Despair panted, his Black Diamond claws digging into the brick of the chimney of the restaurant named Stan the Pierogi Man. The Diamond had sent him more painful visions of Pick Street, focused on this shop. He had no choice but to be here, to watch and wait.
On the way, he’d stopped by Canary Street, saw the enlarged pothole, as teams gray-clad officers scurried through the alleys searching for three ravers and a costumed and vicious dog.
I hate this place. I hate my own realm, the humans who infest it, the Diamond beneath it.
Despair texted as he waited, though he didn’t know what for. The Diamond wouldn’t send him here for no reason, and he doubted it was so he could he order the Friday night pierogi special – five for a dollar. I can have them for free at home anyway, should I want them.
Despair: [I want more construction on I-81 this summer. Block off ten miles, both ways, and have the crews work on only a quarter of it. The road will need grading.]
Dave Rossi typed back: [
The Rossis were an old family, connected to the mafia, and many connections to the Department of Public Works in Northeastern County.
Despair: [
Dave: [
Despair glared at the message in black font in a gray bubble. Why indeed? Nothing caused more anxiety amongst overworked humans than being late for work or really having to pee while traffic was backed up. The Diamond loved those negative emotions. He replied to Dave: [
Despair locked his phone screen and returned it to the pocket of his tight leather pants. The newer model phones continued to get larger, a hassle with fitting them into the pockets of these pants. But his looser-fitting dress pants, the ones he favored for trips to Badger Vale, would not work so well if he had to engage in any sort of combat, especially with Abyss Realm demons, who favored weapons like poison-tipped blades and toxic magic. Of course, he was shirtless, because any sort of shirt chafed the base of his wings when he materialized the feathered appendages.
The chimney let out a lovely smell of fried dough, potatoes, and onions – the main ingredients in pierogis. Once whatever this matter was, was resolved, he might don his glamour and convince the owner to stay open long enough to get him an order so he could snack on the way home. Badger Vale, where he spent most of his time in the human plain, had foods like Chilean sea bass, soft fillet, and lamb; they avoided the delicious local foods, probably because they appeared too cheap. The local foods were damned good, and he’d been eating the same pierogis for so long now. Unlike Despair’s demon servants, the humans were always improving and changing their recipes to compete with each other.
Ah, it’s summer. Catholic bazaar season is in full swing. I do have to get some potato pancakes this year.
He pushed a lock of bright blue hair from his face as he heard the jingling of bells on the shop door, followed by the frustrated mutterings of the eponymous Stan. He spread his black-feathered wings to cover his pale skin and scaled along the roof of the building to peer over the eave. Why had the Diamond called him here? To watch a tired and angry man in a “Kiss Me, I’m Polish” apron?
Pink sparkles flashed through the night and a slender man – not the one of internet fame, but a lithely built one with long purple hair – appeared on the sidewalk, a hand on his hip, the other reaching above his head. Crystals tinkled in small braids among the flowing waves beneath the silver tiara studded with pink gems. His face was hidden behind a white, cat-shaped mask.
Is this a cosplayer? No, not a cosplayer. This pink light is the same as the Diamond showed me. He winced; the stranger’s shorts revealed lean legs. And not so long ago, he’d been thinking of Melvin Tschida, who, unlike this man, wasn’t his type at all. This man surrounded by pink light was one-hundred percent his type. His face didn’t have the anger or bitterness so many of the humans here wore. Was he from out of the area? He had to be.
“Good evening, Stan!” The purple-haired man raised his ribbon-wrapped arms straight to shoulder height and bowed his head. He pursed his lips, and big blue eyes shifted left to right behind the mask. Small teeth worried a pouting bottom lip. Was he nervous?
“What the hell?” Stan took a step back. “The pierogi shop’s closed, and it’s July. Not Halloween.”
The purple-haired man laughed nervously. “I didn’t come for that. I am Pink Prince Titania, leader of the Midsummer Court.” He faltered again, chest rising and falling as if he were hyperventilating.
All Despair could think of was a Shakespeare story he’d never finished. His mother had read them to him a long time ago, when he was a child; they’d always put Despair to sleep. But what was this Titania doing here and claiming to be a prince?
“I don’t have time for—” Stan started.
“Oberon!” Titania shouted as blue light flashed to his right, heralding the arrival of a ridiculously tall human, one in plate boots, a greatcoat, and a tiny crown atop his pink hair.
A war hammer that looked like it had come from World of Finalcraft Scrolls rested against this newcomer's shoulder. “Hey! Don’t even think about walking away. We’re not done talking to you! We gotta—” He growled under his breath and turned to Titania. “I can’t believe we gotta do this dressed like this.”
So, Oberon, or whoever he is, isn’t comfortable with his costume? The pants look like they fit tightly.
“Oberon, we…it’s a good place to start,” Titania said, shifting his weight from foot to foot.” He turned back to Stan and laughed nervously. “Like Trinket said, this is something that’s upsetting a lot of people here.”
“You trying to jump me?” Stan demanded. “Gonna tell you, I gotta lotta cops coming to the shop.”
Titania held up his hands. “N-no. No, that’s not it at all. We wanted to talk to you about—”
Green light blossomed on Titania’s left side, almost like a mist. When it dissipated, a man in a jester’s hat, much taller than Titania, but a little shorter than Oberon, was revealed. He adjusted his slender mask with his left hand, while holding a fan of glowing green cards in his right. “We’ve come to speak with you about your no-pets policy and the emotional and economic impacts.”
“Are you joking?” Stan crossed his arms, hiding the “Polish” on his apron. His big nose twitched and he shook his head. “I don’t got time for this. I got a job. Maybe you should look into that if you got time to dress up and have lights flashing and whatever.”
“Stan,” the jester said calmly, “Hear me out, and then you are free to go. But until then, we cannot let you leave. You are outnumbered and outmatched.”
“I can’t believe this. You know what I got on my plate right now?” Stan held out his arms in exasperation.
“Pierogis?” Oberon suggested.
Despair pursed his lips to hide a snicker. No one had looked up and he didn’t want to give them a reason to.
“Keith the Kielbasa King! He’s eatin’ into my business, callin’ himself a king. Who does that? I’m just a pierogi man, and he comes to my neighborhood calling himself royalty.”
Who does this, indeed? Showing up in someone else’s territory and claiming royal status?
It would be a problem for him if more landlords became pet friendly; people without pets were generally unhappier, their sorrows and anger lasted longer without the cheerful companionship. Often a cat would curl up on the lap of a sad human or a dog would be confused by a new piece of furniture, providing comfort or levity in the midst of misery. But these stooges were not going to change Stan’s mind.
“Ah, so you’ve lost profits,” the jester said. “I’ve done research for you, as you’re so busy you don’t have the time for a simple Goggle search.” The jester shook his head in exasperation. “I found many reputable sources noting landlords that allow pets and charge pet rent will make more money in the long run.”
What is this? Is the jester trying to use logic and reason…research? The long work hours that left most citizens tired had the added benefit of leaving them little time and energy for pursuits that didn’t involve bars or aimlessly watching shows. Their struggles to pay the bills ensured they were unable to ferret out much of the corruption or even combat it…and that would seriously cut into what the Diamond gained from the area. As it was now, the humans did quite a bit of Despair’s work for him.
“Pets piss on carpets!” Stan shouted.
The jester glared disdainfully down his elegant, straight nose. “While that may happen, most stains can be cleaned. I’m sure you know this, as you own a restaurant, which I hope you clean. Even if not, at fifty or a hundred extra a month for pet rent, you could more than recuperate the costs. Pets also help in workplace productivity, as they help people to sleep better, and have that emotional support…”
Despair glared at the stupid jester. Why is he a jester? He doesn’t even smile. He has no expression, and he hasn’t made a single joke. No, he’s sharing research from credible sources!
He tuned out the man’s words as Stan’s posture relaxed, expression becoming pensive. He could reveal himself, or he could resort to other tactics. The Diamond’s power. How he hated using it because of its brutal and painful cost. But he wouldn’t get his hands dirty dealing with these three. He shouldn’t. He would heal soon enough from whatever horror the Diamond inflicted on his insides.
The humans in the county breathed in small chips of coal dust, little pieces of the Diamond that fed on their misery. They had nowhere near the amount Despair had in his body, only enough that the Diamond could feed.
Despair extended his hand, the Diamond claws extending, darkness swirling around them. Diamond, take what you will. Twist and corrupt these humans. Make their misery take form!
He clenched his teeth, eyes closing and burning. Tiny cuts opened around his nails and horns, and more inside his body. His mouth filled with the metallic taste of his own blood.
Stan fell to his knees, and Titania ran to his side. “Hey! Are you all right? Puck, Oberon, someone call an ambulance.”
“I…” Stan started. His head snapped back, mouth opening wider than should be normally possible. A cloud of ash poured from his throat and swirled around his body. “That’s f-fake news, what you’re reading! Fake news!”
The jester – presumably Puck – grabbed Titania around the waist and pulled him backward. Puck thrust Titania behind him and raised his cards. “Stay back.”
“I’m not useless!” Titania argued. “But what is—”
“He’s possessed!” Oberon said, sounding excited and raising his hammer. “Listen, bastard demon!” He leapt into the air as high as the roof of the shop, a snarl contorting his features beneath his blue fur mask. Metal music blared from somewhere. “The power of the hammer compels you!”
Really, Oberon? Where is this music coming from? Is this…is this like an anime?
Blue flames flashed around Oberon’s body and exploded from his hammer when he smashed it into the sidewalk. “Carnage exorcism!”
Yes, they’re shouting out attack names. Anime. Why? Why are anime heroes here? In my nearly three-hundred years, I’ve never heard of anything like this. Dammit, I’ve got to be dreaming. Did I fall asleep waiting for Am to get home?
Before he could think, Despair leapt from the rooftop. “Stars of Fate!” he shouted, because why not? If he was dreaming about being in an anime, he might as well play along and conjure his weapon with its name. A glowing whip of delicate gold stars appeared in his left hand. He spread his wings to halt his fall as the whip coiled around Stan’s stomach. Just before the hammer hit the earth and cracks full of blue flame shattered the sidewalk and street, Despair flicked his wrist, lifting Stan into the air. The cloud of ash completely surrounded him so he was no longer visible.
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