrust it out before him. "My poor plant is dying! It needs water!"
Deville couldn't help it; his eyes jumped immediately to the sink over beside the fridge. Flickering his gaze back to Dane, he waited for the joke, but it never came. The poor idiotic sap just continued staring at him pleadingly, sad puppy dog eyes begging him to do something. Clearing his throat, trying not to sound like an ass but unable to see a way around it, Deville pointed at the sink. "Doesn't that work?"
"Not for this plant, mate." Dane's eyes gleamed maniacally. Not the brooding, dangerous glint of someone about to do something disastrous, just a general sort of derangement.
Deville nodded sagely. "Symbolic?"
"Very."
Nodding, Deville grinned, promising he'd think of something before he left. He knew what the plant symbolized.
"Didn't you say you were here for something?" The Fatass put in again. Somehow, he had a half-eaten hot dog in either hand. Two breaths later they were gone.
"No rush," Dane answered for him, grinning deviously as he marched over to the television. His brother watched him suspiciously, almost fearfully. Bending down and rummaging around for a moment, he suddenly popped up with a videocassette clutched in his hand. "The Fatass and I were just about to watch a movie, and you're welcome to join us, mate."
"We were n--" The Fatass began to protest, but Dane interrupted him, talking to Pierce but looking at The Fatass.
"Have you ever seen . . ." He paused dramatically, then shoved the movie right under his brother's nose. "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure?!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!" Shrieking like a pierced balloon, The Fatass leapt up from his seat and bounded for the stairs with surprising quickness, running as if for his life, or for a free all-you-can-eat buffet. The entire house rumbled as he moved, but then the front door slammed, leaving Dane and The Deville in silence.
"Sorry about that, mate," Dane said, tucking the movie away. "He gets a touch annoying at times, interrupting business and such, so I have to pull out the big guns."
Deville furrowed his brow. "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure is the big guns? I know it's a horrible film and all, but come on now . . ." He gestured towards the stairway to finish his statement.
Dane chuckled, shaking his head. "Not the film itself, mate. The symbolism." He winked at Deville as if they shared some secret. "About two years ago he wanted to become a wrestler and entered himself in this bloody big tournament. He said he was gonna win, but in the quarterfinals he went up against this idiotic surfer dude who stole his persona from that movie. The Fatass lost, and he's been inconsolable ever since. Can't watch the movie or even talk about it, can't stand someone saying 'dude' or 'tubular', and mate, you should see him at the beach. Bloody hilarious."
"I can imagine," Deville chuckled, "what with all the harpoons flying at him."
Dane skewed up his face, uncomprehending. Shrugging, he let the comment pass by. "Hopefully his failure doesn't run in the family. I've recently been entered into one of those wrestling showcases myself."
"Really," Deville said, trying not to let on that he didn't care. "Me, too." He grinned impishly. "And I don’t ever lose."
"Dang, mate, that's splendid." Face slack with awe, Dane looked at the duck, plainly about to ask its agreement, then turned crimson and tucked it behind his back again. "Uh . . . Right. Any advice?"
"Yeah." Nodding, Deville couldn't help but spread his grin at the hopeful look on Dane's flushed face. "Don't lose."
It was Dane's turn to nod, humming thoughtfully as he tapped his chin with his free hand. "Y'know, that's almost crazy enough to work, mate."
Deville could only stare.
"So," Dane began off-handedly, "what is it you wanted to see me about?"
"You know."
Grinning, Dane nodded and made his way across the room, stopping in front of a rickety closet door. "Indeed I do, mate. Indeed I do."
When he flung the closet door open, he and Deville were joined by a third voice, an incoherent rambling voice whose source was obscured by a heavy cloud of smoke. Dane coughed as he waved it away, muttering something about spitting on the ashes next time. Peering over his shoulder, Deville caught sight of the man behind the voice, a small Native man sitting cross-legged in the closet, a huge pipe nestled between his legs. Apparently, they had caught him mid-sentence.
". . . and the unholy demon laughed, mocking one and all with its disturbing cacophony of bent humor, a sound to make Baby Jesus cry in his cradle, with wise men all around him scratching their heads in confusion, wondering what was going on, trying to get to the bottom of it, a bottom that had no end as surely as the sun rises in the east to greet the world, shimmering exuberantly with the innocence of . . ."
The rambling went on unhindered as Dane effortlessly pushed him out of the way and snatched something from behind him.
". . . only then will the true reality manifest itself, the real scheme in this timeless quagmire of tricks and swerves, brought on by the lord of chaos and darkness, the crimson angel, doused forever in the blood of those countless he has slain, The Deville himself, from which all . . ."
Shaking his head, Dane slammed the closet door, shutting the madness inside.
"What was that?" Deville demanded, disturbed.
"Don't worry about him, mate. He's no bother to anyone. Not anymore." Dane looked back at the closet proudly, swelling with a sense of triumph. "Just an old relic who likes to rise from the ashes every once in a while."
The Deville was as close to stunned as he'd ever been. "But how do you put up with it? It'd drive me mad inside of five minutes."
ing name of 
), but Rev pretty much laid everything on the table, and better than how I'd put it. I'd just come off as an e-stalker if I said it. *shrugs*
