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<blockquote data-quote="Rodrigo Istalindir" data-source="post: 4255089" data-attributes="member: 2810"><p><strong>Match 12 -- Rodrigo vs Mythago in Ceramic DM A Go Go</strong></p><p></p><p>All in a Day’s Work</p><p></p><p> I crawled out of bed and yelped when my feet hit the floor. </p><p></p><p> “Damn, it’s cold in here.”</p><p></p><p> The words barely had time to condense in the air before I vaulted to the window and threw back the curtain. I beheld a veritable winter tableaux Thomas Kinkade would have been proud to call his own.</p><p></p><p> “Oh, damn it to *hell*,” I groused.</p><p></p><p> I hated snow days. Hated them with a divine passion. Hated them more than Cain hated Abel, more than Punch hated Judy, more than any ex-wife hated her ex-husband. I really didn’t care for them at all. Not one little bit.</p><p></p><p> Grumbling to myself, I dragged a dusty chest from under the bed and popped the cover. We hadn’t had a snow day since God knows when. I hoped the dusty and wrinkled winter clothes contained therein still fit. I’d been eating a lot of pizza lately, and you know what they say – “A minute on the lips, an eternity on the hips.”</p><p></p><p> I pulled the flannel-lined jeans up, grunting a little as they caught on my hips. I had to suck in a bit to get them to button, but when I exhaled, they held together. So long as I didn’t have to bend over, I’d be fine – it would really suck to split my pants in front of a client. Some things can be hard to explain.</p><p></p><p>The shirt fared better, and I completed the ensemble with a leather jacket and pair of Timberland boots. Of my cashmere gloves, only one remained. I suspected its mate was in the same place dryer-eaten socks go, but I didn’t have time to go look for it.</p><p></p><p> Reluctantly, I grabbed my Blackberry. I despised the damned thing, but we’d helped design them, so we got a great discount and management handed them out like candy. Evil, poisonous, spirit-sucking candy. I snagged my keys and some change for the ferry out of the urn I kept by the door as I headed out into the frigid air. </p><p></p><p>I hadn’t made it ten feet when my electronic ball-and-chain started chirping at me. I considered answering it, but my hands were nice and toasty inside the jacket pockets.</p><p></p><p> Screw it, I thought. I’ll check it when I’m on the boat.</p><p></p><p> Despite the exertion of the hike to the docks, I was shivering when I got there. The sight that greeted me did little to warm my bones. Every single one of the boats was encased in ice and rimed with hoarfrost, immobilized like flies caught in amber. (Picture 3)</p><p></p><p> I saw the ferryman standing on alone on the pier and went to give him what-for. One look from the cadaverous old coot stopped me dead in my tracks. He just frowned and pointed at a dilapidated bus idling nearby.</p><p></p><p> Great. The bus. Could this day get any worse?</p><p></p><p> I joined the queue shuffling aboard the coach. It was going to be crowded, so I threw a couple well-timed elbows, knocked some sucker’s briefcase out of his hand, and pushed my way to the head of the line. Damned if I was going to stand all the way to the city.</p><p></p><p>*</p><p></p><p>Why do I hate snow days so much, you ask?</p><p></p><p>Lots of reasons. The commute sucks. Things are twice as busy as on a normal day, and on top of the usual contract-signings and collections work, we have all the special cases that have lain dormant since the last snow day to deal with. And does the boss hire temps to help out, or outsource some of the mundane stuff to some hell-hole in India? Of course not. We don’t even get overtime.</p><p></p><p>*</p><p></p><p> The bus dropped me off near my first appointment. I was running a little late, but there was no way I was starting the day off without my coffee. I darted into the Starbucks across from the building where my client waited obliviously, and stood in line for ten minutes for an overpriced cup of joe. The monkey working the machine forgot the whipped cream on my venti mocha and I considered cursing him, but figured his life sucked enough as it was.</p><p></p><p> I hurried back across the boulevard, brakes squealing and horns honking. I flipped off the irate drivers, and strode through the rotating doors of the Criterion building. I double-checked my Blackberry, but as usual Dispatch had sent me out without anything but the bare minimum of information. I stopped at the front desk.</p><p></p><p> “Excuse me, miss. I’m here to meet with Sandra Dupree, but my employer didn’t give me a suite number, just the name. Can you help me?”</p><p></p><p> I waited. Finally the overfed, underexercised security guard put down the copy of Cosmo she was reading (“Seven Ways to Satisfy Your Man” – try not eating him out of house and home) and looked at me. </p><p></p><p> “What was the name?”</p><p></p><p> I told her.</p><p></p><p> She turned to the antiquated computer terminal that occupied half of her desk. She hit the keys a number of times (mostly <Backspace>) and grunted.</p><p></p><p> “Suite 1424,” she said.</p><p></p><p> As I turned towards the elevators, she called out.</p><p></p><p> “Hey, you need to sign in before you…”</p><p></p><p> I gave her the look over my shoulder and she shut her trap.</p><p></p><p> The elevator was one of those New York deathtraps that should have been retired fifty years ago. After much mashing of buttons, it finally arrived. As I stepped through the doors, I could hear the cables groan as they stretched. I wasn’t worried about them breaking, but getting stuck in an elevator would really screw up my schedule. </p><p></p><p> Fate was on my side, however, and it finally struggled to the 14th floor. I stepped off and did a quick twirl as I read the little signs on the wall indicating which direction the different offices were in. Spotting one that read ‘1400-1426 ->’ I spun left and strode down the lovely brown-and-orange carpeted hallway. Behind double-glass doors, I saw an attractive young thing sitting behind a desk.</p><p></p><p> “Excuse me, Miss,” I said for the second time in 5 minutes. Politeness is big with the boss. Says you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. He should know, I guess.</p><p></p><p> She looked up at me and smiled. </p><p></p><p> “Can I help you?”</p><p></p><p> “Please. I’m here to see Sandra Dupree. No, I don’t have an appointment. No, she isn’t expecting me. Yes, I can go right in,” I replied. Politeness is all well and good, but I was on a tight schedule.</p><p></p><p> Her pretty smile faded, and she started to say something, but I gave her the look and she just turned and pointed down the hallway.</p><p></p><p> “Down there all the way to the window, it’s the third cubicle on the left.”</p><p></p><p> “Thanks, beautiful. You have a great day, okay?” I poured on the charm. I can do that when I need to, and I was inordinately pleased to see the smile return.</p><p></p><p> I strode down through the planted rows of the cubicle farm, soaking in the waves of quiet desperation. Some days I think I have it too easy. Then I remembered it was a snow day and recanted.</p><p></p><p> Sandra was sitting in her slave pen, back to me, when I approached. She was typing an email -- a quick glance told me it was *the* email – so I waited quietly until she clicked ‘Send’.</p><p></p><p> “Huh-hmmm,” I coughed.</p><p></p><p> She jumped about five feet in the air.</p><p></p><p> “How long have you been standing there?” she gasped.</p><p></p><p> “Long enough. So, I’ve been sent here to inform you that according to Section 3, Paragraphs 7 through 12 of the Concord Eternum, the email you just sent is considered a binding contract which must be fulfilled no later than 24 hours from this point.”</p><p></p><p> She gave me a blank look.</p><p></p><p> “The email. The one you just sent to your boss? The one where you said, and I quote, ‘Howard, you are a disgusting, vile man, and I don’t care if you can fire me, but I’ll sleep with you when Hell freezes over.’”</p><p></p><p> Still the blank look. What is it with these people?</p><p></p><p> I sighed, muttered a phrase or two in my native tongue, and let the disguise drop.</p><p></p><p> She turned pale as a ghost (which, if you’ve ever seen one, is pretty damned pale) and started to scream. I gave her the look, too, and her mouth snapped close with an audible click. (Picture 2)</p><p></p><p> She looked at me, looked at the computer, looked at me again, and then dived under the desk and began yanking cables out of the wall as fast as she could. (Picture 1)</p><p></p><p> I rolled my eyes.</p><p></p><p> “That won’t help. You already sent it. No take-backs, that’s one of the rules.”</p><p></p><p> With a sob, she crawled out of the plastic cave and into the artificial sunlight. The fluorescents made her look a little green. I hoped it was just the fluorescents; I hated it when they puked.</p><p></p><p> She started to speak, stopped, started again and finally managed to squeak out a single word.</p><p></p><p> “Why?”</p><p></p><p> “Beats me, sweet-cheeks. I’m just a corporate drone like you. ‘Why’ is way above my pay-grade. All I know is there was frost on the windows when I got up this morning, and snow on the ground, and a message on my phone telling me you were going to make a promise today.”</p><p></p><p> “So I have to sleep with Howard? But he’s repulsive. “</p><p></p><p> “Sleep with him, don’t sleep with him, all the same to me. I’m just required to inform you of the nature of the contract you’ve entered into, make sure you understand the penalties,” I said, “and get your signature on the line which is dotted.” I love that movie; half my best lines came from that movie.</p><p></p><p> “So, Option A, you sleep with him, a little of you dies inside, and the world is a slightly grayer place. Option B, you don’t sleep with him, we get your immortal soul, and the world goes on exactly like it always does.”</p><p></p><p> “Sign here,” I held out a clipboard, “and put your initials next to each paragraph indicating you’ve read and understood.”</p><p></p><p> “Are you crazy? I’m not signing anything. Do I look stupid enough to sign a contract with the Devil?”</p><p></p><p> “First of all,” I replied, “I’m not the Devil, merely one of his minio…assistants. And second, if you don’t sign, you’re assumed to have defaulted on the deal, we get your soul whether you sleep with him or not. And don’t get me started on the penalty clauses…”</p><p></p><p> She reached out nervously, took the clipboard, and grabbed a pen with the company logo from a coffee-cup holder on her desk. I could see her lips move as she read the contract to herself. She reached the end, sighed, and started scribbling.</p><p></p><p> When she was done, I took the clipboard out of her shaking hands, and tore off her copy.</p><p></p><p> “Thank you, and have a nice day,” I said, handing her the sheet of paper. I stepped away from her desk to file the paperwork in my messenger bag, and as I left I heard her calling her husband to tell him she had to work late. I kind of felt bad for her; most mortals don’t think twice about such verbal clichés, but what can you do? I didn’t make the rules.</p><p></p><p> I strolled out of the office, patted the cute secretary on the ass as she walked past me down the hall, and waited for the elevator.</p><p></p><p>*</p><p></p><p> The rest of the day didn’t get any easier. After Mrs. Dupree, there was the old Jewish guy who was going to have to sign over half his business to his wastrel son-in-law because he got angry and told him it “would be a cold day in Hell” before he let him ruin the company.</p><p>I grabbed another cup of coffee on my way to a meeting with a weepy co-ed who’d chosen a bad day to tell her true love exactly how long she’d stay with him. That one was rough. I didn’t lose much sleep over the connivers and cheaters and such, but screwing over decent people on a technicality never got easy. </p><p></p><p>The worst part was that they’d blame us for their fate, when it was the Big Guy Upstairs himself who let that clause slip by during the negotiations. If he’d been more on top of things and less focused on winning the ‘bells ring/angels wings’ crap, the mortals would have been a whole lot better off. You’d have thought that Captain Universe would have known better than to get into a legal tussle with the Prince of Lies.</p><p></p><p> Right before lunch I almost got screwed by dispatch. I got to the client’s home right before the critical moment, and just as I was about to reveal myself, she switched from ‘Hell’ to ‘Heck’ at the last second. We would have gotten sued for sure. </p><p></p><p> The afternoon was jam-packed with a dozen more sob stories. Nothing interesting, just your run of the mill ‘words spoken in anger’ stuff. And that was why I hated these days so much. Normally, we’d do a little research, get to know a prospective client, figure out what it would take to seal the deal, and before you knew it we had another soul for the team from Down Under. It took finesse; maybe not as much as in the old days when people really believed, but there was some skill involved, and you’d get to work with the poor guy for the rest of his life.</p><p></p><p> These snow-day specials, though, had no art. It was wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, no subtlety, no thrill of almost landing a big fish only to have him wriggle off the hook at the last second. And there were so damn many of them.</p><p></p><p>*</p><p> I was standing in the hallway of posh, art deco office building, waiting for the elevator. The bell chimed as it arrived, and as I stepped on I collided with another man who was trying to exit. </p><p></p><p> “Damn it, wrong floor,” he grumbled, and irritably gave me a look. Actually, he gave me *the* look.</p><p></p><p> “Ralph?” I asked. “Ralph Anslem?”</p><p></p><p> He paused and peered at me curiously.</p><p></p><p> “Oh, hi Steve.”</p><p></p><p> “Sam,” I corrected. “What brings you here?”</p><p></p><p> Ralph was a lucky bastard. He was assigned to Legal. Not the Legal Department – you needed to be a full-fledged Prince of Darkness to run with the big boys -- but the division of Contracts and Collections responsible for the souls of lawyers. They did almost as much business as the rest of us combined, but they got to work regular hours, stayed with the same firm for decades, and basically never had to lift a finger.</p><p></p><p> “I’m with Kellerman, King, and Dobrinsky. They have the top three floors in this building.”</p><p></p><p> “Nice. Bet it has a health club, too,” I muttered enviously.</p><p></p><p> “Oh, yeah,” he enthused. “Swedish massage, too. They really look after their people here.”</p><p></p><p> I started to make some snotty remark when my Blackberry went off. A moment later, so did Ralph’s.</p><p></p><p> We looked at each other, chuckled nervously, and let our hands fall to our holsters like gunslingers. I snuck a quick peek at the display and felt my blood turn to ice water. The subject line was short – just three numbers – but that was enough. </p><p></p><p> I glanced up at Ralph, and couldn’t help laughing. He’d gotten so rattled by the text message that he’d let his disguise drop. Too bad his supervisor wasn’t around to see it.</p><p></p><p>I pulled up the email, saw the address, and was chomping at the bit waiting for the elevator to reach the lobby. As soon as the doors parted, I pushed past Ralph and sprinted for the exit. I grabbed the only cab within sight, and slammed the door in my co-workers face.</p><p>I looked at the email as the taxi sped away, one pissed-off devil in its wake. </p><p></p><p>“Where to, Mac?” the driver asked.</p><p></p><p>“St. Patrick’s Cathedral,” I replied, thinking this could be the chance of a lifetime.</p><p></p><p>*</p><p></p><p> When I got there, I saw a bunch of priests and nuns milling about outside. I was curious. It was written into the Concord that neither side could divulge to mortals the nature of the deal, but the Church has been around a long time, and I’d always assumed that if they didn’t know for sure, they suspected some of the details. Anyway, I’d never gotten to bag a priest on a snow-day special, and didn’t know of anyone else doing it, either.</p><p></p><p> I sidled up to the nearest, hoping to get close enough to overhear any damning utterances without him realizing he was in my presence. Can’t be too careful. Holy water leaves a mark, you know.</p><p></p><p> He was mumbling something in Latin, and I wished I’d paid more attention in class. Hardly any use for it anymore. But I knew enough of the ecclesiastical jargon to catch the gist of it. Standard ‘Oh heavenly Father’ stuff for the most part.</p><p></p><p> I wandered through the crowd unnoticed until I ended up too close to an overly enthusiastic nun and caught a rosary bead in the eye. Close call – getting nailed by the crucifix would have hurt something fierce. She started to apologize, then pointed and gave me that ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’ look when she realized what I was.</p><p></p><p> Oh crap, I thought. Now I’ve done it. If I’d screwed up and let one of the holy rollers get away, I’d be in big trouble. Even if they didn’t can me, I’d probably get transferred to Detroit or someplace worse. Assuming there was someplace worse.</p><p></p><p> I backed away slowly, but it was too late. The rest of the congregation had heeded the nun’s warning, and they’d started blindfolding themselves and sticking their fingers in their ears. See no evil, hear no evil, I guess. And the chanting continued unabated, so that took care of ‘Speak no evil’ too.</p><p></p><p> I was slinking away with my tail between my legs and hoping maybe they weren’t clued in to the whole snow-day thing when another taxi came screeching to a halt. Out popped Ralph, and I could tell he wasn’t happy as he came storming towards me.</p><p></p><p> “Cute, Sam, but I’m the senior representative on the scene. This one’s mine – check your email if you don’t believe me.”</p><p></p><p> Sure enough, I’d gotten another message, this one telling me that Ralph was in charge and I was to follow his lead. I shrugged and gestured to the crowd.</p><p></p><p> “Knock yourself out, Ralph,” I said and leaned against the wall to watch.</p><p></p><p> Ralph strode towards the people, pulling a ream of paperwork from his fancy Italian leather briefcase. He didn’t even look at it, just thrust it in front of them and told them to sign. Weird. Even stranger, they did. They didn’t even take off their blindfolds, just scrawled something on the sheet. It took Ralph almost a half-hour to get them all done.</p><p></p><p> He came walking back to me with a <img src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" class="smilie smilie--sprite smilie--sprite1" alt=":)" title="Smile :)" loading="lazy" data-shortname=":)" /><img src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" class="smilie smilie--sprite smilie--sprite1" alt=":)" title="Smile :)" loading="lazy" data-shortname=":)" /><img src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" class="smilie smilie--sprite smilie--sprite1" alt=":)" title="Smile :)" loading="lazy" data-shortname=":)" /><img src="data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///yH5BAEAAAAALAAAAAABAAEAAAIBRAA7" class="smilie smilie--sprite smilie--sprite1" alt=":)" title="Smile :)" loading="lazy" data-shortname=":)" />-eating grin on his face.</p><p></p><p> “That’s why you’re stuck where you are, Sam. When this gets processed, I’ll get promoted to the Legal Department for sure. No more Earth duty for me!”</p><p></p><p> As he was gloating, the chanting had increased in volume. I caught the tail end – something like ‘hades eluvium congelo’ and suddenly the entire herd was going airborne, flying skyward towards a suddenly bright sun. (Picture 4) A spectral hand reached out in welcome, and within moments, they’d disappeared from view.</p><p></p><p> Ralph stood in the now-deserted square, a look of total bewilderment on his face. </p><p></p><p> “Ralph, what did you do.”</p><p></p><p> He looked at me, too stunned to speak.</p><p></p><p> “Ralph, why did the Hand of God scoop up my, I mean, your clients?”</p><p></p><p> He was useless. I grabbed his briefcase and snagged one of the contracts. As I read it, I began to laugh.</p><p></p><p> “Oh, Ralph, man, you are *so* screwed. Did you even look at this before they signed it?”</p><p></p><p> Used to be these things were written in blood, and for the big, long-term Faustian style bargains they still were. But for one-offs like on snow-days, they used the magic blank paper that just automatically filled in with whatever the client was going to utter, and if they changed their mind at the last second (damned free will and all), it updated instantly. Saved a ton on typing, that’s for sure. You just had to be careful to make sure they signed *after* they spoke.</p><p></p><p> Paragraph Two was the part where the activating clause was detailed. On Ralph’s form, it was filled in with “The devil will be banished from our city and God will call me home *when hell freezes over*.” Signed, Father Murphy and Ralph Ael, duly authorized agent of the Dark Prince Lucifer.</p><p></p><p> There was a bright flash of light accompanied by a loud pop and the stink of brimstone.</p><p></p><p> Uh oh.</p><p></p><p> “Which one of you is responsible for this?” a voice boomed. A taloned hand held out a copy of the errant contract.</p><p></p><p> Without a word, I pointed at Ralph. The Elder Devil from Infernal Affairs grabbed him by the throat, uttered a blasphemous curse, and dragged him into the fiery pit from whence it had just arrived.</p><p></p><p>*</p><p></p><p> So, that’s how I ended up working at Kellerman, King and Dobrinsky, and Ralph ended up in Murmansk. Turns out there are places worse than Detroit, if you can’t stand the cold. Bet they get a ton of snow-days up there.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Rodrigo Istalindir, post: 4255089, member: 2810"] [b]Match 12 -- Rodrigo vs Mythago in Ceramic DM A Go Go[/b] All in a Day’s Work I crawled out of bed and yelped when my feet hit the floor. “Damn, it’s cold in here.” The words barely had time to condense in the air before I vaulted to the window and threw back the curtain. I beheld a veritable winter tableaux Thomas Kinkade would have been proud to call his own. “Oh, damn it to *hell*,” I groused. I hated snow days. Hated them with a divine passion. Hated them more than Cain hated Abel, more than Punch hated Judy, more than any ex-wife hated her ex-husband. I really didn’t care for them at all. Not one little bit. Grumbling to myself, I dragged a dusty chest from under the bed and popped the cover. We hadn’t had a snow day since God knows when. I hoped the dusty and wrinkled winter clothes contained therein still fit. I’d been eating a lot of pizza lately, and you know what they say – “A minute on the lips, an eternity on the hips.” I pulled the flannel-lined jeans up, grunting a little as they caught on my hips. I had to suck in a bit to get them to button, but when I exhaled, they held together. So long as I didn’t have to bend over, I’d be fine – it would really suck to split my pants in front of a client. Some things can be hard to explain. The shirt fared better, and I completed the ensemble with a leather jacket and pair of Timberland boots. Of my cashmere gloves, only one remained. I suspected its mate was in the same place dryer-eaten socks go, but I didn’t have time to go look for it. Reluctantly, I grabbed my Blackberry. I despised the damned thing, but we’d helped design them, so we got a great discount and management handed them out like candy. Evil, poisonous, spirit-sucking candy. I snagged my keys and some change for the ferry out of the urn I kept by the door as I headed out into the frigid air. I hadn’t made it ten feet when my electronic ball-and-chain started chirping at me. I considered answering it, but my hands were nice and toasty inside the jacket pockets. Screw it, I thought. I’ll check it when I’m on the boat. Despite the exertion of the hike to the docks, I was shivering when I got there. The sight that greeted me did little to warm my bones. Every single one of the boats was encased in ice and rimed with hoarfrost, immobilized like flies caught in amber. (Picture 3) I saw the ferryman standing on alone on the pier and went to give him what-for. One look from the cadaverous old coot stopped me dead in my tracks. He just frowned and pointed at a dilapidated bus idling nearby. Great. The bus. Could this day get any worse? I joined the queue shuffling aboard the coach. It was going to be crowded, so I threw a couple well-timed elbows, knocked some sucker’s briefcase out of his hand, and pushed my way to the head of the line. Damned if I was going to stand all the way to the city. * Why do I hate snow days so much, you ask? Lots of reasons. The commute sucks. Things are twice as busy as on a normal day, and on top of the usual contract-signings and collections work, we have all the special cases that have lain dormant since the last snow day to deal with. And does the boss hire temps to help out, or outsource some of the mundane stuff to some hell-hole in India? Of course not. We don’t even get overtime. * The bus dropped me off near my first appointment. I was running a little late, but there was no way I was starting the day off without my coffee. I darted into the Starbucks across from the building where my client waited obliviously, and stood in line for ten minutes for an overpriced cup of joe. The monkey working the machine forgot the whipped cream on my venti mocha and I considered cursing him, but figured his life sucked enough as it was. I hurried back across the boulevard, brakes squealing and horns honking. I flipped off the irate drivers, and strode through the rotating doors of the Criterion building. I double-checked my Blackberry, but as usual Dispatch had sent me out without anything but the bare minimum of information. I stopped at the front desk. “Excuse me, miss. I’m here to meet with Sandra Dupree, but my employer didn’t give me a suite number, just the name. Can you help me?” I waited. Finally the overfed, underexercised security guard put down the copy of Cosmo she was reading (“Seven Ways to Satisfy Your Man” – try not eating him out of house and home) and looked at me. “What was the name?” I told her. She turned to the antiquated computer terminal that occupied half of her desk. She hit the keys a number of times (mostly <Backspace>) and grunted. “Suite 1424,” she said. As I turned towards the elevators, she called out. “Hey, you need to sign in before you…” I gave her the look over my shoulder and she shut her trap. The elevator was one of those New York deathtraps that should have been retired fifty years ago. After much mashing of buttons, it finally arrived. As I stepped through the doors, I could hear the cables groan as they stretched. I wasn’t worried about them breaking, but getting stuck in an elevator would really screw up my schedule. Fate was on my side, however, and it finally struggled to the 14th floor. I stepped off and did a quick twirl as I read the little signs on the wall indicating which direction the different offices were in. Spotting one that read ‘1400-1426 ->’ I spun left and strode down the lovely brown-and-orange carpeted hallway. Behind double-glass doors, I saw an attractive young thing sitting behind a desk. “Excuse me, Miss,” I said for the second time in 5 minutes. Politeness is big with the boss. Says you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. He should know, I guess. She looked up at me and smiled. “Can I help you?” “Please. I’m here to see Sandra Dupree. No, I don’t have an appointment. No, she isn’t expecting me. Yes, I can go right in,” I replied. Politeness is all well and good, but I was on a tight schedule. Her pretty smile faded, and she started to say something, but I gave her the look and she just turned and pointed down the hallway. “Down there all the way to the window, it’s the third cubicle on the left.” “Thanks, beautiful. You have a great day, okay?” I poured on the charm. I can do that when I need to, and I was inordinately pleased to see the smile return. I strode down through the planted rows of the cubicle farm, soaking in the waves of quiet desperation. Some days I think I have it too easy. Then I remembered it was a snow day and recanted. Sandra was sitting in her slave pen, back to me, when I approached. She was typing an email -- a quick glance told me it was *the* email – so I waited quietly until she clicked ‘Send’. “Huh-hmmm,” I coughed. She jumped about five feet in the air. “How long have you been standing there?” she gasped. “Long enough. So, I’ve been sent here to inform you that according to Section 3, Paragraphs 7 through 12 of the Concord Eternum, the email you just sent is considered a binding contract which must be fulfilled no later than 24 hours from this point.” She gave me a blank look. “The email. The one you just sent to your boss? The one where you said, and I quote, ‘Howard, you are a disgusting, vile man, and I don’t care if you can fire me, but I’ll sleep with you when Hell freezes over.’” Still the blank look. What is it with these people? I sighed, muttered a phrase or two in my native tongue, and let the disguise drop. She turned pale as a ghost (which, if you’ve ever seen one, is pretty damned pale) and started to scream. I gave her the look, too, and her mouth snapped close with an audible click. (Picture 2) She looked at me, looked at the computer, looked at me again, and then dived under the desk and began yanking cables out of the wall as fast as she could. (Picture 1) I rolled my eyes. “That won’t help. You already sent it. No take-backs, that’s one of the rules.” With a sob, she crawled out of the plastic cave and into the artificial sunlight. The fluorescents made her look a little green. I hoped it was just the fluorescents; I hated it when they puked. She started to speak, stopped, started again and finally managed to squeak out a single word. “Why?” “Beats me, sweet-cheeks. I’m just a corporate drone like you. ‘Why’ is way above my pay-grade. All I know is there was frost on the windows when I got up this morning, and snow on the ground, and a message on my phone telling me you were going to make a promise today.” “So I have to sleep with Howard? But he’s repulsive. “ “Sleep with him, don’t sleep with him, all the same to me. I’m just required to inform you of the nature of the contract you’ve entered into, make sure you understand the penalties,” I said, “and get your signature on the line which is dotted.” I love that movie; half my best lines came from that movie. “So, Option A, you sleep with him, a little of you dies inside, and the world is a slightly grayer place. Option B, you don’t sleep with him, we get your immortal soul, and the world goes on exactly like it always does.” “Sign here,” I held out a clipboard, “and put your initials next to each paragraph indicating you’ve read and understood.” “Are you crazy? I’m not signing anything. Do I look stupid enough to sign a contract with the Devil?” “First of all,” I replied, “I’m not the Devil, merely one of his minio…assistants. And second, if you don’t sign, you’re assumed to have defaulted on the deal, we get your soul whether you sleep with him or not. And don’t get me started on the penalty clauses…” She reached out nervously, took the clipboard, and grabbed a pen with the company logo from a coffee-cup holder on her desk. I could see her lips move as she read the contract to herself. She reached the end, sighed, and started scribbling. When she was done, I took the clipboard out of her shaking hands, and tore off her copy. “Thank you, and have a nice day,” I said, handing her the sheet of paper. I stepped away from her desk to file the paperwork in my messenger bag, and as I left I heard her calling her husband to tell him she had to work late. I kind of felt bad for her; most mortals don’t think twice about such verbal clichés, but what can you do? I didn’t make the rules. I strolled out of the office, patted the cute secretary on the ass as she walked past me down the hall, and waited for the elevator. * The rest of the day didn’t get any easier. After Mrs. Dupree, there was the old Jewish guy who was going to have to sign over half his business to his wastrel son-in-law because he got angry and told him it “would be a cold day in Hell” before he let him ruin the company. I grabbed another cup of coffee on my way to a meeting with a weepy co-ed who’d chosen a bad day to tell her true love exactly how long she’d stay with him. That one was rough. I didn’t lose much sleep over the connivers and cheaters and such, but screwing over decent people on a technicality never got easy. The worst part was that they’d blame us for their fate, when it was the Big Guy Upstairs himself who let that clause slip by during the negotiations. If he’d been more on top of things and less focused on winning the ‘bells ring/angels wings’ crap, the mortals would have been a whole lot better off. You’d have thought that Captain Universe would have known better than to get into a legal tussle with the Prince of Lies. Right before lunch I almost got screwed by dispatch. I got to the client’s home right before the critical moment, and just as I was about to reveal myself, she switched from ‘Hell’ to ‘Heck’ at the last second. We would have gotten sued for sure. The afternoon was jam-packed with a dozen more sob stories. Nothing interesting, just your run of the mill ‘words spoken in anger’ stuff. And that was why I hated these days so much. Normally, we’d do a little research, get to know a prospective client, figure out what it would take to seal the deal, and before you knew it we had another soul for the team from Down Under. It took finesse; maybe not as much as in the old days when people really believed, but there was some skill involved, and you’d get to work with the poor guy for the rest of his life. These snow-day specials, though, had no art. It was wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, no subtlety, no thrill of almost landing a big fish only to have him wriggle off the hook at the last second. And there were so damn many of them. * I was standing in the hallway of posh, art deco office building, waiting for the elevator. The bell chimed as it arrived, and as I stepped on I collided with another man who was trying to exit. “Damn it, wrong floor,” he grumbled, and irritably gave me a look. Actually, he gave me *the* look. “Ralph?” I asked. “Ralph Anslem?” He paused and peered at me curiously. “Oh, hi Steve.” “Sam,” I corrected. “What brings you here?” Ralph was a lucky bastard. He was assigned to Legal. Not the Legal Department – you needed to be a full-fledged Prince of Darkness to run with the big boys -- but the division of Contracts and Collections responsible for the souls of lawyers. They did almost as much business as the rest of us combined, but they got to work regular hours, stayed with the same firm for decades, and basically never had to lift a finger. “I’m with Kellerman, King, and Dobrinsky. They have the top three floors in this building.” “Nice. Bet it has a health club, too,” I muttered enviously. “Oh, yeah,” he enthused. “Swedish massage, too. They really look after their people here.” I started to make some snotty remark when my Blackberry went off. A moment later, so did Ralph’s. We looked at each other, chuckled nervously, and let our hands fall to our holsters like gunslingers. I snuck a quick peek at the display and felt my blood turn to ice water. The subject line was short – just three numbers – but that was enough. I glanced up at Ralph, and couldn’t help laughing. He’d gotten so rattled by the text message that he’d let his disguise drop. Too bad his supervisor wasn’t around to see it. I pulled up the email, saw the address, and was chomping at the bit waiting for the elevator to reach the lobby. As soon as the doors parted, I pushed past Ralph and sprinted for the exit. I grabbed the only cab within sight, and slammed the door in my co-workers face. I looked at the email as the taxi sped away, one pissed-off devil in its wake. “Where to, Mac?” the driver asked. “St. Patrick’s Cathedral,” I replied, thinking this could be the chance of a lifetime. * When I got there, I saw a bunch of priests and nuns milling about outside. I was curious. It was written into the Concord that neither side could divulge to mortals the nature of the deal, but the Church has been around a long time, and I’d always assumed that if they didn’t know for sure, they suspected some of the details. Anyway, I’d never gotten to bag a priest on a snow-day special, and didn’t know of anyone else doing it, either. I sidled up to the nearest, hoping to get close enough to overhear any damning utterances without him realizing he was in my presence. Can’t be too careful. Holy water leaves a mark, you know. He was mumbling something in Latin, and I wished I’d paid more attention in class. Hardly any use for it anymore. But I knew enough of the ecclesiastical jargon to catch the gist of it. Standard ‘Oh heavenly Father’ stuff for the most part. I wandered through the crowd unnoticed until I ended up too close to an overly enthusiastic nun and caught a rosary bead in the eye. Close call – getting nailed by the crucifix would have hurt something fierce. She started to apologize, then pointed and gave me that ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’ look when she realized what I was. Oh crap, I thought. Now I’ve done it. If I’d screwed up and let one of the holy rollers get away, I’d be in big trouble. Even if they didn’t can me, I’d probably get transferred to Detroit or someplace worse. Assuming there was someplace worse. I backed away slowly, but it was too late. The rest of the congregation had heeded the nun’s warning, and they’d started blindfolding themselves and sticking their fingers in their ears. See no evil, hear no evil, I guess. And the chanting continued unabated, so that took care of ‘Speak no evil’ too. I was slinking away with my tail between my legs and hoping maybe they weren’t clued in to the whole snow-day thing when another taxi came screeching to a halt. Out popped Ralph, and I could tell he wasn’t happy as he came storming towards me. “Cute, Sam, but I’m the senior representative on the scene. This one’s mine – check your email if you don’t believe me.” Sure enough, I’d gotten another message, this one telling me that Ralph was in charge and I was to follow his lead. I shrugged and gestured to the crowd. “Knock yourself out, Ralph,” I said and leaned against the wall to watch. Ralph strode towards the people, pulling a ream of paperwork from his fancy Italian leather briefcase. He didn’t even look at it, just thrust it in front of them and told them to sign. Weird. Even stranger, they did. They didn’t even take off their blindfolds, just scrawled something on the sheet. It took Ralph almost a half-hour to get them all done. He came walking back to me with a :):):):)-eating grin on his face. “That’s why you’re stuck where you are, Sam. When this gets processed, I’ll get promoted to the Legal Department for sure. No more Earth duty for me!” As he was gloating, the chanting had increased in volume. I caught the tail end – something like ‘hades eluvium congelo’ and suddenly the entire herd was going airborne, flying skyward towards a suddenly bright sun. (Picture 4) A spectral hand reached out in welcome, and within moments, they’d disappeared from view. Ralph stood in the now-deserted square, a look of total bewilderment on his face. “Ralph, what did you do.” He looked at me, too stunned to speak. “Ralph, why did the Hand of God scoop up my, I mean, your clients?” He was useless. I grabbed his briefcase and snagged one of the contracts. As I read it, I began to laugh. “Oh, Ralph, man, you are *so* screwed. Did you even look at this before they signed it?” Used to be these things were written in blood, and for the big, long-term Faustian style bargains they still were. But for one-offs like on snow-days, they used the magic blank paper that just automatically filled in with whatever the client was going to utter, and if they changed their mind at the last second (damned free will and all), it updated instantly. Saved a ton on typing, that’s for sure. You just had to be careful to make sure they signed *after* they spoke. Paragraph Two was the part where the activating clause was detailed. On Ralph’s form, it was filled in with “The devil will be banished from our city and God will call me home *when hell freezes over*.” Signed, Father Murphy and Ralph Ael, duly authorized agent of the Dark Prince Lucifer. There was a bright flash of light accompanied by a loud pop and the stink of brimstone. Uh oh. “Which one of you is responsible for this?” a voice boomed. A taloned hand held out a copy of the errant contract. Without a word, I pointed at Ralph. The Elder Devil from Infernal Affairs grabbed him by the throat, uttered a blasphemous curse, and dragged him into the fiery pit from whence it had just arrived. * So, that’s how I ended up working at Kellerman, King and Dobrinsky, and Ralph ended up in Murmansk. Turns out there are places worse than Detroit, if you can’t stand the cold. Bet they get a ton of snow-days up there. [/QUOTE]
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