Shorter Works by TAYLOR DUNN
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THE DEVIL
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TEQUILA
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THE
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Fifteen year old James Pearson wants three wishes in exchange for his soul, and hasn’t traveled all the way to Hell to take no for an answer. Can Lucifer talk sense into the boy, or is Jimmy going to learn things the hard way?
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About the only things Quetzalcoatl takes seriously are tequila and a good party, demonstrating that not all gods are serious god material. Rather than being ashamed of this, Quetz takes great pride in his reputation as the ultimate party animal. However, at the moment his mind is occupied by more pressing matters; like how he will manage to live through the night.
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Pissing off the last mystic of an obscure Qigong cult can get you killed. Tobin Lonsdale, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord of the Internet, has done just that. In due course he will discover that certain levels of hubris can have very sinister, even splattering, consequences.
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Rave reviews for CURSE OF THE RED ROOM
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The award winning
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"Dark and edgy, the kind of story that raises hair on the neck."
"Darker than Jimmy Biscuits, but no less entertaining. The main character, Tobin Lonsdale, is deliciously hateable."
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"One of my favorites, as good a story as can be penned by a human."
"A wonderful twist on the classic Faustian tale. Witty, fun and compelling." |
Excerpts From Your Favorite Short Stories
The Devil and Jimmy Biscuits
“Sir?”
“Yes, Mig?” Satan replied patiently, swiveling the Barca lounger desk chair to the intercom.
“There’s a…er...”
“Spit it out Mig, I’m very busy today.”
“There’s someone to see you, sir.”
“Fine. Who is it?”
“A boy, sir.”
“Huh?”
“A living boy.”
Lucifer paused. A living boy? In hell? Unheard of. “But that’s…”
“I know, sir.”
“Well,” the Devil sighed, “you had better send him in.” The Prince of Darkness stood and straightened his tie. Contrary to literature and legend, Satan refused the stereotypical goat horns and hooves. He preferred the appearance of his most ancient form, that of an archangel. To a human he would look, well, human. Just a physically perfect one. The brilliant Fioravanti suit (scarlet was the color, a personal favorite) was a concession to modern style, custom tailored in testimony of a perfectly chiseled physique. Add a strong chin and dark wavy hair to the mix and you have the recipe for a supermodel. Most striking were his eyes, green and blazing with subtle intensity. Lucifer’s best friend, Uriel the archangel, teased him relentlessly about the prospects of giving up the ‘Lord of the Underworld’ thing to become an underwear model.
The office doors swung open with all the drama of a lifted toilet seat, and the young man stepped inside. There was absolutely nothing, nothing, impressive about the boy. He was average height, for an eighth grader. Unfortunately, this skinny kid was at least fifteen, an assumption supported by a) a face with enough acne to fill a deep fryer, b) the ‘wise fool’ expression only a teenager pulls, and c) fetid body odor mixing with enough secreted pheromones to fuel a second baby boom. Lucifer coughed politely. It was either that or gag. On a chain around the kid’s neck hung a crucifix large enough to pry a piano crate, which he currently held up like a shield.
“Foul fiend of the pit,” the kid began shakily “by the authority of…”
“That’s really unnecessary,” the Devil said.
“…the Lord Jesus Christ, son of the Most High…”
“Honestly, son. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“I command thee,” he shouted, pushing the cross at Lucifer, “to hear my admonitions and—”
Lucifer stepped straight to the kid and put a finger on the crucifix. Against expectations, nothing happened. The boy was stunned.
“You’re, like, not supposed to be able to do that,” he said stepping back a pace.
“Did you think I would explode? I don’t like crucifixes, but c’mon.”
“Why not?”
“Sorry?”
“Like, why don’t you like crucifixes?”
“Ever seen someone die on one? Horrible. And you can stop with the ‘foul fiend’ nonsense as well; I am neither foul nor fiend.”
“Huh?”
“I represent choice, son, not evil. There’s a difference. So, if we can act like grown ups, please have a seat.” Lucifer gestured to the chair. The kid sat down rather sulkily, as if weeks of preparation had been for nothing.
“Okay,” Satan said, “before we go further, explain how the hell you got in here?”
“I read a lot.”
“And?”
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” the kid said, suddenly vibrating with excitement. “I, like, found a bunch of books on Pandemonium. All this cool stuff about secret doors to something called the Hell Train. It’s this thing that’ll take you anywhere in the underworld. I, like, downloaded a map of all the junction points and used this gate that looked like a bowling alley in the front, but when I went inside—”
“Okay, okay. Calm down,” Lucifer said, raising a hand. “Where did you find this map?”
“Google.”
“Damn,” Satan mumbled, making a mental note to find this Googles idiot and drop him head-first into a man-sized toaster. Mig, Lucifer’s personal assistant, entered the room with his face buried in an iPad and a folder tucked under one arm. He looked like an Italian accountant in a $1000 suit. Mig handed the Devil the folder without looking up and left, closing the doors as he did so.
“So, what is it that you want?” Lucifer said, rifling through the folder.
“Don’t you even want to know my—”
“Your name is James Pearson,” Lucifer read from the file. “Male, fifteen, of the Bronx. Known to his classmates as…oh, my…Jimmy Biscuits? Named so at age nine by a bully who cornered you in the girls toilet and made you—”
“We don’t need to go into that,” Jimmy Biscuits interrupted.
“It’s all in your file, kid. So again, what do you want?” Satan threw the folder onto the desk and cupped his chin in a hand, drumming the fingers of the other on the table. “I’m a busy person, so if we could just move this along.”
“I,” Jimmy started, eyes darting around the room hesitantly, “I want three wishes.”
“Is that all?” Lucifer replied, throwing his arms out theatrically. “And why should I do this? I am the Devil. Not really famous for my generosity.”
“I’ll like, give you my soul, or whatever.”
Lucifer stared, incredulous. He noticed the kid’s lower lip drooping at one corner, a bead of drool-bubble forming. If he didn’t check it quick, the glob would end up on his shirt. Or worse, the desk.
“I’m not sure you fully understand the implications of the proposition," Lucifer replied slowly. "Your soul, the part of you that lasts forever, in exchange for three wishes. Wishes that I presume will benefit your temporal personage?”
Jimmy stared with a perplexed expression.
“Your earthly body, genius.”
“Oh,” Jimmy said brightly. “Yeah, exactly.”
“Go home kid,” Satan said, “before you get hurt.”
Suddenly, manufactured rage born of adolescent testosterone kicked in. Jimmy Biscuits, whipping boy of the 10th grade, leaped from his chair and assumed the aggressive posture of a gladiator. It might have been threatening if it were someone other than the Biscuits.
“You’re scared! Scared of being outsmarted by a kid, is that it? I thought the devil, like, was supposed to have balls? So where are they, in your wife’s purse? I’m going to tell everyone what a puss you are when I get back, frickin’ crybaby. Should I call you a wah-mbulence? I’m totally sure a hospital could reattach your—”
“Enough,” Lucifer growled, and the room went dim. There was a tremor in the earth that instantly overwhelmed hormonal courage with a fear stronger than any Jimmy had ever known. “Fine, you little brat. We’ll see how much smack you’re talking when this is over.”
The doors again swung open and Mig entered, this time with an aged parchment and an expensive looking fountain pen. He carefully arranged the items on the desk before taking his place behind Lucifer. Jimmy, still shaking, looked to the paper and then at the demons facing him. Lucifer had the tight expression of bottling anger, while the PA looked bored.
“This,” the Devil pushed the document forward, “is the contract. Read it carefully before signing and we’ll have a deal.”
“I, James Pearson, do hereby transfer ownership of my immortal soul…” Jimmy read as Lucifer occupied himself with memories of the only mortal kid who ever got the better of him.
“I relinquish unto him all rights...”
Damn you Charlie Daniels, Lucifer thought. Call yourself Johnny, indeed.
“…I had full and unrestricted rights to my soul and that no prior claim…”
Golden fiddle my ass, Satan brooded. Nobody’s that good.
“I fully understand the consequences of signing this document and…”
Ah, the Devil finally conceded to internal monologue, take your hat off to the little bumpkin. Daniels is the best there’s ever been. Still, he didn’t need to brag about it.
“…irrevocable nature of this sale,” Jimmy finished. “Is that it?”
“Huh? Yeah, sure. Just sign the bottom and we’re done.” Mig pushed the pen across the desk.
“Don’t I have to, like, sign in blood?”
“What?” Lucifer said with a face. “Gross. I don’t know where you’ve been. Pen will be just fine, thank you.”
Jimmy signed the contract and smiled. “When do I get my wishes?”
“I’ll be in touch,” Lucifer said, snapping his fingers. Both Jimmy and the contract vanished. Satan pondered the scenario for a few moments before Mig interrupted.
“If that’s all, sir, I’ll return to my desk.”
“Right,” Lucifer nodded. “Standard Juvenile contract, Mig?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Including the special clause?”
“Yes, sir. As always.”
“Good. We’re going to need it with this moron. Incidentally, do you know anyone named Googles?”
“G-googles, sir?” Mig stuttered, incredulous.
“Shouldn’t be too hard to find with a name like that. Why would he give the humans a map and our train schedule? I’m going find this Googles and beat his face with his face.”
“Ah…how…”
“Never mind.”
“Yes, Mig?” Satan replied patiently, swiveling the Barca lounger desk chair to the intercom.
“There’s a…er...”
“Spit it out Mig, I’m very busy today.”
“There’s someone to see you, sir.”
“Fine. Who is it?”
“A boy, sir.”
“Huh?”
“A living boy.”
Lucifer paused. A living boy? In hell? Unheard of. “But that’s…”
“I know, sir.”
“Well,” the Devil sighed, “you had better send him in.” The Prince of Darkness stood and straightened his tie. Contrary to literature and legend, Satan refused the stereotypical goat horns and hooves. He preferred the appearance of his most ancient form, that of an archangel. To a human he would look, well, human. Just a physically perfect one. The brilliant Fioravanti suit (scarlet was the color, a personal favorite) was a concession to modern style, custom tailored in testimony of a perfectly chiseled physique. Add a strong chin and dark wavy hair to the mix and you have the recipe for a supermodel. Most striking were his eyes, green and blazing with subtle intensity. Lucifer’s best friend, Uriel the archangel, teased him relentlessly about the prospects of giving up the ‘Lord of the Underworld’ thing to become an underwear model.
The office doors swung open with all the drama of a lifted toilet seat, and the young man stepped inside. There was absolutely nothing, nothing, impressive about the boy. He was average height, for an eighth grader. Unfortunately, this skinny kid was at least fifteen, an assumption supported by a) a face with enough acne to fill a deep fryer, b) the ‘wise fool’ expression only a teenager pulls, and c) fetid body odor mixing with enough secreted pheromones to fuel a second baby boom. Lucifer coughed politely. It was either that or gag. On a chain around the kid’s neck hung a crucifix large enough to pry a piano crate, which he currently held up like a shield.
“Foul fiend of the pit,” the kid began shakily “by the authority of…”
“That’s really unnecessary,” the Devil said.
“…the Lord Jesus Christ, son of the Most High…”
“Honestly, son. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“I command thee,” he shouted, pushing the cross at Lucifer, “to hear my admonitions and—”
Lucifer stepped straight to the kid and put a finger on the crucifix. Against expectations, nothing happened. The boy was stunned.
“You’re, like, not supposed to be able to do that,” he said stepping back a pace.
“Did you think I would explode? I don’t like crucifixes, but c’mon.”
“Why not?”
“Sorry?”
“Like, why don’t you like crucifixes?”
“Ever seen someone die on one? Horrible. And you can stop with the ‘foul fiend’ nonsense as well; I am neither foul nor fiend.”
“Huh?”
“I represent choice, son, not evil. There’s a difference. So, if we can act like grown ups, please have a seat.” Lucifer gestured to the chair. The kid sat down rather sulkily, as if weeks of preparation had been for nothing.
“Okay,” Satan said, “before we go further, explain how the hell you got in here?”
“I read a lot.”
“And?”
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” the kid said, suddenly vibrating with excitement. “I, like, found a bunch of books on Pandemonium. All this cool stuff about secret doors to something called the Hell Train. It’s this thing that’ll take you anywhere in the underworld. I, like, downloaded a map of all the junction points and used this gate that looked like a bowling alley in the front, but when I went inside—”
“Okay, okay. Calm down,” Lucifer said, raising a hand. “Where did you find this map?”
“Google.”
“Damn,” Satan mumbled, making a mental note to find this Googles idiot and drop him head-first into a man-sized toaster. Mig, Lucifer’s personal assistant, entered the room with his face buried in an iPad and a folder tucked under one arm. He looked like an Italian accountant in a $1000 suit. Mig handed the Devil the folder without looking up and left, closing the doors as he did so.
“So, what is it that you want?” Lucifer said, rifling through the folder.
“Don’t you even want to know my—”
“Your name is James Pearson,” Lucifer read from the file. “Male, fifteen, of the Bronx. Known to his classmates as…oh, my…Jimmy Biscuits? Named so at age nine by a bully who cornered you in the girls toilet and made you—”
“We don’t need to go into that,” Jimmy Biscuits interrupted.
“It’s all in your file, kid. So again, what do you want?” Satan threw the folder onto the desk and cupped his chin in a hand, drumming the fingers of the other on the table. “I’m a busy person, so if we could just move this along.”
“I,” Jimmy started, eyes darting around the room hesitantly, “I want three wishes.”
“Is that all?” Lucifer replied, throwing his arms out theatrically. “And why should I do this? I am the Devil. Not really famous for my generosity.”
“I’ll like, give you my soul, or whatever.”
Lucifer stared, incredulous. He noticed the kid’s lower lip drooping at one corner, a bead of drool-bubble forming. If he didn’t check it quick, the glob would end up on his shirt. Or worse, the desk.
“I’m not sure you fully understand the implications of the proposition," Lucifer replied slowly. "Your soul, the part of you that lasts forever, in exchange for three wishes. Wishes that I presume will benefit your temporal personage?”
Jimmy stared with a perplexed expression.
“Your earthly body, genius.”
“Oh,” Jimmy said brightly. “Yeah, exactly.”
“Go home kid,” Satan said, “before you get hurt.”
Suddenly, manufactured rage born of adolescent testosterone kicked in. Jimmy Biscuits, whipping boy of the 10th grade, leaped from his chair and assumed the aggressive posture of a gladiator. It might have been threatening if it were someone other than the Biscuits.
“You’re scared! Scared of being outsmarted by a kid, is that it? I thought the devil, like, was supposed to have balls? So where are they, in your wife’s purse? I’m going to tell everyone what a puss you are when I get back, frickin’ crybaby. Should I call you a wah-mbulence? I’m totally sure a hospital could reattach your—”
“Enough,” Lucifer growled, and the room went dim. There was a tremor in the earth that instantly overwhelmed hormonal courage with a fear stronger than any Jimmy had ever known. “Fine, you little brat. We’ll see how much smack you’re talking when this is over.”
The doors again swung open and Mig entered, this time with an aged parchment and an expensive looking fountain pen. He carefully arranged the items on the desk before taking his place behind Lucifer. Jimmy, still shaking, looked to the paper and then at the demons facing him. Lucifer had the tight expression of bottling anger, while the PA looked bored.
“This,” the Devil pushed the document forward, “is the contract. Read it carefully before signing and we’ll have a deal.”
“I, James Pearson, do hereby transfer ownership of my immortal soul…” Jimmy read as Lucifer occupied himself with memories of the only mortal kid who ever got the better of him.
“I relinquish unto him all rights...”
Damn you Charlie Daniels, Lucifer thought. Call yourself Johnny, indeed.
“…I had full and unrestricted rights to my soul and that no prior claim…”
Golden fiddle my ass, Satan brooded. Nobody’s that good.
“I fully understand the consequences of signing this document and…”
Ah, the Devil finally conceded to internal monologue, take your hat off to the little bumpkin. Daniels is the best there’s ever been. Still, he didn’t need to brag about it.
“…irrevocable nature of this sale,” Jimmy finished. “Is that it?”
“Huh? Yeah, sure. Just sign the bottom and we’re done.” Mig pushed the pen across the desk.
“Don’t I have to, like, sign in blood?”
“What?” Lucifer said with a face. “Gross. I don’t know where you’ve been. Pen will be just fine, thank you.”
Jimmy signed the contract and smiled. “When do I get my wishes?”
“I’ll be in touch,” Lucifer said, snapping his fingers. Both Jimmy and the contract vanished. Satan pondered the scenario for a few moments before Mig interrupted.
“If that’s all, sir, I’ll return to my desk.”
“Right,” Lucifer nodded. “Standard Juvenile contract, Mig?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Including the special clause?”
“Yes, sir. As always.”
“Good. We’re going to need it with this moron. Incidentally, do you know anyone named Googles?”
“G-googles, sir?” Mig stuttered, incredulous.
“Shouldn’t be too hard to find with a name like that. Why would he give the humans a map and our train schedule? I’m going find this Googles and beat his face with his face.”
“Ah…how…”
“Never mind.”