Post by williemeikle on Jun 29, 2009 22:05:31 GMT
The room was white, a brilliant white that it almost hurt her eyes as she struggled to focus.
Something was wrong. The last thing Sheila Davidson remembered was leaving the shop. She’d said goodnight to the assistant, walked to her car and…
And nothing.
She couldn’t remember anything after that, until she woke sitting in front of a desk composed of a white marble that shone with its own inner light. She was transfixed, tilting her head from side to side to catch the glittering patterns of light and shade, and was only stopped in her reverie by a discreet cough from across the desk.
“When you're quite finished?” a deep gravelly voice said.
She looked up into a pair of piercing green eyes and a sardonic grin. The owner of the grin wore a sharp business suit and an expensive Italian silk tie. The gold band of a watch gleamed as he rolled a hand over the computer keyboard in front of him.
Sheila was so taken with the suit that it took her several seconds to notice the talons… and the horns.
She threw herself back in her seat with a scream, and came up hard against the wall of the room. She searched frantically for a door, but there was none, just blank, featureless white.
The demon smiled at her again.
“If you’d just take a seat miss, this won’t take too long.”
“Where… where am I?” Sheila whispered.
The demon tapped at a badge on the lapel of his suit. Sheila had to stand and move closer to read it.
It read, Ballygrampus, Assistant Deputy Demon, Substation 3933 level 46, Hell.
“Hell?” Sheila whispered.
“What, you were expecting Pearly Gates and mellow fruitfulness?”
She sat down, hard. She pinched her forearm, so tight as to bring a flare of pain, but when she looked up, the demon still sat there, smiling.
“So, what was it? Accident? Heart attack?” the demon asked.
She could only sit and stare. Every time she tried to speak, she failed to come up with a sensible sentence for this situation.
“Ah. Here it is,” the demon said, reading from the screen. “Shelia
Davidson, aged forty-nine, heart attack. Unlucky not to reach the big 5-0.”
“It’s next month,” Sheila whispered. “We’re having a party… all the family will be there.”
“I guess they will now,” the demon said. “It’s a pity you won’t be there to see it. Let’s see why they sent you to me, shall we?”
Sheila watched as the talons rattled across the keyboard.
“So far so good,” Ballygrampus said. “Nothing for Fornication, nothing for Sloth, nothing for Envy.”
He looked up and gave Sheila a wink.
“Looks like you might actually have come to the wrong place.”
He went back to looking at the screen.
“Nothing for Pride, nothing for Avarice.”
The demon looked up again, and this time it was more a smirk than a grin that crossed his face.
“That just leaves Theft and Gluttony. Want to guess where you stand? I'll bet you five years that it's Theft.”
The demon pulled back his sleeves revealing a line of red, almost burnt, flesh, as he turned once more to the keyboard.
“You weren’t a bureaucrat were you? We love them down here. They come in very handy with the filing.”
“No,” Sheila said in a whisper. “I am… was… a housewife. Just a housewife.”
“Ahhh,” Ballygrampus said, and smiled again. Thin wisps of smoke came out of his ears. “It’ll be Gluttony then.”
Sheila spluttered.
“I’ve looked after my body! I’m very careful”
“I noticed,” Ballygrampus laughed. “But there is more than one kind of gluttony.”
Smoke came out of his nostrils.
“Let’s just see.”
The demon's eyes burned with a gold flame as page after page of information scrolled up the screen.
“Here’s the first… December 29th 1973, 12.30 PM… two pairs of platform gold lame boots… never worn.”
The demon laughed again, but this time it was a cold hard thing, and the hackles at the back of Sheila’s neck began to rise.
“January 2nd 1983. Twelve pairs of sandals - in a day? You must have been kind of desperate.”
Sheila didn't get a chance to reply
The demon recited every single piece of shoe shopping activity in her life.
“March 15th 1987 2 PM, two pairs of strappy heels at 2:30 PM, and a pair of Cuban heeled Cowboy boots at 5 PM. I think we're beginning to see a pattern here.”
The demon punched several keys, and his eyes blazed as the result came up.
“Two thousand, two hundred and thirty three counts of Gluttony. Congratulations, I think you've got the record.”
Talons rattled on keys as another screen came up.
“The going rate is a week for each offence. I'm sorry about that, but there are so many of you around these days that we've had to get tough on you. I make that forty-three years, give or take a week. Minus the five I owe you, that makes thirty-eight years. Have a nice day.”
Sheila blinked… and looked out over the largest shoe store she’d ever seen.
“Well… this isn’t too bad,” she whispered.
After a while she spotted a pair of red stilletoes that would look just right with her new dress.
She put them on and paraded in front of a mirror.
“Oh, I must have these,” she said.
They pinched a bit around the toes, and, if truth be told were just starting to hurt at the ankle.
She bent to take them off… only to find that they had become molded onto her feet, the skin already growing in thick folds over the shoes. The pain grew to a hot flaring like a needle being thrust into her ankle again, and again.
She tore frantically at the shoes, but there was no way to remove them.
Somewhere, a demon spoke.
“Thirty-seven years, three hundred and sixty four days, and twenty-three hours.”
Sheila started to scream.
Something was wrong. The last thing Sheila Davidson remembered was leaving the shop. She’d said goodnight to the assistant, walked to her car and…
And nothing.
She couldn’t remember anything after that, until she woke sitting in front of a desk composed of a white marble that shone with its own inner light. She was transfixed, tilting her head from side to side to catch the glittering patterns of light and shade, and was only stopped in her reverie by a discreet cough from across the desk.
“When you're quite finished?” a deep gravelly voice said.
She looked up into a pair of piercing green eyes and a sardonic grin. The owner of the grin wore a sharp business suit and an expensive Italian silk tie. The gold band of a watch gleamed as he rolled a hand over the computer keyboard in front of him.
Sheila was so taken with the suit that it took her several seconds to notice the talons… and the horns.
She threw herself back in her seat with a scream, and came up hard against the wall of the room. She searched frantically for a door, but there was none, just blank, featureless white.
The demon smiled at her again.
“If you’d just take a seat miss, this won’t take too long.”
“Where… where am I?” Sheila whispered.
The demon tapped at a badge on the lapel of his suit. Sheila had to stand and move closer to read it.
It read, Ballygrampus, Assistant Deputy Demon, Substation 3933 level 46, Hell.
“Hell?” Sheila whispered.
“What, you were expecting Pearly Gates and mellow fruitfulness?”
She sat down, hard. She pinched her forearm, so tight as to bring a flare of pain, but when she looked up, the demon still sat there, smiling.
“So, what was it? Accident? Heart attack?” the demon asked.
She could only sit and stare. Every time she tried to speak, she failed to come up with a sensible sentence for this situation.
“Ah. Here it is,” the demon said, reading from the screen. “Shelia
Davidson, aged forty-nine, heart attack. Unlucky not to reach the big 5-0.”
“It’s next month,” Sheila whispered. “We’re having a party… all the family will be there.”
“I guess they will now,” the demon said. “It’s a pity you won’t be there to see it. Let’s see why they sent you to me, shall we?”
Sheila watched as the talons rattled across the keyboard.
“So far so good,” Ballygrampus said. “Nothing for Fornication, nothing for Sloth, nothing for Envy.”
He looked up and gave Sheila a wink.
“Looks like you might actually have come to the wrong place.”
He went back to looking at the screen.
“Nothing for Pride, nothing for Avarice.”
The demon looked up again, and this time it was more a smirk than a grin that crossed his face.
“That just leaves Theft and Gluttony. Want to guess where you stand? I'll bet you five years that it's Theft.”
The demon pulled back his sleeves revealing a line of red, almost burnt, flesh, as he turned once more to the keyboard.
“You weren’t a bureaucrat were you? We love them down here. They come in very handy with the filing.”
“No,” Sheila said in a whisper. “I am… was… a housewife. Just a housewife.”
“Ahhh,” Ballygrampus said, and smiled again. Thin wisps of smoke came out of his ears. “It’ll be Gluttony then.”
Sheila spluttered.
“I’ve looked after my body! I’m very careful”
“I noticed,” Ballygrampus laughed. “But there is more than one kind of gluttony.”
Smoke came out of his nostrils.
“Let’s just see.”
The demon's eyes burned with a gold flame as page after page of information scrolled up the screen.
“Here’s the first… December 29th 1973, 12.30 PM… two pairs of platform gold lame boots… never worn.”
The demon laughed again, but this time it was a cold hard thing, and the hackles at the back of Sheila’s neck began to rise.
“January 2nd 1983. Twelve pairs of sandals - in a day? You must have been kind of desperate.”
Sheila didn't get a chance to reply
The demon recited every single piece of shoe shopping activity in her life.
“March 15th 1987 2 PM, two pairs of strappy heels at 2:30 PM, and a pair of Cuban heeled Cowboy boots at 5 PM. I think we're beginning to see a pattern here.”
The demon punched several keys, and his eyes blazed as the result came up.
“Two thousand, two hundred and thirty three counts of Gluttony. Congratulations, I think you've got the record.”
Talons rattled on keys as another screen came up.
“The going rate is a week for each offence. I'm sorry about that, but there are so many of you around these days that we've had to get tough on you. I make that forty-three years, give or take a week. Minus the five I owe you, that makes thirty-eight years. Have a nice day.”
Sheila blinked… and looked out over the largest shoe store she’d ever seen.
“Well… this isn’t too bad,” she whispered.
After a while she spotted a pair of red stilletoes that would look just right with her new dress.
She put them on and paraded in front of a mirror.
“Oh, I must have these,” she said.
They pinched a bit around the toes, and, if truth be told were just starting to hurt at the ankle.
She bent to take them off… only to find that they had become molded onto her feet, the skin already growing in thick folds over the shoes. The pain grew to a hot flaring like a needle being thrust into her ankle again, and again.
She tore frantically at the shoes, but there was no way to remove them.
Somewhere, a demon spoke.
“Thirty-seven years, three hundred and sixty four days, and twenty-three hours.”
Sheila started to scream.