Death, the Devil, and the Goldfish (26 page)

Itch had a severely bad time controlling the large truck, as his feet barely touched the pedals, which made shifting gears a lot more difficult than necessary. The cat who claimed to be the Devil was not helping in the slightest, as every time Itch ground gears, the cat hissed in Itch’s ear, which rather tickled at first, but now it was just starting to unnerve him.

Itch swung the steering wheel around, veering the truck into the shipping and receiving yard. The truck drifted sideways on the wet concrete and Itch shifted gears frantically to try and regain control.

The Devil hissed.

"Will you please stop that!" said Itch and then added, "uhh, Your Majesty."

The Devil observed Itch with a look of ill contempt that came easily to almost all cats. The plain and simple fact that this cat was also the Devil backed up the look of ill contempt, as it was one of the Devil's favorite looks.

While torturing souls in the very pits of Hell, he often sneered at them with a look of ill contempt right before he sentenced them to another six-hundred-sixty-six lashes with an oversized wooden spoon. A brand new and very stupid demon on his first day in the pits of Hell rather foolishly asked the Devil why he used a wooden spoon and not a whip or something more painful. The Devil rolled his eyes right around in his dark leathery head before turning to the demon, and fixing him with one of his best looks of ill contempt, proceeded to pummel the new demon with a large wooden spoon.

While the truck lurched from side to side as Itch tried to recover control, and Big Ernie looked like he was about to deliver his morning cereal all over the cab, the Devil wished that he had a large wooden spoon somewhere close at hand.

"Over there, you fool, there!"

Itch heaved a sigh and cranked the steering, causing the truck to swing in a wide arc, throwing Big Ernie flat up against the passenger side window. The Devil also inadvertently ended up plastered to the same window and looked like a cuddly soft toy with suction cups on its paws.

The truck screeched to a halt with the back of the trailer up against a set of large cargo bay doors leading into the main warehouse building.

The Devil slid slowly down the window as gravity took effect. Big Ernie rubbed his nose, which felt a lot more bent than normal. The three unlikely individuals climbed out of the truck. Itch was happy the Devil was no longer hissing in his ear, the Devil was happy to be out of such a hot, small space, and Big Ernie was happy to be back on solid ground.

Somewhere nearby, a large electronic motor whirred to life and the cargo bay doors drifted apart. The sight that met the three individuals on the other side of the door caused a plethora of shock from Itch, confusion from Big Ernie, and sheer delight in its darkest possible shade from the Devil.

At the peak of the four-hundred-seventy-third highest mountain in the world, the Entity satin front of a small fire it had built. Its journey so far had been an easy one, and it wasn't expecting to experience any other difficulties until it reached its destination.

The Entity wrapped the cloak around itself and pulled the hood over its head. Despite the cold conditions having little or no effect on the Entity, it still required rest and sleep if it was to maintain its pace. Sitting completely upright in front of the fire on top of the four-hundred-seventy-third highest mountain in the world, the Entity closed its eyes, fell asleep and dreamt of home.

Rupert the cab driver had found a nice alley where he could relieve himself in peace, then write his name on the wall. This was always good, as finding an empty alleyway in London was like trying to find Swiss cheese without the holes. He ventured back to his cab and to his surprise found the gentleman he'd dropped off not fifteen minutes earlier standing next to his cab, waving at him cheerily. There was a second man dressed in a dark robe and sporting a pale complexion, but Rupert had no idea who he was.

Ten minutes later, Rupert drove across town with his two new fares and tried his best to be interesting and informative by regaling them with stories about hotel soap. Death and Gerald sat in silence, ignoring Rupert and considering what they'd just been told. Everything being new to Gerald anyway, he took it all quite well and was just happy that he had a job to do. The three glasses of wine he'd consumed were also an important factor in his complete and utter calmness.

Death had gone through a series of emotions, including confusion, surprise, happiness, and then a slight disappointment when he was told that he couldn't have his job back right away. Since passing out on the beach in the Bahamas and then meeting this man who, although he'd been suspicious at first, he was completely certain had once been a penguin, he'd come to realize just how essential his job was.

Maybe it was a lonely job, and he was probably very underappreciated, but looking at the state of world as it sat at this very moment, Death certainly felt that the world would probably see him in a different light from here on out. It'd taken Death a while to understand why the Devil was allowed to come back in the first place, but after Heinrich's explanation, the whole thing made perfect sense.

Sometimes things couldn’t be done directly; one thing had to happen before another could take effect, and so on. Both Gerald and Death had been given their missions, they knew exactly what they had to do, and as darkness fell over London, Rupert's cab sped on through the rain-filled streets toward Majestic Technologies where, at that very moment, two criminals and a group of elves were unloading a truck full of lemons, all under the watchful eye of a Devil-possessed cat.

The BBC network was one of the most prestigious and well-known broadcasting companies in the entire world. If the producers and executives at the BBC knew anything about the events happening right under their noses on the outskirts of London, they would have been the happiest people on the Earth, as the events would no doubt make television history.

The producers and executives were already in their element, due to the dead not dying, and were currently attempting to purchase a license allowing them to shoot one of their news anchors on live air, just so they could be the first to do it. They figured there was no harm in the event, as the anchorman could obviously not die. Several Middle Eastern countries had been broadcasting people getting shot on live television for years, but that was never on the news. Such things never happened in London, and so the BBC was jockeying to be the first to shoot someone on live air. At that very moment, the news anchorman scheduled to be shot once the license was obtained was interviewing a large gentleman on a news-related program.

The large gentleman, whose name was Terrence Macklesfield, sweated profusely, partly due to his whale-like frame and mass and partly due to the high-powered studio lights trained on him. The anchorman had been asking questions about Terrence's background, which included philosophy, religion, and highly speculative theories.

Terrence had worked for several high class institutions before presenting a theory about aliens not only building the pyramids but also inventing the mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried cranberry sandwich.

After a highly prestigious career, the scholarly gentleman, who once weighed no more than one hundred fifty pounds, ballooned to well over three hundred pounds within a matter of weeks of being fired and discredited for introducing ridiculous theories. His eating disorder was attributed to his sudden downfall, and also to his sudden fondness for mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried-cranberry-sandwiches.

Three years had passed since he'd broken his bathroom scale for the fifth time and now here he sat, back in the spotlight. When the media started reporting the dead not dying phenomenon, Terrence had been the first to draw up a theory, seeing the worldwide catastrophe as a chance to redeem himself. Although he had to pull many strings and call in every favor owed to him, he was certain that after he presented his theory, which through deduction, slight speculation, and hardened facts was actually absolutely correct, he would be thrust back into the academic community that had exiled him.

The anchorman, on the other hand, was a young gentleman with slicked-back hair and a strong desire to prove himself. Which was why, when the producers of the BBC had asked all the anchormen and women who would like to be the first to be shot on live air, the young man had leaped forward, probably a little too dramatically in hindsight, and was the first to volunteer. The young anchorman truly believed that the best way to become well known was to be hard-hitting and controversial.

Terrence wiped his forehead with an already damp handkerchief and shifted his weight from his right butt cheek to his left before deciding the right was far more comfortable but didn't want to go through the effort of switching back.

The anchorman shuffled his papers meaningfully, as all anchormen do, and smiled at the camera before turning his attention back to Terrence.

"So, Terrence," said the anchorman in a sickly sweet voice that would make cows throw up, "before we get to your theory on the current events, I was wondering if I could ask a question that I'm sure is on all our minds?" The anchorman smiled a toothy grin at the camera, as if the entire world was backing behind him and thinking exactly what he was thinking.

Terrence mopped his forehead again and realized he was getting quite hungry.

"Of course, of course," said Terrence, eager to please.

"Well, Terrence, I was wondering if you'd care to enlighten us with regards to the creation of the mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried cranberry sandwich."

Terrence had learnt a long time ago that if a theory didn't work, he needed to drop it as fast as possible. If a theory ruined a career and inadvertently caused a severe eating disorder, then denial was the best cure. He was ready for this question.

"Hmm," said Terrence thoughtfully, "I don't seem to recall that one. Sounds rather ridiculous."

The anchorman was ready with a scathing response but the answer was unexpected; however, he wasn't about to be outdone by an overweight has-been.

"I believe it was a theory you presented at Oxford just over three years ago?"

Terrence shrugged his wildebeest-like shoulders.

"I don't seem to recall that at all. In fact, I don't believe I've been to Oxford within the last seven years, at the least. Sounds like a ridiculous theory, though. I wouldn't give it any thought if I were you."

Someone behind the camera snickered, and the anchorman bristled while holding onto a sparkling smile. His plan had gone awry and he started to feel stupid, but he was certain he could nail this guy to the wall if he tried, so he took one last stab.

"So you're saying that you absolutely did not, without a doubt, present a theory at Oxford explaining how aliens built the pyramids and then went on to invent the mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried cranberry sandwich?"

Terrence looked at the anchorman as if he'd just said the most ridiculous thing in the world and spoke to him with the same calmness that teachers use to talk to five-year-olds.