Necessary Evil and the Greater Good

by Adam Ingle

  She often had dreams in which her grandmother lead her down paths of enlightenment, literal and figurative. She’d taken Grams’ death rather hard, and these continued visits were something of a consolation. She wasn't sure if the connection was directly between her and Grams, or if it was because Stephanie was living in Grams' house, which she’d inherited. The bedroom was almost exactly the way Grams had left it when she died. This was still Grams’ house, not Stephanie’s.

  She wasn't sure if she didn't change the house out of respect for Grams, or out of fear that making it her own would be admitting her grandmother was definitely gone. She also worried that the act of settling into the house would also mean settling for good. Stephanie had had always dreamed of living an adventurous life, only coming back to Grams' now and then to gather her thoughts and finances before she set off again to destinations unknown.

  She had seen many things on the dream journeys with Grams that had exhilarated her, but they were no substitute for a life of her own. Stephanie had also seen disturbing things with Grams. Certain minor events that had yet to pass, like the death of a distant relative or a surprise change in weather—Grams had always been very concerned about the weather— but never anything like the creature in the dream. Gram had been scared, and then that ghastly black-winged vampire had banished her. At least Stephanie had shown up to save herself.

  Mestoph appeared in the alley next to the coffee shop in a puff of black smoke. The alley was empty save for a stray cat digging through the trash. It darted away, startled by the cork-popping sound and sudden gust of wind from Mestoph’s teleporting. Just as the smoke cleared, there was another loud pop and a cottony puff of thick white smoke that quickly dissipated into the gloomy grayness of the day.

  Leviticus had a ridiculously big grin on his face.

  "You look like some perverted kid who just got fondled by his favorite uncle," said Mestoph.

  Leviticus shook his head, slightly amused and slightly disgusted. "You'll never guess what I did," he said.

  "Finally got your first touch of a real woman's breast, and not that water balloon you like to fondle in the dark?"

  "Aww, isn't that sweet, projecting your deficiencies on me," said Leviticus.

  "Alright, Virgin Mary, tell me what cute little misadventure you had on your field trip," said Mestoph in a sickly sweet maternal voice.

  Leviticus pulled out a gleaming glass vial wrapped in intricate chrome filigree and flipped it in his left hand with a cocky and overly self-satisfied look on his face. "Behold, a Prophecy!" he said, after some minor legerdemain of spinning and rolling the vial in one hand.

  "Nope. Not falling for it," said Mestoph.

  Leviticus looked down at the vial, crestfallen, and sighed. Just as the Demon was beginning to let a small smirk of victory creep onto his face, Leviticus tossed the vial toward Mestoph. It tumbled and flipped in slow motion as uncertainty began to show on Mestoph's face. He made a sudden, last moment dash to grab the vial, nearly tipping it to the ground with his effort. Mestoph looked down at the beautiful vial which, as if in response to his lingering doubt, gleamed brilliantly in the meager light of the narrow alley.

  "Holy shit!" said Mestoph.

  "Holy Shit indeed. Now put that away before someone sees it," said Leviticus as he sauntered past Mestoph and out of the alley.

  Mestoph and Leviticus sat at a small cafe table at Bean Counters, which had quickly become their makeshift headquarters. Aside from being a convenient and cozy location with higher-than-usual quality coffee, it was also the crossroads at which their human marks, Marcus and Stephanie, intersected. They sat quietly staring at their cups of coffee, Leviticus blowing on his plain, black cup of joe and Mestoph swirling some sugary sweet concoction that was topped with whipped cream and caramel.

  Their friendship had worked so well for so long because neither felt the need to constantly fill every moment with some pointless bit of drivel about how one or the other had gone grocery shopping or walked the dog—not that they’d ever done either of those activities, since they had no need to do so in the afterlife and neither had lived a mortal life on Earth. Instead, they were satisfied to let the meaningful, important things simmer and stew until they were ready to talk. After fifteen or twenty minutes of sipping and stirring, Leviticus finally broke.

  "You do realize that I'm not going to let this go for a very long time?"

  "What's that?" asked Mestoph.

  "Oh, is that how we're going to play it? You know exactly what I'm talking about. I got the Prophecy, and you haven't even gotten close to getting the Omen," said Leviticus.

  Mestoph stared down at the liquidy lumps of whipped cream that had survived his endless stirring. He took a long, noisy sip of the triple-shot caramel mocha macchiato, swished the drink that could barely be called coffee inside his mouth for several moments, swallowed, and let out a satisfied sigh.

  "I figured I would make sure you could hold up your end of the bargain before I risked my life. Your part was the one most up in the air because it required a lot of skills that frankly you just don't use in your daily afterlife. Therefore, there was no point going further until you pulled through,” said Mestoph.

  Leviticus smiled and shook his head.

  "You know, the sad thing is I think you're right. But that doesn't negate the fact that I pulled through before you could even plan what you were going to do if I was successful. Face it, I'm just better at this than you are," said Leviticus.

  They let another long pause pass between them as each pondered their next move, like they were playing a game of chess.

  "You had a lot of inside help. I killed a great spy and drinking buddy to get you information that would have otherwise made your task impossible," said Mestoph with a minor triumphant smile.

  "Oh, yeah! Blame the fact that Heaven has better security than Hell. If that's your defense, then you should have an Omen on hand just for the Hell of it," said Leviticus.

  Mestoph screwed his face up as the Angel sunk his entire argument. While he was squirming, trying to avoid admitting defeat, he caught a glimpse of their star performer— and his little dog too.

  "Hey, look who just showed up," said Mestoph.

  "Don't change the subject."

  "No, really. Our new best friend is here."

  Leviticus looked over and saw Marcus, with Sir Regi in tow, standing in line at the counter. They let the man and his dog get their coffee, including his bumbling ritual with the barista, and then settle into a comfortable seat before they made their move. It was a Saturday, and if history proved correct, Marcus and Sir Regi would be here for the better part of the morning.

  Marcus sat in an overstuffed reading chair in the corner of the dark, wood-paneled coffee shop, rendered even darker by the gray gloom coming in through the plantation shutters. He was reading a particularly interesting—at least to him—book on the early days of the Federal Reserve. Sir Regi was curled at his feet. Neither Leviticus nor Mestoph were quite sure how to approach the dog without drawing the attention of his master. They resorted to staring and clearing their throats, without much success. It turned into a passive-aggressive showdown: Mestoph and Leviticus kept staring at Sir Regi, who in turn kept staring back.

  Leviticus and Mestoph weren't really sure what they were expecting to accomplish by sitting around glaring at a Scottish terrier. Granted, they knew his secret, and once Mestoph had cued Leviticus in on it they both understood his value. They also knew exactly how they planned to get what they wanted out of him. The problem was that they couldn't afford to let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, and give away the dog’s secret.

  "Are we just going to sit here and stare at that damn dog all day?" asked Leviticus.

  Mestoph had been deep in a trance, staring at the dog, and was surprised to find himself jolted back into reality.

  "The little bastard is a hypnomancer!" exclaimed Mestoph in a loud whisper—the kind that if anyone really wante
d to listen, they wouldn't have to put much effort into it.

  “Do the thing,” said the Demon.

  “What?” asked Leviticus.

  “The thing,” he said again, gesturing emphatically toward the dog.

  “Oh!” said Leviticus, finally getting it.

  Leviticus smiled slyly at Mestoph and then turned to the dog. His eyes locked onto the dog’s and then began to jerk and flutter like they were having their own private seizure. His vision blurred and then it felt like the space in between him and the dog shrank while the rest of the coffee shop stayed the same. After a moment the room went black, and only Leviticus and Sir Regi were spotlit as if they were part of a soliloquy in a Shakespearean play.

  "It's about fucking time!" said the tiny dog in a thick Scottish accent.

  "I'm sorry?" said Leviticus.

  "I’ve been waiting for the better part of an hour for one of you scunners to get a clue. It's only after I nearly scramble the brains of that daft Demon friend of yours that he figures it out."

  The dog trotted over, followed by his spotlight, and hopped up on the table. The two spotlights merged and created one large splotch of bright white, creating a harsh chiaroscuro effect. At the edge of the circle, the features of Mestoph's face could barely be seen. The dog turned to face the Demon, let out a low purring sound, and a tiny spotlight shone on the top of Mestoph's head. It grew for a few seconds, then popped and joined with the main circle of light like two soap bubbles merging. Mestoph suddenly came to life and joined the small, private conference of a dog, an Angel, and, now, a Demon.

  "I told you he was an Angel," said Mestoph to Leviticus.

  "Alright, so what do you two fucktards want? If you're just being eejit tourists, you've seen me, so now move on. If you've got business, let's get with it. I've got plenty of napping to do," said the dog.

  "Are you really...you know...P-pro—" stuttered Leviticus.

  "Whoever I am or was is of no consequence now. I'm Sir Regi, and that's all you need to know."

  Mestoph looked down at the dog’s collar and stifled a chuckle. "Sir Reginald Pollywog Newcastle III?"

  "You'll call me Sir Regi, or you'll call me nothing at all! If you got nothing to offer, I’ve got fuck all for you, and I'll be pleased to have you move on," barked Sir Regi.

  Leviticus looked over to Mestoph, raising his brow. The dog’s attitude could end up being a liability, but Mestoph simply nodded.

  What Leviticus and Mestoph described to Sir Regi was a simple deal, though obviously only a small piece of the overall plan, which involved very little actual work from the dog. All they really needed was a snitch. Their plan had to be big and serious enough to get them in trouble with the Powers That Be, but they needed someone to turn them in at just the right time so that things didn’t get too far out of hand. In return for snitching on them, Sir Regi would in favor with God and potentially get readmitted into Heaven. Everyone would win.

  "You do realize," said the dog, "that at some point you’ll have to clue me in on what you're actually doing?"

  "Well yeah, but you don't really expect us to give you all the details now, do you?" asked Leviticus.

  "Yeah, do you think if Hitler had told everyone up front that he wanted to kill a few million Jews and take over the world that we'd have gotten to have World War II?" asked Mestoph.

  Leviticus and Sir Regi looked at Mestoph, equally perplexed and appalled. "You didn’t read Mein Kampf, did you?" asked Sir Regi.

  “And you do realize that World War II was a bad thing?” added Leviticus.

  "Ok, sure. It had some bad sides, too," he said.

  "Alright, now that we've once again celebrated Victory in Europe, you have to answer at least one question—why me?" asked Sir Regi.

  Once again Leviticus looked at Mestoph, and once again Mestoph nodded. Leviticus explained that they needed someone off the grid to use as a vessel until the time was right to blow the lid off of everything. Sir Regi surprised them by balking at their use of Marcus. Mestoph wondered if he hadn't taken up the role of a faithful dog a little too whole heartedly.

  "Is this plan of yours going put Marcus in danger?" asked Sir Regi.

  "Not if you do your job right," said Mestoph.

  Sir Regi walked back over to his master, and the spotlight disappeared. When the light returned to normal, Mestoph and Leviticus reoriented themselves and looked around. People who had been mid-sip or in the midst of talking finished their gulps or sentences as if no time had passed. The Demon and Angel walked out of the front door and darted around the corner toward the alleyway. Mestoph paused and looked over his shoulder; he had the feeling someone was watching. The streets were empty, and he couldn’t see any eyes peeping at him from surrounding windows, so he shrugged it off and followed Leviticus into the alley. He gave Leviticus a mock salute, and Leviticus flipped him off in return. Seconds later the alley was filled with a gray mix of different smokes.

  Once the Angel and Demon disappeared, St. Peter stepped forward from the shadows across the street and smiled. "I've got you, you little bastard," he muttered to himself. There was no way he could get clearance to take out Leviticus, at least not without more proof than a clandestine meeting with one of Hell Industries’ senior demons. He could, however, call in one of his double agents and work his way from Hell back to Heaven until he had enough evidence to satisfy God.

  He pulled a brushed steel phone from his pocket. The phone rang a few times, and then a voice that sounded like someone slipping in and out of puberty answered.

  "Atreyus here."

  "I've got a job for you," said St. Peter.

  Chapter 4

  There’s no such thing as a good Omen

  Mestoph paced back and forth in the living room of his messy but comfortable apartment. He would pace the length of the long built-in bookshelf, perform a snappy about-face that sent his dreadlocks flapping wildly, and then pace the length of the bookshelf again. He mumbled heatedly to himself, but little of it was intelligible. Occasionally he would plop down, exasperated, into his overstuffed and well distressed leather reading chair. It wouldn’t be long, however, before he was back up and pacing again.

  He aggressively paced to his old ice-locker style 1947 Westinghouse refrigerator. He jerked the door open and a cold wave of frosty air and condensation roiled out. Mestoph grabbed a Rogue Dead Guy, his beer of choice, slammed the door shut, and popped the cap off with the bottle opener mounted on the door of the fridge.

  Mestoph had a love for everything that represented the Atomic Era. From the restored fridge to an old avocado green couch with buttoned back cushions, on which he had spent many nights sleeping, the whole apartment looked like it was snatched straight out of the 50s. He had an artist friend who took old magazine ads and painted them large, only replacing the smiling pinkish faces of the perfect Caucasian Atomic Families and replacing them with various people of color and ethnicity. His personal favorite, which adorned the wall of his living room, was a redux of a Chesterfield Cigarette ad from the 40s that swapped a wholesome blonde in a two-piece bathing suit reaching out to offer you a pack of refreshing Chesterfields with a curvy black woman in a cleavage popping bikini. Mestoph stopped briefly to take a swig of his beer and admire the painting before he was back to pacing again.

  “God damn it!” he shouted as he plopped down onto the couch, which groaned arthritically. It wasn’t a reproduction or conjuring; it had really been through more than fifty years of asses and was showing its age. Mestoph groaned, too. He had been trying to come up with a plan to steal the Omen that would go undetected. He was sure that security at Heaven Inc. had noticed the theft of the Prophecy by now, but he had no way of knowing what their response would be. If a Prophecy and an Omen went missing at the same time, he could be fairly sure there would be a swift and harsh reaction. Most likely involving a declaration of emergency, sending Heaven and Hell into a state of martial law until the goods were recovered, and the of
fenders—well, the offenders would be dealt with in a manner that fit the severity of the situation.

  Then it happened, quite suddenly, like a cheesy connect-the-dots epiphany on a cop show with writers too lazy to actually make a logical chain of evidence that leads the investigator to the guilty party. Mestoph sat on his couch, looking around his apartment, which seemed more like a museum installation for an era he never lived through than the abode of a living, breathing person. Or demon. And just like that, his mind went from museum to hall of records. Specifically Hell Industries’ Hall of Records. The Hall contained every major, and many minor, piece of paper that had ever been produced by the underworld conglomerate. From press releases to expense reports to meeting minutes—and yes, even Omens. They were spent Omens, having been drafted and set into motion before being filed, but Omens nonetheless.

  They were seen as mostly harmless because they were essentially spent ammo, and as such the security protecting them was considerably less than that of Satan’s office. However, like any empty shell casing it could be reloaded and used again with the right tools. It would involve forging the physical document as well as the digital copy of it, which is where the real power was these days. Mestoph was no forger, nor was he a hacker, but he happened to know someone with a grudge who was both. All he had to do was get his hands on a sparsely worded Omen with some wiggle room and he’d be back in action.

  Mestoph jumped up, sending his beer tumbling to the floor, and grabbed his gun and trench coat. You couldn’t have a heist without a trench coat.

  A few minutes later he was peeking around the corner of the hallway that led to the entrance of the Hall of Records. There were two guards dressed in standard security guard uniforms standing on both sides of a pair of old wooden doors with wire-meshed glass like those from a high school built in the 70s. They were both big guys, but one was muscle big, like he could have been a professional body builder or a superhero before he died, whereas the other was fat big. The kind of fat that doesn’t get made fun of at school because he didn’t necessarily have to be strong to win a fight, he just had to put his weight into it, and then it was all over but the crying.