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Lucky, the Devil
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An excerpt from Clockwork Angels...
In which the Devil becomes teacher for a day
Lucifer slipped the phone in his pocket and was straightening his jacket when the kid rammed into him. He saw the gang of teenagers walking shoulder to shoulder like they owned the damn street, of course. One of the punk-asses went right for him, wanting to play sidewalk chicken; Lucky wasn’t going to play that game with a bunch of arrogant teenagers. On impact the kid recoiled, his invented rage replaced by the sudden onset of debilitating fear. He later said it was like being dropped in a tub of ice water filled with crocodiles.
“What the fuck, motherfucker,” a taller kid barked. Hat sideways, tattoos up and down some very pale forearms, and a Mr. T. starter set around his neck announced this idiot was the leader.
“Indeed,” Lucky replied with a dangerous smile. Adolescents grated on his nerves. They knew everything, learned nothing, and the males had to prove themselves constantly. This dude was abnormally large, and had an even more sizable chip on his shoulder.
“Ah, shit,” the kid carried on, loud enough to be heard from Central Park. “Yo, this motherfucker don’t know who he fuckin’ with.”
“Really?” Lucky grinned. “Whom amI fucking with?”
“Yo, this foo’ playin’ wit his life, yo.” The kid gesticulated like a carnival barker on crack, with several grabs of his junk for good measure.
“Why do you keep grabbing your nuts?” Lucky asked. “Have you lost them before?”
“Yo, you best get to stepping’ before Satan 13 Posse fucks you up.”
“Satan 13 Posse, eh? So you’re the dipshits spray-painting my name everywhere. By the way, one of you has a future in the arts. So you all belong to me, then?”
“My foot feelin’ like it belong up yo ass, bitch.”
“Careful,” Lucky waved an admonishing finger. “This bitch bites.”
“Yo, fuck you. You gonna be bitin’ that concrete when we curb stomp yo ass, motherfucker.” He was inches from Lucky’s face, as Lucifer continued to grin like a Cheshire cat.
“You might want to ask your boy over there if that’s a good idea.” The young man who had touched the Devil was lying in the gutter, curled tightly into the fetal position.
“Yo bitch, after I knock you out and cut you, we gonna hold down what’s left so Smack can take a shit on you.”
“Really?” Lucky laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Smack’s going to shit on me? Ha! I can always take a bath, but you have to keep that face the rest of your life.”
The kid needed a moment to work this out. Lucky waited patiently, hoping he would start with some ‘Yo Momma’ cuts, having accumulated a pretty fair store of his own. Instead the kid blew the comeback, stumbling over the words. Lucky exploded in laughter. If you really want to piss a guy off, laugh at him when he’s angry. This dude was fit to cut Lucifer’s head off, and pulled a five-inch switchblade to start the process.
His homies, with the exception of Smack, formed a circle to dispense the ass kicking. Not one seemed to notice the sudden rise in temperature, or that all the rain puddles had evaporated in the last few seconds.
“Are you sure?” Lucky leered, nodding at the blade. It was a purely rhetorical question, as these boys had passed the point of no return. This was going to be a painful lesson. For them, anyway.
Most guys can brawl, but very few actually know how to fight. When these lads waded in they made the amateurish mistake of throwing nothing but bombs, trying to knock Lucky’s head off his shoulders with one punch. It didn’t work, even though Lucifer didn’t fight back. He really didn’t seem to be moving out of the way either; it’s just that wherever someone threw a punch, he wasn’t. As often as not they hit each other, until eventually their cardio gave way and they were panting with hands on knees. Lucky, now twirling the switchblade between his fingers, was mildly impressed. It had taken more than sixty seconds for the group to punch themselves out, and a few still had energy to rub a chin or moan while holding a body part that had been clocked by one of their boys.
Lucky again boomed with laughter. This time the sound careened wildly through their minds to find that place, deep down and long forgotten, where mortal fear lived. It echoed, and it hurt. All fell to their knees.
“Listen,” Lucifer said, “I usually don’t get in the way of idiots trying to be bad ass, but today I’m feeling generous. You really, really, don’t want to see me again. None of you have done anything - yet - to make that unavoidable. So I’ll give you some good advice and hope you’re smart enough to take it. Stop acting like a bunch of hyper-testosteroned fucktards and pull up your god damned pants. Nobody thinks you’re cool. There are beings walking this earth with far less compassion than I, and if you keep messing around you’ll meet one.”
A tremor in the earth sent a thrill of panic through the group. The largest kid in the gang, a monster called Super-Diesel, tried to make a run for it. He froze awkwardly before his third step.
“None of that,” Lucky said. “Be a man and stand with your friends, as ridiculous as they are.” The giant’s eyes swiveled in slow comprehension. The rest of him was as ridged as porcelain.
“Super-D, whas’ wrong, yo?” the leader said, as yet unaware his saggy pants were now soggy.
“Oh, Super-D can’t move at all,” Lucky said. “It’s pretty uncomfortable, don’t you think?” The leader tried to move his legs, and found that he couldn’t.
It was a dirty business, exercising power over the weak minded. Ten thousand hours of YouTube and shooting zombies on the Xbox made these clowns particularly susceptible. Unfortunately, there was a downside of such mind control. Disgustingly lurid thoughts spilled from their minds like a leaky urn. Or urinal, in the case of the chief. Lucifer tried to ward off the telepathy without success, to his revulsion. No one should be exposed to what goes on in a teenage boys mind.
“Diesel?” Lucky snapped. “Super-D! Son, stop doing that.” Lucky leaned close to the leader of the gang. “He’s blaming his dad again, Frank,” he said conspiratorially. A look of confusion clouded the leader’s face at the use of his proper name. “See, when Super-D was a kid, his father wrapped him in a blanket so tightly he couldn’t move. It was a joke. Big-D was never in any real danger, but the mind does play tricks…Diesel! You need to forgive your dad for that. He was only trying to bond. If you don’t learn to let go of things, you are going to end up maladjusted.”
Super-Diesel’s eyes were practically spinning out of his head.
“Yo, fuck you,” Frank said in one last act of defiance.
Lucifer sighed. “Everyone has to learn the hard way. Okay Frank, let’s get this over with. I have things to do. This crew calls you Slasher, though I can’t understand why. You’ve never slashed anything except an old lady’s tires; a shitty thing to do, really. It all came apart when you stopped taking your meds. ODD is going to get you into a lot of trouble someday.” Lucifer suddenly became black as obsidian. “And my watch says someday…is today.”
Frank spazzed like he had caught a finger in a light socket. Then he felt the terror, and knew with utter certainty he could not escape it.
“Satan 13 Posse, you say?” A voice of sledgehammers thundered in his head. “Do not pretend to know Satan. Pray you never know him; he is terrible.”
Time slowed, and Frank the Slasher found himself alone in the dark. Shadows flowed around him like the tide, a single moment elongating to an endless wave that swallowed the universe. The stygian night pierced him, all he was and all he ever would be. Alone and naked he was laid bare, wretched and helpless.
Night roiled as two eyes appeared above him, burning like coals, pulling him toward the abyss. Something in the velvet shadows purred, an avatar of torment. The horror was held at bay by a veil of gossamer so delicate the slightest breath promised a flood of unmitigated pain. Darkness whispered to the fear, the torment searching for him, searching for a way in. Suddenly there echoed a voice of salvation. A lifeline it seemed amid the sea of terror, offering a way out.
“Do you understand?” it whispered, the horror creeping closer. Every molecule in Frank’s body answered in the affirmative, though the ability to articulate this new understanding was as alien to Frank as common sense had been.
Suddenly there was light. The sound of the city flooded back, and Frank found himself splayed on the pavement. From somewhere inside his head, Frank heard a voice, less cosmic and more human, and it said “Hit the bricks motherfucker, before they hit you.”
Frank staggered to his feet, shaking his head violently as if to ward off the vestiges of a nightmare. His crew, each in various stages of recovery, did likewise. They scattered like disoriented toddlers. Lucky stared after them, shaking his head.
“Well,” he sighed, lighting a cigarette, “that was fun.”
“What the fuck, motherfucker,” a taller kid barked. Hat sideways, tattoos up and down some very pale forearms, and a Mr. T. starter set around his neck announced this idiot was the leader.
“Indeed,” Lucky replied with a dangerous smile. Adolescents grated on his nerves. They knew everything, learned nothing, and the males had to prove themselves constantly. This dude was abnormally large, and had an even more sizable chip on his shoulder.
“Ah, shit,” the kid carried on, loud enough to be heard from Central Park. “Yo, this motherfucker don’t know who he fuckin’ with.”
“Really?” Lucky grinned. “Whom amI fucking with?”
“Yo, this foo’ playin’ wit his life, yo.” The kid gesticulated like a carnival barker on crack, with several grabs of his junk for good measure.
“Why do you keep grabbing your nuts?” Lucky asked. “Have you lost them before?”
“Yo, you best get to stepping’ before Satan 13 Posse fucks you up.”
“Satan 13 Posse, eh? So you’re the dipshits spray-painting my name everywhere. By the way, one of you has a future in the arts. So you all belong to me, then?”
“My foot feelin’ like it belong up yo ass, bitch.”
“Careful,” Lucky waved an admonishing finger. “This bitch bites.”
“Yo, fuck you. You gonna be bitin’ that concrete when we curb stomp yo ass, motherfucker.” He was inches from Lucky’s face, as Lucifer continued to grin like a Cheshire cat.
“You might want to ask your boy over there if that’s a good idea.” The young man who had touched the Devil was lying in the gutter, curled tightly into the fetal position.
“Yo bitch, after I knock you out and cut you, we gonna hold down what’s left so Smack can take a shit on you.”
“Really?” Lucky laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Smack’s going to shit on me? Ha! I can always take a bath, but you have to keep that face the rest of your life.”
The kid needed a moment to work this out. Lucky waited patiently, hoping he would start with some ‘Yo Momma’ cuts, having accumulated a pretty fair store of his own. Instead the kid blew the comeback, stumbling over the words. Lucky exploded in laughter. If you really want to piss a guy off, laugh at him when he’s angry. This dude was fit to cut Lucifer’s head off, and pulled a five-inch switchblade to start the process.
His homies, with the exception of Smack, formed a circle to dispense the ass kicking. Not one seemed to notice the sudden rise in temperature, or that all the rain puddles had evaporated in the last few seconds.
“Are you sure?” Lucky leered, nodding at the blade. It was a purely rhetorical question, as these boys had passed the point of no return. This was going to be a painful lesson. For them, anyway.
Most guys can brawl, but very few actually know how to fight. When these lads waded in they made the amateurish mistake of throwing nothing but bombs, trying to knock Lucky’s head off his shoulders with one punch. It didn’t work, even though Lucifer didn’t fight back. He really didn’t seem to be moving out of the way either; it’s just that wherever someone threw a punch, he wasn’t. As often as not they hit each other, until eventually their cardio gave way and they were panting with hands on knees. Lucky, now twirling the switchblade between his fingers, was mildly impressed. It had taken more than sixty seconds for the group to punch themselves out, and a few still had energy to rub a chin or moan while holding a body part that had been clocked by one of their boys.
Lucky again boomed with laughter. This time the sound careened wildly through their minds to find that place, deep down and long forgotten, where mortal fear lived. It echoed, and it hurt. All fell to their knees.
“Listen,” Lucifer said, “I usually don’t get in the way of idiots trying to be bad ass, but today I’m feeling generous. You really, really, don’t want to see me again. None of you have done anything - yet - to make that unavoidable. So I’ll give you some good advice and hope you’re smart enough to take it. Stop acting like a bunch of hyper-testosteroned fucktards and pull up your god damned pants. Nobody thinks you’re cool. There are beings walking this earth with far less compassion than I, and if you keep messing around you’ll meet one.”
A tremor in the earth sent a thrill of panic through the group. The largest kid in the gang, a monster called Super-Diesel, tried to make a run for it. He froze awkwardly before his third step.
“None of that,” Lucky said. “Be a man and stand with your friends, as ridiculous as they are.” The giant’s eyes swiveled in slow comprehension. The rest of him was as ridged as porcelain.
“Super-D, whas’ wrong, yo?” the leader said, as yet unaware his saggy pants were now soggy.
“Oh, Super-D can’t move at all,” Lucky said. “It’s pretty uncomfortable, don’t you think?” The leader tried to move his legs, and found that he couldn’t.
It was a dirty business, exercising power over the weak minded. Ten thousand hours of YouTube and shooting zombies on the Xbox made these clowns particularly susceptible. Unfortunately, there was a downside of such mind control. Disgustingly lurid thoughts spilled from their minds like a leaky urn. Or urinal, in the case of the chief. Lucifer tried to ward off the telepathy without success, to his revulsion. No one should be exposed to what goes on in a teenage boys mind.
“Diesel?” Lucky snapped. “Super-D! Son, stop doing that.” Lucky leaned close to the leader of the gang. “He’s blaming his dad again, Frank,” he said conspiratorially. A look of confusion clouded the leader’s face at the use of his proper name. “See, when Super-D was a kid, his father wrapped him in a blanket so tightly he couldn’t move. It was a joke. Big-D was never in any real danger, but the mind does play tricks…Diesel! You need to forgive your dad for that. He was only trying to bond. If you don’t learn to let go of things, you are going to end up maladjusted.”
Super-Diesel’s eyes were practically spinning out of his head.
“Yo, fuck you,” Frank said in one last act of defiance.
Lucifer sighed. “Everyone has to learn the hard way. Okay Frank, let’s get this over with. I have things to do. This crew calls you Slasher, though I can’t understand why. You’ve never slashed anything except an old lady’s tires; a shitty thing to do, really. It all came apart when you stopped taking your meds. ODD is going to get you into a lot of trouble someday.” Lucifer suddenly became black as obsidian. “And my watch says someday…is today.”
Frank spazzed like he had caught a finger in a light socket. Then he felt the terror, and knew with utter certainty he could not escape it.
“Satan 13 Posse, you say?” A voice of sledgehammers thundered in his head. “Do not pretend to know Satan. Pray you never know him; he is terrible.”
Time slowed, and Frank the Slasher found himself alone in the dark. Shadows flowed around him like the tide, a single moment elongating to an endless wave that swallowed the universe. The stygian night pierced him, all he was and all he ever would be. Alone and naked he was laid bare, wretched and helpless.
Night roiled as two eyes appeared above him, burning like coals, pulling him toward the abyss. Something in the velvet shadows purred, an avatar of torment. The horror was held at bay by a veil of gossamer so delicate the slightest breath promised a flood of unmitigated pain. Darkness whispered to the fear, the torment searching for him, searching for a way in. Suddenly there echoed a voice of salvation. A lifeline it seemed amid the sea of terror, offering a way out.
“Do you understand?” it whispered, the horror creeping closer. Every molecule in Frank’s body answered in the affirmative, though the ability to articulate this new understanding was as alien to Frank as common sense had been.
Suddenly there was light. The sound of the city flooded back, and Frank found himself splayed on the pavement. From somewhere inside his head, Frank heard a voice, less cosmic and more human, and it said “Hit the bricks motherfucker, before they hit you.”
Frank staggered to his feet, shaking his head violently as if to ward off the vestiges of a nightmare. His crew, each in various stages of recovery, did likewise. They scattered like disoriented toddlers. Lucky stared after them, shaking his head.
“Well,” he sighed, lighting a cigarette, “that was fun.”