Clovenhoof 04 Hellzapoppin'

by Heide Goody

  Scabass grunted with satisfaction.

  “Good work. Have you got that down in the minutes, Codmince?”

  Codmince nodded as his pen scratched rapidly across the flesh of the damned soul kneeling at his feet. Minute-taking seemed an almost futile activity, in Rutspud’s opinion, as it seemed likely that the damned soul would be turned into a lump of charred flesh long before the meeting was over.

  “Next item on the agenda concerns the census,” said Scabass. “Some interesting results. Quilldust has joined us to present them.”

  With a dry creak, the census-taker demon emerged from one of the room’s few shadows and stood before the table. His feet smouldered on the iron grille flooring, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “The census has been a resounding success,” he intoned. “The target of one hundred and ten per cent response rate has been surpassed.”

  Nobody expressed any surprise at this. They all had their targets. It was the way of the world.

  “The usual rate of demon recycling is being maintained. I have taken stock of all spare parts, including those that have been described as artwork, foodstuff and mechanical devices by Belphegor’s R&D department. Nonetheless, overall we have seen a net decline in the number of demons.”

  “Decline?” said Codmince.

  “In short, we have some escapees,” said Quilldust. “I have here a list of demons who have been found to be entirely absent from Hell.” Quilldust opened a large ledger in his hands and read. “Spoongut, Toeflange, Crotchwatch, Lugtrout, Gufftit –”

  “How is this even possible?” said Rimpurge. “It’s not as though demons can just walk out. It’s tough enough to get a pass out to Limbo.”

  Rimpurge’s gaze swivelled across to Rutspud.

  “The only one of us who’s been to Limbo is Rutspud,” he said with a nasty grin.

  “What?” said Rutspud.

  “You’re involved with that dubious gift exchange thing each Crispmas,” said Rimpurge.

  “It’s called Christmas,” said Rutspud, “and I’m not the one who authorised it.”

  Quilldust gave him a penetrating stare.

  “The Heavenly Host send bandages, food packages and words of comfort to the damned,” Rutspud explained. “We send the blessed dead a selection of carnivorous flowers and shit chocolates.”

  “Where would we get chocolate from in Hell?” asked Scabass.

  “We don’t, sir. As I said, they’re shit chocolates.”

  “We might consider the possibility that someone forged a pass,” suggested Rimpurge.

  “What if they’ve gone to earth?” asked Codmince.

  “Could they have been summoned by a ritual, perhaps?” suggested Bapslime.

  “Enough!” growled Scabass. “We can speculate all day –”

  “And we have taken full account of summonings, transfers, and demons on extra-dimensional missions,” said Quilldust with a soft insistence.

  “The numbers are not important,” growled Scabass. “The point is clear. Some demons are trying to shirk their duties, here and elsewhere. It must stop.”

  Rutspud was among twelve demon underlings who were acutely aware that Scabass’s spikey fingers had automatically strayed towards the controls of his mincing machine. The feathers on his bird arm ruffled with fear.

  “Just know this,” snarled Scabass. “There will be no more soft touch management from me.”

  The demon team were very careful not to exchange glances at that.

  “I can promise you a tough new regime,” he said. “Every demon will know his place and every demon will know what will happen to him if he’s found lacking in any way. This is my department and I am responsible for everything that goes on here. Hell is undergoing challenging times, but I want everyone to know that every move made by my team is subject to my scrutiny. Every thought that even crosses your minds becomes my personal responsibility. Do we all understand one another?”

  Heads nodded around the table.

  Scabass grinned.

  “In light of that,” he said happily, “there are some questions I have for you, Rutspud.”

  Rutspud froze.

  “Some interesting pictures have come into my possession,” said Scabass. “I don’t understand exactly what they’re showing me, but I’m quite sure there’s a reasonable explanation. Let’s start with this one.”

  Scabass pulled out a sketchpad that Rutspud immediately recognised as one of Potter’s.

  “’Meat and Mead Thursday,’” read Scabass from the top of the first picture, holding it up for the entire team to see. “Tell us all about what that is, would you Rutspud?”

  The others craned forward to get a good look at the pictures, but even at a distance it was possible to discern quite clearly that this was a picture of damned souls cheerily raising glasses in a silent toast to the artist. Scabass flicked over to the next page as Rutspud burned under the accusing looks from his colleagues.

  “I think I recognise the souls in this picture, Rutspud. That’s the one called Wilde, isn’t it? Looks to me as though he’s playing some sort of game with the wrinkly one called Shipton. That rack of yours, with the unusual green covering doubles up as a gaming table, unless I’m mistaken.”

  “It’s snooker sir,” Rutspud said, in an attempt to recover a situation that was almost certainly lost. “An approved method of torment. It’s in the guide.”

  “I believe you’re right, Rutspud,” smiled Scabass, “but only where we are able to relay it to television viewers in black and white. I don’t see any television in this picture. What I do see is the woman Cartland chalking up the score, and looking as if she’s rather enjoying the game.”

  “Sir, there’s a completely reasonable explanation for everything that you see here,” said Rutspud, his mind racing.

  “Is there? Is there really, Rutspud?” Scabass leered at him, clearly enjoying the chance to make him squirm. He sat back, settling his bulk into the chair. “Please, do explain. This should be most enjoyable.”

  In Rutspud’s cave, Lickspear was trying to persuade Potter to reattach his ear.

  “I’d be very happy to sew it on,” explained Potter, “but I need something solid to sew it onto. As far as I can see, you’re a loosely organised collection of demon parts. You’re more jelly than flesh. None of you is joined together properly.”

  Lickspear’s face fell.

  “Of course, that’s what makes you special,” said Potter, quickly. “No other demon can ever be quite the same as you.”

  “Lickspear!”

  Potter shrank back into the cave as another demon rounded the corner.

  “Well met, Pigcrack!” said Lickspear, trotting over to see a fellow demon who was clearly not as special as him. He gave a quick waggle of his laughing stick. “Tell on thy mind, we make good with those pictures?”

  “What?” said Pigcrack.

  “You offer’d that should your master admire them we might score us a neat prize.”

  Pigcrack gave Lickspear a smile. It wasn’t a particularly nice smile. Lickspear noticed that and thought that it was such a shame that Pigcrack’s smiles looked like he was being devious and evil instead of just plain friendly. Lickspear gave Pigcrack a big friendly smile to show him how it was done.

  “As a matter of fact you did win a prize,” said Pigcrack. “A special holiday for everyone in here.”

  “Dig that! Where to?” said Lickspear. “Is it Heaven? I heard Heaven is a real jumpin’ joint.”

  “They all need to come with me now,” said Pigcrack, and waved a hand towards Potter. “You first, with the apron. Don’t be shy now.”

  Potter hung back.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll wait until Rutspud’s back. He might wonder where we’ve gone.”

  Pigcrack smirked, as the other residents of the cave filed out to see what was going on.

  “Rutspud? You’ll be waiting a long time for him to come back. Fact is, I doubt anyone will be seeing hi
m again.”

  Pigcrack dealt Potter a vicious backhanded blow that sent her stumbling across the room.

  “And that is for addressing a demon directly. Don’t let it happen again.”

  Rutspud pointed at the damning picture of the snooker game and tried to force his devious brain to come up with something that would convince Scabass of his innocence.

  “I’ve been researching the effects of expectation on the human soul,” he said eventually. “The theory is that I treat these subjects well. Allow them some hope and then crush it. If we simply torment these souls, day in and day out, then it’s all part of a routine. They know what to expect and they accept it. I believe that if we show them a glimpse of a more pleasant existence, then the descent into hopeless torment can be made so much more extreme.”

  He glanced around the room, trying to gauge whether this was working.

  “I’m working on a research paper as part of my role in R&D,” he offered as a last effort.

  “That would be your former role in R&D,” said Scabass, gathering the pictures together in a way that indicated that there would be no more discussion.

  Of course. Rutspud realised he was wasting his breath. It didn’t matter if he could come up with something convincing or not. Scabass would seize any opportunity to get him out of R&D, so that he could seize the role he had himself coveted. Rutspud was screwed.

  “So, all that remains is the matter of your punishment,” said Scabass. His finger strayed to the button that activated the demon blending device. “No … we can come up with something much better than that, I think.”

  Stephen’s hand ruffled Jessie’s fur, as he stood at the top of the staircase. He gazed down.

  “What’s there to be afraid of?” he said, forcing a laugh from his unwilling throat.

  Of course, there was a lot to be afraid of. There was a staircase that seemed to occupy not only the three regular dimensions, but some extra bonus dimensions that made Stephen want to rip his own eyes out. And then, after that, there was Hell …

  “I’m definitely going, Jessie,” he murmured. “I can’t leave Rutspud in the lurch.”

  Jessie looked up at him. Stephen stayed exactly where he was.

  “This,” he said, “is undoubtedly one of those situations where plunging straight in is the only way. You know, like, um, bungee jumping or sex. I think.”

  He risked being frozen rigid with fear if he waited any longer. Jessie licked her own nose and then nudged his leg.

  “Are you coming with me?” he asked.

  Jessie wagged her tail.

  “Good,” he said. “Thanks.”

  He looked down at the shimmering vortex of the staircase.

  “Come on then, let’s go.”

  They started down.

  “Lord Peter.” Scabass scuttled into the lord of Hell’s office and bowed low. “I trust all is well?”

  “Apart from the apocalyptic overheating and the missing demons?” Peter asked. “Just another day in paradise. Nero, can you please turn up the air-con?”

  “Yes, Lord,” said Nero, and with a preparatory adjustment of his toga and razor-blade crown, started to crank a handle. Scabass’s eyes were drawn to the mechanism, constructed from human joints which articulated back and forth. It operated a large fan, which was a framework of flayed skin stretched over more bones. Ribs by the looks of it.

  “A most ingenious device,” observed Scabass.

  “I’m afraid it’s proving vulnerable to the heat,” said Peter. “The bones keep melting. Now, what was the matter that you wished to discuss so very urgently?”

  “It’s Rutspud, sir.”

  “Rutspud?”

  “The underling who you recently and – if I may be so bold – unwisely promoted to Belphegor’s department.”

  “Ah, Rutspud. Spindly limbs? Very expressive eyes? Charming fellow. What’s the little tyke been up to?”

  “The most despicable crimes against your regime.”

  “Oh, really? What evidence do you have for me?”

  The click of Scabass’s fingers was like the ricochet of a bullet. The door opened and Codmince staggered in with a damned soul under his arm.

  “I present to you the minutes of my team meeting. You will see inscribed here – yes, here, just above the kidneys – the detailed accusations made on the basis of some pictures that came into my possession.”

  Lord Peter scrutinised the damned soul’s lower back.

  “Rutspud has been allowing his damned souls to relax and enjoy themselves in between inspections,” said Scabass. “Worse than that, he has colluded with them to deceive anyone who enters his cave, to convey the impression that they are being tormented.”

  Scabass paused while Peter read the minutes.

  “I think we should definitely assume that Rutspud has abused his position in the R&D lab to enable some of these elaborate deceptions,” Scabass added hopefully. “I imagine you will want to replace him with immediate effect.”

  “More than likely,” said Peter, not looking up as he scanned through the rest of the minutes, right down to the buttocks.

  “Someone who has demonstrated a talent for using their initiative? Someone with a persistent attitude and unquestioning loyalty?” suggested Scabass.

  “Ye—ees, that sounds like a good idea,” said Peter. “I must look around for someone like that. Now, these are very serious allegations.”

  “Oh yes,” said Scabass. “And I’m certain that he is responsible for the overheating problem.”

  “Really? You have proof?”

  “Unfortunately not, my lord, but the only reason that I can’t prove it is that anyone who might have seen him has conveniently lost their memory.”

  “Oh?”

  “This cannot be a coincidence. You will recall that Rutspud was involved in a study involving the River Lethe.”

  “The river of forgetfulness? Hmmm. I suppose that a cunning and resourceful demon might have made use of those waters. Nero, please make a note of this. One never knows when one might need such a thing. So, Scabass, what do you propose should be done with the person responsible for these crimes that you describe so very clearly in these minutes?”

  Scabass rubbed his hands together, a sound not unlike the screech of car brakes, and grinned.

  “I can’t believe we’ve won a special holiday.”

  Lickspear trotted happily after Pigcrack and Rutspud’s gang as they progressed through the Fields of Infinite Woe.

  “Mama-Na, ain’t you excited?” he asked. “Wherefore might we be headed?”

  “Gaorgh mah,” she said with a gloomy shake of her head.

  Lickspear turned to Cartland, whose wide-brimmed hat kept snagging on the bones that protruded from the walls of the passageway.

  “Reckon Rutspud’s waiting on us? He sure loves surprises!”

  “I always say that there’s a fine line to be trodden between giving someone a nice surprise,” said Cartland, “and accidentally wrong-footing them. It’s a tricky thing, socially. However, in this case, I think it’s safe to assume that Rutspud is preoccupied elsewhere, and the surprises that await us are likely to be less than pleasant.”

  Lickspear smiled uncertainly and moved forwards. He was often confused when Cartland spoke to him.

  “Wherefore is our destination, Pigcrack?” he asked, when he caught up to the head of the group.

  “The Pit of Appalling Horrors,” said Pigcrack. “They behaving back there? You’re supposed to be at the back, making sure there are no stragglers.”

  “Ain’t seen no stragglers,” said Lickspear. He’d check later with Wilde what a straggler looked like. “I bet the Pit of Appalling Horrors is a righteous joint!”

  A short way off to one side, a man who was stuck knee-deep in the baking soil, plucked crisp apples from the withered tree above him.

  “Look!” the man shrieked in disgust. “Another! I can just get fruit any time I like!”

  “Take heed!” Lickspear call
ed over to him. “We heading down to the Pit of Appalling Horrors. Get in, pops!”

  “Oh, but you’ve not got there yet, have you?” sniped the man. “No! Your heart’s desire is just out of reach. Mine? Mine?! It’s right here! How bloody convenient!”

  Pigcrack came to a sudden halt and Lickspear walked right into the back of him.

  “What’s hanging, man?” said Lickspear and then saw the robed and hooded figure appearing from a side passage. There were muted oof noises from the group behind them as the train of unhappy souls collided with one another.

  “Identify yourself, stranger!” said Pigcrack. “This is a restricted zone!”

  The robe hid the stranger’s face. He held his hands before him, clasped together, but as Lickspear watched, a third hand appeared from the folds of the robe and pointed directly at him. It looked familiar somehow.

  “My name is Jessephendor Clawbelly, and I demand that you hand over those prisoners to me,” boomed the stranger in a deep voice.

  “Clawbelly!” exclaimed Lickspear. “Never have I owned one of those. Cool, ain’t it, Pigcrack? Man, he’s got a tail as well!”

  Lickspear indicated the furry tail that swished from side to side under the edge of the robe.

  “Er yes,” boomed Jessephendor. “You should take heed. When my tail wags, it means I’m … I’m running out of patience. The prisoners, now!”

  “By whose authority would you make such a demand?” growled Pigcrack.

  “St Peter has sent me to review this case. I am an auditor. Um, I have spreadsheets and I’m not afraid to use them!”

  Lickspear saw Pigcrack hesitate. There were muffled whispers from the humans behind him.

  “I have heard mention of these spreadsheets,” said Lickspear. “Devilishly evil.”

  “Show me proof of your authority,” demanded Pigcrack.

  “Very well, one moment,” said Jessephendor. All three hands rifled inside the robes for a long moment. A document appeared.

  “Here,” said Jessephendor, flashing it briefly. “This bears the seal of St Peter.”