Death, the Devil, and the Goldfish (20 page)

His onboard scanning software tried once again to load the mission parameters. The pain was so extreme that Model#2984739 gave out a slight yelp. And then, without any provocation whatsoever, Model#2984739 started to dance; it started as a slight wiggle of the hips, and then an occasional head jiggle, before blowing up into a full-out groove.

There was no music, no band or DJ, just a half-empty warehouse and a robotic elf dancing to the sweet rhythmic tunes of silence. As Model#2984739 executed a lovely sideways shimmy, a string of letters ran through his mind, formed words, and promptly spelled out:

Model#2984739: aka: Eggnog

Mission Parameter Files not loaded.

Error! Error! Error! Error!

The dancing came to a stop as quickly as it had begun. Model#2984739 stared inwardly at his name until it faded away.

Obviously, there is something wrong here
.

His system administration software immediately recognized Eggnog's self-awareness of the problem and advised him to seek technical help from the nearest technician. Eggnog examined his surroundings and decided that there were no technicians in the immediate vicinity and that he should go and look for one. He straightened his little elf hat, which had become dislodged while he danced, and wandered off across the warehouse floor toward a red exit sign that emitted an annoying sort of electronic buzzing sound.

After exploring several hallways, visiting more than one bathroom, and climbing up several flights of stairs and through a rather nice ventilation shaft, Eggnog found himself in some sort of cafeteria. He walked around the perimeter of the dining room before noticing a woman sitting by herself in the far corner; she seemed to be rocking back and forth in a distressed fashion.

The memory banks in Eggnog's upper left thigh told him that she was indeed a technician. He walked under several of the tables and brushed against one of the cheap plastic chairs that creaked slightly, causing the technician to grab a nearby knife, leap to her feet, and awkwardly roll sideways. Eggnog hurried over to her and tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around with a terrified look on her face.

"Hullo," said Eggnog.

The technician made a
hulmph
sound and passed out.

Eggnog hopped back, obviously startled, and looked around, trying to think of what to do next. A computerized feeling, very comparable to confusion, washed over him. At this point, his onboard computer came up with several error signals and his body broke into a sort of Funky Chicken dance.

The cat formerly known as Fuzzbucket sat at one side of the table, a dark glint in his eyes, tail swishing ominously.

Itch and Big Ernie sat at the other side of the table, looking confused. Itch couldn't figure out why a cat would want two tons of lemons, or why they should steal them for the cat, or even why this cat was talking in the first place.

"I'll explain it again," said the cat coolly. "This body I am in is that of a cat, as I'm sure two smart gentlemen such as yourselves have already realized. My intention was to fall into a much nicer body, a body I had picked out myself. He was once a swimmer, actually, but for some strange reason the opportunity was stolen from me, and I ended up inside this ridiculous feline."

"My head hurts," said Big Ernie.

"Easy does it," said Itch to the cat, "You'll have to use smaller words, you're just confusing him."

The cat fixed Big Ernie with a glare and raised his hackles a little.

"I am in fact the Prince of Darkness." He paused for dramatic effect, letting the full impact of his words soak in. Unfortunately, it appeared, to the Devil at least, that some minds are less sponge-like than others.

Both Itch and Big Ernie stared blankly.

The cat rolled his eyes.

"I am Beelzebub!"

Big Ernie scratched his head.

"Lucifer!"

Big Ernie let out a short laugh.

"Lucy's a girl name."

"Not Lucy, Lucifer,
Lucifer
! The Devil, I'm the Devil."

Itch shrugged. "But you look like a cat."

"I'm inside the cat!"

Big Ernie leaned closer and stared into the cat's eyes. A smile spread across his face and he scratched the Devil's head lovingly.

"He's cute," said Big Ernie, "can we keep him?"

"Stop that, you imbecile!"

Itch got to his feet and began pacing, because his thoughts often held more clarity while he paced.

"Let's just presume for a moment that what you say is true. And that you are in fact the Devil trapped in a cat's body. Why exactly do you want us to steal two tons of lemons from the airport and deliver them to some factory on the other side of the city?"

The Devil moved off the table as Big Ernie kept attempting to scratch behind his ears, and leapt up onto a nearby shelf so he was eye level with Itch.

"I have put some plans in motion that will cause utter chaos around the world. However, as with all masterfully thought out plans, there are always unforeseen snags."

"Snags," said Itch thoughtfully.

"Yes, snags," said the cat.

"And in order to bypass these snags, as it were, you need us to steal two tons of lemons from Heathrow Airport and deliver them to this factory?"

"It's a laboratory," said the cat.

"What do they do there?" asked Itch.

"It doesn't matter. I'm not paying you to know things," hissed the cat.

"You're going to pay us?"

"No, not really."

Itch stopped pacing and looked at the cat.

"I don't know, stealing isn't really our cup of tea, we're more into threatening and collecting money."

"And hanging people off the side of buildings," said Big Ernie.

"Yes, thank you, Ernie," said Itch, "we do that, too."

"We're very good at it," said Big Ernie.

"Very," said Itch.

The Devil's hackles sprung up, his eyes narrowed, and he fixed a cruel stare on Itch. "Allow me to put it this way for you, just so we understand each other. Either you do my bidding, or I set your house on fire, your choice."

With a flick of the cat's tail, the couch was on fire.

Big Ernie leaped to his feet in a panic. Itch stood motionless in shock.

The cat blinked and the flames died down and vanished.

"Now," said the Devil, "do we have an understanding?"

The airport lounge at Heathrow bustled with people heading here and there, trying to find their gate, their luggage, and their children or, as in most cases, the nearest duty-free store. It was customary for people with a lengthy stopover to take a nap on one of the most amazingly uncomfortable chairs lining the centre of the elongated lounge. And so the sight of a pale gentleman dressed in a black robe and a rather good-looking man dressed in a nurse's outfit snoozing together, Gerald's head resting on Death's lap, was not entirely unusual. Especially since few people gave Death even a second glance.

A polite British voice came over the PA system.

"Could Stanton Waring please return to the security station, Stanton Waring to the security station." At this point, a group of confused-looking security guards ran past the seats where Death and Gerald were sleeping. A rather sluggish security guard with odd-sized feet and an out-of-control beard stopped to catch his breath and barked into a radio.

"Have you seen him yet?"

A static-filled voice came back at him.

"Not yet, sir."

"Keep looking, a half-naked old man shouldn't be able to get too far in these crowds!"

"Affirmative, sir, out," said the radio voice.

The guard moved to chase after the other guards and accidentally kicked Death's leg. "Sorry," he offered as he vanished into the crowds.

Death woke up with a start and looked around, trying to grasp his location. A random haze of events seeped through his mind, something to do with Ireland, a beach, a hospital, no one dying, a Polynesian midget, some nonsense about a penguin, flying on a plane and then, rather unfortunately, it all clicked into place.

"Oh," he said glumly, "now I remember." He tapped Gerald on the head.

Gerald opened his eyes, stretched, and gazed up at Death. A gleeful smile spread across his face as he realized that he was still no longer a penguin. He sat up, far too quickly, and all the pains in the world suddenly congregated inside his head and started slapping each other.

"Ahrg," said Gerald.

"Yes, quite true," said Death.

"Ahh," said Gerald, "don't shout."

"I'm not shouting."

"It certainly sounds like you are. What's wrong with me? Is this what it normally feels like to wake up as a human?"

"I don't know, I'm not human, either."

Gerald clutched his head and moaned softly.

"It's called a hangover," said Death as he got up, "and it's one of the most painful feelings you're ever likely to experience. I suffered from them for the first couple of decades of my existence but it's been a good few thousand years so I'm pretty much used to them by now."

Death helped Gerald to his feet.

"Gaa," said Gerald.

"I know what you need," said Death and looked around the lounge.

A large man with tattoos on both arms, a shaved head, and dressed entirely in denim sat nursing a duty-free bag that clearly contained cans of beer.

"Stay here," said Death.

Gerald complied and promptly sat back down in the fond hope that the world would spin a lot less if he was closer to ground level. He was wrong.

Death walked over to the man with the beers, who observed him with a sort of disinterest right up until Death reached down and took a can of beer out of his bag. The man shot up like a rocket and poked a pudgy and vicious tattooed finger at Death.

"Here! What yer think yer doin?"

"I'm sorry," said Death, looking confused, "what's the matter?"

The man's face turned a pretty purplish-pink.

"I'll tell yer what's th'matta, matey!"

Death folded his arms.

"Yes, go on."

The colour of the man's faced turned back to normal and he lowered his pointing finger. He tried his hardest to think what he was about to say but the words seemed to be lost.

"I, uhh, well—"

Death tapped his foot impatiently.

"Come on, I don't have all day, is there something you want?"

The man sat back down, still trying to remember what happened.

"No no, uhh, sorry 'bout tha, dint mean t' be a nuisance."

"Quite all right," said Death and walked back toward Gerald. The large man felt very confused until he realized he was missing a beer.

Death handed the beer to Gerald.

"Down this, you'll feel tons better. It's time we got out of here."

The Entity, after wrapping itself in a dark blue cloak and hood, trekked through the foothills of Tibet with no difficulty. The snow was little bother to it, and the cold had no effect whatsoever. Occasionally, a stray mountain goat would wander into the Entity's path, resulting in a swift kick that sent the animal hurtling through the air.

The sight of random goats flying through the air remained quite unnoticed until one of them crashed through the roof of an elderly Tibetan man's hut, landing on his wife. A few residents of the widespread Tibetan village got together to find out why the goats, after all these years, had suddenly begun flying.