by Josie Brown
“You’ll thank me,” he retorts. He rises from the chaise lounge onto which he’s flopped. “I’m going to make this one easy for you! Three doors. Two have a tiger. One has a lady. You have a two-to-one chance to choose the right one—the lady—who will give you your tip.” He winks at me. “However, if you choose one of the tigers…well, you know her too.”
“I know a tiger? How is that even possible?”
“Down here, we don’t turn up our noses up at those who choose alternative lifestyles—in this case, shape-shifting. Your next challenger loves donning fangs, furs, and claws.” He sighs ecstatically. “You’ve got to admit; it’s a bold fashion statement.”
“Indubitably,” I murmur.
“I thought so too!” He beams like a child at Christmas. “So, are you ready?”
I shrug. “Sure, what the hey?”
Not.
The curtains rise high before disappearing into thin air, revealing three sets of large double-doors.
Over the frenzy of sinners’ moans and cries, Satan’s voice booms, “Alright, Donna Stone Craig—the decision is yours! Which door holds the one thing you seek? Is it Door Number One?”
A deafening drumroll follows his pause.
“Or is it Door Number Two?”
Again, I have to wait for the damn drumroll to stop.
“Or is it Door Number Three?”
He had me at, “Okay, Donna Stone Craig,” but since I’m only a guest on this game show, I wait until the theatrics are over before shouting out, “Number Three!”
The Devil appears beside me. He has a microphone in his hand. With a serious tone, he asks, “Donna, tell the studio audience why you chose that number.”
Okay, I’ll play along. “Well, Satan, in hindsight, maybe I was too obvious.”
He nods, as if seriously considering my concern.
“I mean, I do have three children,” I continue. “Then again, I could have chosen two—you know, for two husbands; or one—since I only have one life to live.” I crook my finger at him. “But if you ask me what I think, my guess is that it wouldn’t have made a hill of beans which door I chose because this is Hell, and I’m in a lose-lose situation.”
Bells chime and whistles blare. Confetti falls from the sky.
“Donna—you are CORRECT!”
My heart skips a beat. “You mean…I chose the right door?”
Satan nods and laughs. “No, of course not, silly woman! But you did guess right about your chances of choosing the wrong door.”
“You mean the right one.”
He clicks his tongue. “Nope, sorry. The wrong door—but for all the right reasons. You see, the lady is a tiger!”
Door Number three now rises skyward, revealing a tiger the size of a Mac truck. Its roar reverberates through Hell.
But the most unusual thing about it isn’t its size or its sound, but its face.
It looks like the rogue Chinese assassin Liang Xia.
“Hello, Donna,” she purrs. In the wink of an eye, her claw reaches out—
And I barely have time to duck out of its way.
Xia and I had a hate-hate relationship—appropriate, considering that she is just as skilled and as fearless an assassin as me. But the biggest difference between us is that she worked for hire, whereas I must believe in my cause.
I have no doubt she has a cause now: kill me and leave Hell for the much more desirable Purgatory.
I’ve ducked into the thick velvet folds of the stage curtains, but it is certainly not a permanent solution. She shreds them as if they are toilet paper, all the while taunting, “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
The only thing good about the shredded curtains is now I can use them to climb up—
And just in time, too, because Xia is angry that her handiwork has been for naught. When I’m halfway to the catwalk, she snarls, “Right behind you, love! Watch your back, because my claws are sharp and the smell of blood makes me hungry!”
She only needs to leap once to reach my height. She hangs from a curtain, batting at the catwalk with her paw as if it’s a ball of yarn that needs unraveling. The catwalk creaks loudly as it swings side-to-side. Bolts ping as they pop off from the strain of her slaps.
The next thing I know, the catwalk crashes to the concrete floor below, collapsing into a jagged heap of metal.
My only hope now is to grab one of the sandbags tied to the dark cloud above, and swing out of her reach—
Caught one! I climb as high as I can.
Xia roars with laughter. “Silly fool! I’ve got you now!” She climbs the rope after me—
But I have other plans that don’t include her. Now that I’m at the top, I loosen the knot holding the rope to the cloud. Under Xia’s weight, the rope swings and frays.
I’m just about to reach for another rope when it breaks!
Xia roars as she falls backward—
And is speared by one of the rails of the catwalk.
I land on my feet beside the dead cat.
“And Xia thought she had nine lives!” Satan guffaws. “What are you up to now—six circles?”
If only.
“Five,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “I’ve always been bad with numbers. A lesser person would have lied about that.”
“If that’s the case, pretend I agreed with you.”
“Nice try—but no.” He scrutinizes the scene before him. “Ideally, you’d be naked on a cat rug.”
I shake my head. “Ideally, I’d be waking up from a coma.”
“Only when you complete our little wager successfully. Still, as promised.” He snaps his fingers.
Catherine Martin appears in a puff of smoke.
I wince. Purgatory has not treated her well. Holes are burned into her inaugural suit, exposing welts all over her body. Her skin is translucent, revealing raw bones. I shudder when a worm slithers from her ear.
Reading my mind, she scoffs, “It’s better than the alternative.”
She’s right.
“Considering you were responsible for Robert’s death, I’m surprised about your reprieve,” I admit.
“Evan prays for me every night,” she murmurs. “If you make it back, thank him for me.” She stares down at Xia’s dead body. “And thanks for killing the bitch a second time.”
“My pleasure.” Satan is tapping his foot. I don’t have much time. “Catherine, tell me: Where will we find Eric?”
She stares off into the darkness beyond the stage. “Do you hear that?” she asks.
I shake my head impatiently.
“Spooks. Ghosts. The building is filled with them,” she murmurs. “Carl knows that better than anyone.”
“What does Carl have to do with anything?” I look around cautiously. He’s nowhere to be found. Breathing easier, I add, “Look, I hate to rush you but—”
“Lee is clueless about the power that is wielded in Washington,” she declares bluntly. “I mean, let's face it: He's no Eisenhower. That man knew how to dodge a bullet, literally and figuratively…”
“What is this, sour milk because he got what you always wanted?” I throw up my hands in disgust. “I didn’t come here for your pity party, Catherine! I need to know—”
Where the heck did she go?
But no, it’s not her that’s gone—
It’s me.
9
Runnin' with the Devil
Released May 6, 1978, by the band Van Halen. Written and performed by David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen. Other writers on the song were Michael Anthony and Alex Van Halen. The song was released from the band’s 1978 debut album that took the name of the band.
Although only hitting Billboard’s “Hot 100” chart at #84 and the UK Singles Chart at #52, VH1 still calls it the ninth greatest hard rock song of all time.
As for its “satanic” lyrics, the band insists they are metaphors for the ups and downs of the band’s life on the road. (Must have been one hell of a tour…)
Don�
��t you hate it when you give in to your worst instincts and do all those naughty things that get you in trouble?
Because you’d much rather play the saint than to be called out as a sinner, here are three golden rules to follow:
Rule #1: Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you. (Caveat: This rule never applies to knife fights or shoot-outs; otherwise, you’d both be dead.)
Rule #2: Blasphemies be damned! (Okay, admittedly, this declaration defeats the purpose, but you get the point.)
Rule #3: Always play the Good Samaritan. If you see someone bleeding on the side of the road, call for help. (Then again, if they’re bleeding because of a bullet from your gun, you may want to consider a different act of kindness: putting them out of their misery.)
My neighbor, Tiffy Swift, stares down at my comatose body and sighs. “If there were any chance she’d come out of this, if I were Jack, I’d request that she have a few nip-tucks while she’s still out cold. I mean, she wouldn’t feel it anyway.” She shrugs. “I know my hubby, Rex, would consider it.”
Yeah, well, Rex wants to turn you into his own personal Barbie doll, I want to yell at her. Let’s see: how many times have you gone under the knife? Six? Seven? But who’s counting…
The fact that I’m still breathing doesn’t stop another neighbor—the unfortunately named Hayley Coxhead—from predicting so matter-of-factly: “Jack will do well as a widower.”
“That’s an understatement!” exclaims Tiffy. “Every divorcee in Hilldale will be knocking on his door with condolence casseroles—”
“Among other things,” Hayley giggles. “Now that Peter Bing has moved to Beverly Hills, Jack will be the most desirable DILF in town!”
“What’s that you say about Peter?” Hearing Penelope’s growl, her frenemies’ faces lose their color. They look closer to death than me.
I pray they don’t pass out because they’ll land on me.
“Nothing,” Tiffy and Hayley say in unison.
“Liars,” Penelope pronounces. “And to think I consider you my nearest and dearest!” She rolls her eyes. “That’s alright. Once I pull the plug on Peter’s reality show, he’ll come crawling back.” She bares her bleached teeth. “And I’ll make his life a living hell.”
With my recent forays, I could certainly give her a few pointers.
“We were just saying that Jack will certainly be more popular as a widower than just a DILF,” Tiffy admits.
She’s found the perfect way to change the topic—and to put a lascivious smile on her BFF’s artificially plumped lips. “I’ll say!” Penelope murmurs. “And I’ll be there to console him.”
“So will everyone else,” Hayley mutters wryly. “He’ll need a stick to fight them off.”
“But we’d be the perfect Hilldale power couple!” Penelope insists. “We’re both photogenic! It’s why we were chosen for The Hot Housewives of Hilldale in the first place!”
“I don’t think the show mattered to him at the time, so why should it now?” Hayley asks. “And remember: Peter was the only one who came out of it with a follow-up show—without you. Face it, Penelope, your fifteen minutes of fame are over, with or without Jack at your side.”
Peter and Penelope's divorce has had tongues wagging for months. Their breakup, after the final episode of the now canceled Hot Housewives of Hilldale reality show, culminated in a spinoff production, for him, anyway.
But because celebrities are few and far between in Hilldale, the reality show’s producer and showrunner, Addison Montague and Brin Patterson, moved Peter to Beverly Hills.
To Penelope’s dismay, Peter parlayed the show into a private bachelor competition. Granted, she has a recurring role as his ever-whining soon-to-be ex-wife, but the real heat is generated by all the starlets and models vying to be the next Mrs. Peter Bing, Realtor to the Stars.
“The producers are going to drop Peter like a hot potato when they see what I’ve got on him,” Penelope predicts.
Tiffy’s eyes open wide. “Don’t leave us in suspense! What is it?”
“When Cheever admitted he uses Peter’s Mac computer to look at his father’s porn stash, I told him I’d tell on him—unless he uploaded a spyware program that I control. He did it and now I can access Peter's iCloud account and read his emails and texts,” she retorts smugly. “You won’t believe all the nasty things he says about his new Beverly Hills celebrity clients—not to mention the producers of his show! And when they’re aware of all the sexting he does with his latest slut, from The Hot Housewives of Malibu, they’ll blow their stacks!”
“But…don't they like that kind of thing?” Tiffy asks innocently.
The thought that she may be right causes Penelope’s lips to pucker downward. But before she has a chance to put her underling in her place, Jack walks in—
With Ryan, Emma, Arnie, and Abu.
Needless to say, my neighbors are curious about Jack’s entourage. They don’t realize it but they’ve already met two of them. Emma once posed as my Swedish au pair. But at the time, she donned a platinum wig that covered her usual jet-black spiked gamine cut. As my handler, Abu’s brush-passes of intel and assignments were made via his ice cream truck, once an afternoon ritual for the children in Hilldale.
He hated the neighborhood’s snotty mommy brigade, but he sure misses the pin money.
As they stare dreamily at their fantasy come to life, Jack says brightly, “Ladies, so wonderful to see you! And I’m sure if Donna could speak for herself, she’d tell you how much your visit has meant to her.”
For sure, I’d have a few choice words for all their dissing of my body, my relationship, my life in general—
“I’ve brought out-of-town family with me, who wish to visit in private, so thanks for stopping by.” Before they can utter another word, he nudges them out the door, closing it gently behind them.
“Now, let’s get to work,” mutters Ryan.
My thoughts exactly. But without our little middleman—Nicky—I wonder how I’ll be able to convey some of the intel I’ve collected?
I’m still thinking about that when Arnie begins. “So, here’s what’s happened over the past twenty-four hours—”
Then everything goes black.
Oh, heck, what is it now, another cyber attack? Why couldn’t it have happened when the Bitches of Hilldale were quote-unquote paying their respects?
But it’s not an earthly blackout.
Suddenly, I see a ray of moonlight peeking out from a dark cloud, revealing the fact that I’m sitting on a grave in a cemetery.
Oh, joy.
Unlike me—in my gold gown pre-bulleted and bloodied, and sky-high heels—Satan is dressed for the occasion.
Well, let me put it this way: he wears a black suit and tie and is sporting a simple white rosebud boutonniere.
All of hell has turned out as well—or I should say, what is left of its resident sinners. I’ve yet to find one who hasn’t been decapitated, blinded, or otherwise maimed.
Dressed in black, they sob as if they’re attending their own funerals.
If only.
The headstone is puny compared to all of the others around it, some of which are three times as high as the average person.
Instead of angels, children, or statues of the dead who lay beneath them, they are topped by gargoyles, demons, and those who were infamously disreputable.
Some are topped with the Devil himself. Their iconography spans every society’s morbid vision of him.
As Satan flicks away an alligator tear, he says, “At last! Donna has arrived!” This only causes his minions to weep all the louder.
“Whose shindig?” I ask.
He holds out a hand to help me up, and then he invites me to turn around.
Carved on the headstone of the grave I landed on is written the following:
RIP
DONNA STONE CRAIG
MOTHER, WIFE, ASSASSIN
“I intend to live forever, or die trying.”
—Grouc
ho Marx
I try not to gasp. Instead, I do my best to stay easy-breezy when declaring, “Aren't you a bit premature?”
“It’s cheaper to make such arrangements before the inevitable event,” he reminds me.
“It’s cheaper to keep her,” I counter. “Or so sayeth Johnny Taylor.”
“He’s not exactly Groucho Marx,” Satan points out, “whose statement is quite apt in your regard, don't you think?”
“Frankly, I try not to think about it. And besides, actions speak louder than words.” I look around. “Where is my next challenger? Let’s get this show on the road. I need to get back.”
“This trial may not be as easy as you’d hope.” Gleeful with that thought, Satan announces, “I’m sure you’ll remember your neighbors, Dave and Midge Kelsey. You left them hanging in your Nordstrom's dressing room.”
“You know what they say: three’s a crowd,” I reply nonchalantly. “Since this trial is a twofer, does that mean this counts as Trials Six and Seven?”
Satan shakes his head. “Sorry, doll, but no. However, should you win, you will get to ask two questions as opposed to one.”
I guess I’ll have to live with it.
Reading my mind, Satan laughs. “Or die without it. Speaking of which, here are your competitors now!”
The words are barely out of his mouth when I see a shovel heading in my direction. I duck—
And it strikes my headstone so hard that it breaks in half before stabbing one of the mourners, slicing off her head.
As the head rolls past me, she mumbles, “Damn! I’ll never get the bloodstains out of this blouse.”
Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve got bigger problems. The way Midge is coming at me with another shovel, I guess I should take off, but it’s not so easy. My heels sink in all the way each time they spike the velvety lawn.
I kick them off and run behind a large ornate mausoleum. Its door is open, but I don’t dare go in. Otherwise, I’d be a sitting duck. Still, I slam the door shut, to give the opposite impression.
I duck around the side of the mausoleum just in the nick of time.