by Mark Cain
“Well, stick it up your ass! I’ve got a crisis here, and I don’t have time to bandy words with a little shrimp like you.”
That kind of attitude: well, it just pisses me off.
“Look, flamebutt,” I said, ignoring any risk of antagonizing the creature, “Lord Satan and Lord Beelzebub … you do remember who they are, right, or are you just too old and senile to remember anything other than where you keep your cigarettes? If you do recall those pretty distinctive names, then you know that Satan owns you, and he expects you to cooperate with me.”
Surtr roared and threw a fireball at me, which I ducked as if it were a slow-pitched softball. “Hah!” I yelled in triumph. “It’s not like that’s the first time someone’s thrown a fireball at me. I’ve been around, you know.”
Surtr grabbed his head in his hands, as if trying to keep his brain from exploding. Then his body flared. At that moment, he looked every yard the legendary fire demon of Norse mythology. “WHO ARE YOU?” he said, in a commanding voice that - despite my earlier bluster - made me quake.
“I’m Steve Minion, Hell’s Super.”
“Super what? Super jerk?”
“There’s no need to get nasty. I’m the Superintendent for Plant Maintenance.”
Surtr looked at me suspiciously. “How come I’ve never seen you before?”
“The boiler room never went on the fritz before. Look, can we stop this pissing contest? Satan ordered me to find out why Hell is getting colder, and that means you and I have to work together, capiche?”
The creature sighed and seemed to visibly shrink before my eyes. “My name is not ‘Capiche,’ but I understand.”
I rolled my eyes. Finally. “So all of Hell is getting colder … ”
“Yes,” the giant said, as he took of his glasses and cleaned them on a handkerchief.
Funny. Why doesn’t that burn up in his hand? Mythological creatures. Go figure.
“And it’s about to get much colder. You see this row of jets?” he asked, just as another one sputtered out.
“Yeah?”
“They’re not supposed to do that.”
“I kinda figured that. What’s wrong with them?”
Surtr sat down heavily in a nearby chair. It was the size of an old Land Rover; shit, it could even have been an old Land Rover. That was kind of hard to say, as it was blackened from the heat of his butt. Beside the chair was a table holding an ashtray, a jug of kerosene - probably his drink of choice - and a blue princess telephone. Except for being two feet long and fifteen inches high, the delicate instrument seemed out of place in Surtr’s hot and hard-surfaced domain.
“I don’t know. They just started turning themselves off a few hours ago. I fear The Spark has gone out of them.”
“The Spark?” I said, biting off some loose skin from a cuticle. “What’s that?”
“You mean,” Surtr said in astonishment, “you don’t know what The Spark is?”
“Fraid not. Why don’t you fill me in?”
Surtr got to his feet, and as he began pacing the boiler room, all age seemed to fall from him. “The Spark, why it is the animating force of the universe. It is everywhere.”
This sounded vaguely familiar. “You mean like the Force?”
He looked at me in puzzlement. “I do not know this Force.”
“Never mind. Old movie. You probably never saw it.”
“Perhaps it’s another name for The Spark.”
“I said forget it.” I sat down on the floor, thinking this might take a while. “You were saying?”
Surtr adjusted his glasses then began to speak. I recognized the style from my days as a university professor. He was kicking into lecture mode. “There are four forces in the universe which are the most powerful. Well,” he said, pausing, “five if you count compound interest. But the other four are … ” Turning to the stone wall behind him, Surtr used his flaming index finger to etch them into the rock.
Gravity
Electromagnetism
Strong Nuclear Force
Weak Nuclear Force
As an afterthought, Surtr wrote “Compound Interest” beneath the other four. I appreciated that. I like consistency, and you don’t get enough of that in Hell.
“You sound like you’re teaching physics. Pretty impressive for an old geezer like you.”
“You know, Minion,” Surtr commented with a look of disgust on his fiery visage - at least I think it was disgust, though it might have just been gas. “You have a smart mouth.”
I shrugged “Yeah, I know. Not one of my better traits. Please continue.”
“All right. Some physicists believe there is a single force underlying the five.” Surtr drew a circle of flame around the list. “They’re right, of course. That power is The Spark.”
“Yeah, great. So Hawking was right, after all. There’s a single unifying force, and you say it’s The Spark.” I found it difficult to speak the name in capitals, but I managed, because that seemed important to Surtr. It wasn’t just a spark, or even the spark, but The Spark. Got it. “Can you be a little more specific?”
“No, not really.” The giant sat back down on his Land Rover. “The Spark is in part defined by its very ineffability.”
Ineffability. Pretty good word. “Where did an ancient fire demon learn all this stuff?”
“Don’t call me a demon!” he snapped, his flame flaring.
“Sorry.” I really didn’t mean to offend, at least not on this point. “Why not?”
“Back where I come from, that’s considered a racial slur.”
One thing you need to know about me. I hate bigotry and intolerance of any kind. “Oh, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know. What do you prefer?”
“Fire giant,” he said, with simple dignity
“Works for me.” After all, he was pretty damn huge. “Besides, I know a lot of demons in Hell, and they are … ”
“Uniformly evil, repulsive, and despicable?”
I nodded. “Yeah. That pretty much sums them up. Anyway, where did you learn all this stuff?”
He shrugged. “Correspondence school.”
“What?”
“Correspondence school. I’m working on a doctorate in metaphysics.”
“This sounds like physics to me.”
“I’m not talking about that touchy-feely stuff you humans call metaphysics on Midgard.”
“Midgard?”
“Sorry. Before your time. Earth.” For a moment, Surtr looked wistful. He was probably thinking about his salad days, when he was the bad ass who was supposed to destroy the universe. With a sigh, he continued. “True metaphysics includes both the physical and the spiritual universes.”
“But why correspondence school?”
The fire giant shrugged. “I don’t get out much. I have to keep an eye on these,” he said, waving at the fire jets. “It’s my job. But I’ve always been interested in these matters, so Satan let me enroll in correspondence school. I’m ABD,” he said, proudly.
That’s “all but dissertation,” for those of you who don’t know the arcane vocabulary of academia. “How far along are you on your dissertation?” I asked.
“Well … ”
Hah. I thought so. The dissertation nails so many Ph.D. wannabes. “Do you have your topic approved yet?”
Surtr put his head in one hand. He looked like a fiery version of Rodin’s The Thinker. “I’m having a little trouble with that,” he said, dejectedly.
“Who’s your dissertation advisor?”
“Bifrons,” he said with disgust. “What’s wrong with you, Minion? It looks like your Spark just flared.”
I was blushing a bright red.
Bifrons wrote for Hell’s newspaper. Not long ago he had published a review of ‘Flo Does the Super,’ that porn movie I mentioned earlier.
It’s a long story.
“He keeps finding excuses for rejecting my proposals.”
“That’s because he’s an asshole,” I grumbled.
&n
bsp; “You said it.”
We sat there quietly for a few minutes, each of us nursing his personal grudge against the demon of arts and sciences. I got off the floor, just as another jet went out. “I understand that you don’t know exactly what’s going on, but do you have any ideas?” I asked, brushing the dirt off my coveralls.
“N … no,” he said slowly, looking in puzzlement at the rows of jets that were now completely black. “It’s as if someone is stealing the fire from beneath our noses.”
“Stealing fire, huh? Good clue.” Something clicked in my memory, and I headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Just following up on a hunch.”
“Keep me informed about what you discover.”
“Okay,” I said then turned back to him. “You said everything was animated by THE SPARK.”
“Just The Spark will do. Overkill is unnecessary.”
“Right, sorry. The Spark. What about titans, armadillos, bedbugs … frost giants?”
Surtr stood very still, looking a little uncertain. At last he said, “Yes, all of them, even frost giants. Their Sparks are just a little colder than ours.”
Cold Sparks. Great. “Later,” I said.
“Minion, wait a second. Bik!”
I turned to see a small star descend from the rafters. It reminded me of Tinkerbell. The star landed in Surtr’s palm. The fire giant whispered something to it, and a small noise, like the squeaking of a mouse, responded. Surtr’s whisperings became a little more severe. The star replied with a single squeak. Nodding, as if satisfied, Sutr turned to me.
“Minion, you and I got off on the wrong foot. I am sorry for that. I have a bit of a temper. In fact, I’m famous for it.”
“Me too.”
“Anyway, I wanted to make things up to you. I want to lend you Bik.”
“What’s a Bik?”
“This,” he said, indicating the star, “is Bik. He’s a fire giant like me.”
I looked at the glowing orb with skepticism. “Seems a might small for a fire giant.”
“He’ll grow. He’s young still. Bik is my grandson. Here.” Surtr extended his hand, as if to give me the star.
“Ah, Surtr, won’t Bik burn my hand off?”
“What? Oh, right. Sorry. Bik!” he said to the bright light. “Stifle!”
The light from the star softened then winked out entirely. Standing on Surtr’s palm was what looked like a teenager, except he was the size of a Q-tip. “You can take him now. He won’t burn you.”
With more than a little reluctance I extended my palm. Bik jumped from Surtr’s hand to mine. I was surprised that Bik was almost cool to the touch.
The old giant smiled. “He may be young, but he has wonderful control over his flame, and it burns hot as the dickens.”
“Thanks, I guess.” I examined the little fellow. Bik was dressed in a red danskin, with a similarly colored, tight-fitting shirt. He had bright red hair that stood up straight on his head. Looks like he combed it that way intentionally. Bik was staring up at me with as much curiosity as I had for him. “Why would I want to take Bik with me?”
Surtr shrugged. “Hell’s heating system is on the blink, and I don’t know what’s going on. Bik can be very useful to you. He’s small, but The Spark burns brightly in him.”
“Yeah, I got that. Listen, I don’t think I … ”
Surtr rose to his full height. Flames shot from his head, scorching the ceiling. “TAKE HIM!”
“Er, okay, right,” I said, and stuffed the little guy in my right coverall pocket, beneath my tool belt.
“mlslfsmdmfmdmf,” Bik said, from inside the pocket. I pulled him back out.
“I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”
“I said: Could you put me somewhere else? It’s crowded and a little smelly down there. And I keep poking myself on your keys.” When you were close to Bik, he sounded less like a squeaking mouse, and more like a child with a very high, soft voice. Boy soprano. Or castrati.
Ouch. Always hurts to think about that.
“Sorry.” I slipped him into my pocket protector, next to my mechanical pencil. “Any better?”
Bik’s head was at about the same level as the pencil. He curled his fingers around the hard plastic of the pocket protector. “Yes, much. And I can see quite well too. This will work fine!”
“Great,” I said, without much enthusiasm. What the hell am I going to do with this guy?
“Take good care of my grandson,” Surtr admonished. “And make certain he calls me often. Otherwise I’ll, uh, I’ll worry about him.”
“I will.” I guess. “See ya,” I said and left the boiler room.
Chapter 5
I retraced my steps past the Traitors until I came to the door on the far side of their holding pens. The door was made of metal and had no handle.
Great, just great. I knocked politely for a moment, but no one came. Slipping my hammer out of my tool belt, I started pounding on the metal.
I heard a rustling on the other side a few moments later. “Mmmmmmmmmm?”
“Open the door!” I shouted.
“Mmmmmmmmmm?” a small panel at eye height slid open, and a pair of dark brown eyes stared in on me. “What did you say?”
“I said open the fucking door, Bruce!”
“Well, you don’t need to be vulgar about it. And stop that pounding. You’ll dent the metal.”
“Bite me. The door?”
“Right.” I heard some scratching come from the other side, as Bruce inserted the key into the lock. The door swung open, and I stepped out on the carpet. “Gee, thanks.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic as well as vulgar. It’s my job to be cautious where that door is concerned. Satan would have my head if one of those four escaped.”
I thought about the Traitors. They seemed a pretty depressed lot, not the types to stage a jailbreak. “I think you’re probably okay on that score, but never mind. Out is out. I’ll be leaving now.” I gently pushed past Bruce, figuring it was a good policy not to be too nasty to someone who could sever my spine with a single blow, and now that he was a demon, he was probably even more formidable.
“Minion, wait a second.”
I sighed. “What is it, Bruce? More bad news?”
Bruce frowned. “No, not at all. Well, yes, in a way. The temperature of Hell has dropped another five degrees since you entered the boiler room. But,” he added, “that means Satan has decided the situation is urgent enough to lend you BOOH.”
“Alright!” Beezy had come through.
BOOH was one of my best friends, though the relationship was of recent vintage. He had helped me solve the mystery of Hell’s broken Escalator, and while we worked together, we’d bonded. I went up to my pal, who was preening on a large pole stuck in the wall nearby. “Hey, BOOH!” I reached up to give him a high five.
“Skreee!” BOOH, the one and only Bat out of Hell, was about the size of a Piper Cherokee. He reached down with one monstrous foot and gave me a low five.
“Did you hear that, buddy? We’re going to be working together again.” I turned to Bruce. “Thanks, man.”
“Don’t thank me,” Bruce sniffed. “Thank Satan.”
“Thanks, Lord Satan!” I shouted.
“GET TO WORK!” boomed a voice through the door to Satan’s office.
“Yes sir! BOOH, could you take me to my office?”
“Skree!” BOOH grabbed me by the shoulders with his toe claws and took off, up the Throat of the Underworld, like a Bat out of Hell. Which he was.
As we ascended through the Throat, I stuck my fist in my mouth to prevent myself from screaming. I’d forgotten how fast BOOH could fly. Closing my eyes, I took a couple of deep breaths to calm down – no mean feat when you’re biting through your knuckles – and reminded myself that BOOH was a friend of mine and would never drop me. Feeling a little steadier, I opened my eyes, taking a quick look down at Bik, who seemed to be enjoying the ride, if the big g
rin on his face was any indication.
We were at the Fifth Circle of Hell before you could count to five, and by six, BOOH was setting me down gently beside the trailer. “Thanks, Big Guy! Hey, I think I have something inside for you.”
BOOH settled on the concrete and assumed the position. How a giant, vampire bat could remind me of a dog begging for a Milk-Bone was beyond me, but he did.
“Why’s he doing that?”
“What? Listen Bik, if you want me to hear you, you’re going to have to speak up.”
“Hruhm! Hruhm! Okay, is this any better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Well, I feel like I’m shouting.”
“Sorry, but you’ll just have to get used to speaking with your big voice.”
The little guy frowned up at me. “No need to be sarcastic.”
“Hey, it’s what I do. Weren’t you paying attention down there with Bruce? Never mind. Now what did you ask me?”
“I said: Why is BOOH sitting like that?”
“He expects a treat. Hang on a sec. You’ll see.”
I went inside the trailer. Orson was busying himself at my desk and paid me no attention, so I walked over to the empty orange crate where we tried always to keep a fresh supply of full blood donor bags. Orson had done his job while I was gone, and the crate was chock-full of bags. I grabbed three and headed back outside.
You might wonder about the orange crate. We consume vast quantities of oranges - oh, and a shitload of sardines - down here. Hell’s bad enough; we don't want to be worrying about getting scurvy or rickets.
From the small landing outside the front door of my trailer, I called to BOOH. “Hey, big guy. Think fast!” I threw the three bags in rapid succession, and BOOH deftly caught them all. Then he settled down on the pavement with his treats, poked one with his teeth, stepped on it, and started licking the blood that began to ooze from the holes he’d made.
“Ugh. That’s disgusting!”
“You get used to it. And lay off BOOH. He’s a friend of mine, and I won’t have you hurting his feelings by calling him disgusting.”
“Fine,” the little pipsqueak said, as we headed back inside.
Orson was still occupied at my desk. He was walking around it now, holding his hands together, thumb to thumb, fingers of each hand pointing toward the ceiling. Orson was framing a scene he had prepared on my desk. I noticed that he wore his director’s beret.