Lawyers in Hell (18 page)

It seemed to go on forever, with demonic screams and agonizing howls rising in pitch, then dying slowly away.  Soon, there was nothing left of him but a slowly twitching tail on the gore-drenched grass.

Sated, the things from the stream turned and oozed back to their domain, as the four large demons slowly turned toward Napoleon, Marie and Wellington.

Napoleon swallowed heavily, hearing Wellington murmur something that might have been a prayer if offered anywhere but here.  And then, amazingly, the demons nodded once and slowly evaporated into the late afternoon light.

“Oh, my benighted soul,” Wellington breathed.  “What was
that
all about?”

Napoleon lifted Marie’s head from his shoulder.  “I think,” he said, amazed his voice was steady, “we’ve been acknowledged for revealing our former neighbor’s whereabouts.”

Wellington drew a deep breath.  “If that’s all –”

“Ah ha!”  Standish walked into the backyard.  “I assume you’ve witnessed the fallout from my emergency petition.  Not bad, was it?”

“It all depends on whether you saw it or not,” Napoleon replied.  “Maybe you’re used to such things downtown, but we’re not.  I haven’t seen the like in years, and I’d rather not witness something similar for a long time.”

“Well, it’s over now.”  Standish smirked, pleased with himself.  “And, if you happen to look in front of your ex-neighbor’s house, you’ll see a large sign posted that says ‘For Sale.’”  He looked at the basket full of hedge clippings.  “Glad to see you’re keeping up your property.”

And with that, he turned and made his way back toward the sidewalk.

“That ... that bastard,” Wellington said in a tight voice.  “Not that I’m sorry about what happened, but I bloody well wouldn’t be so damned jovial about it.”

Napoleon glanced at the empty yard next door.  The tail was still twitching, but its movements had become feebler.  Finally, it faded from view, leaving only stained grass to give evidence of what had happened.

“Remember what Standish said.  He gets extra points for this.”

“And
we
get thanks from a pack of demons.  What a privilege.”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Napoleon said.  “If it means being ignored for a while, that’s a good thing.”

Marie still refused to look at the neighbor’s now empty yard.  Napoleon could see she was struggling to overcome her disgust.

“All right, Wellington,” he said.  Anything to change the subject.  “You came here for a reason.  Something about goats?”

“Oh, right.  The goats.  Why didn’t you tell me Attila used goats to keep his grass under control?”

“I just found out myself,” Napoleon replied, relieved to be on safer ground.  “As I said, I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Well, I am.  I’m bloody tried of mowing, so I borrowed the goats today.”

“Really?  And how did that go?”

“Nasty beasts, I’d say.  Ildilco told me not to get too close to them because –”

“They bite.  Attila told me.”

Wellington grumbled something, his pallor fading.  “And why would you think I’d not be interested?”

Napoleon didn’t even try to hide his smile.  “Take a look at your boots.”

The Iron Duke snapped his mouth shut on another comment and dropped his eyes to his always perfectly shined boots.  “Oh, for the love of –”

“I said I didn’t
think
you’d be interested.  You know what happens.  What goes in one end usually comes out the other.  And I see you’ve been walking in it.”

“Damn!  Now I’ll have to thoroughly clean my boots.  I hope it’s not caustic.”  Wellington looked up from his feet.  “I’ll wager it doesn’t bother Attila.”

Napoleon shrugged.  “Have you been downwind of him lately?  Between horse sweat and goat shit, the man’s a walking stench factory.”

“Hmmpf!”  Wellington was trying to scrape goat dropping from the bottoms of his boots.  “There
does
seem to be a lot of it.”

“The taller your grass is, the more –”

“I’m getting the picture.”  Wellington shook his head.  “I might have to rethink the whole enterprise.  Those damned goats ... I swear they have fangs.  At least my mower behaves itself without trying to take a chunk out of my legs.”

“So far.  Tell Attila you’re not interested.  I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Wellington snorted.  “Don’t worry.  Events around here have turned strange enough without having to wade through goat manure, too!”

Marie laughed quietly, her voice now sounding close to normal.  Napoleon squeezed her hand, but wondered if he and Wellington would get a good night’s sleep after seeing the ever-present, but thankfully mostly-hidden, side of New Hell erupt next door.

He exhaled softly.  Hell was hell and, no matter what happened, the residents of the neighborhood had no choice but to make the best of it.

Ancient gods, demons and goats notwithstanding.

And Injustice For All

By

Jason Cordova

“I’ve had it!”  Marie Antoinette screeched, entering the dilapidated apartment.  The former Queen of France pointed one manicured finger at the shrunken head perched on her dining table.  “You!  You did this to us!  You
lied
to me!”  She stamped a petite foot on the ruined carpet and glared at the bearded head.

“That could be construed as slanderous, you know,” the head of Rasputin the seer replied.  His normally warm brown eyes were cold.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were accusing me of not fulfilling my duties.”

“You haven’t fulfilled a single thing, you egotist!”  Marie stomped over to the table and grabbed the shrunken head, hoisting it up by its beard, letting it sway dangerously, upside down.  “I did exactly what you told me to do.  And now I’m going to have to move out of this
dump –”
she spat the word emphatically, “– and into Unwelfare housing!”

“We’re going to do what, now?” a familiar voice called from the other room.  Henrietta Maria, once consort of England’s Charles the First, poked her head around the corner, concern etched upon her face:  “We must move again?”

“Oui
,
”
Marie snarled, glaring at the swaying shrunken head.  “Our dear prophet has lied again!”

“I did not lie,” the shrunken head stated simply.  “I only did as you asked.”

“I asked for a prophecy about how to move into a place befitting my status!” Marie shrieked.  “And your ‘advice’ got us evicted from this dump and into Unwelfare housing, like common trash!”

“Then obviously my prophecy was correct….” Rasputin’s head muttered, exasperation lacing his tone.

“Oh, this is horrible!” Henrietta whined, looking back into her bedroom.  “I only now
just
unpacked the final box!  Dear Rasputin, please tell me this is a mistake!”

“Look lady, I don’t know how you survived in the real world, but here in hell you … well, you just aren’t cut out for this,” the shrunken head replied.  “But Marie here demanded a prophecy and I gave her one, fulfilling my contract.  Prophecy Dolls, LLC, takes no responsibility for actions taken by a customer based on that customer’s interpretation of a prophecy.  It says so in our liability waiver, which you automatically signed when you placed an order for one of the many thousands of miniature heads we offer.”

“Every single prophecy you have given me has ended up bringing me misery!” Marie complained and tossed the head back onto the table, where it rolled to a stop against the wooden perch whereon it normally resided.  Marie began to pace, thinking of all the misfortune that had befallen her since her purchase of the shrunken head from the Perdition Broadcasting System. “First I asked how to move in a higher circle of company, and by following your prophecy I somehow ended up in the fifth circle of hell…”

“I’m rather proud of that one,” Rasputin smirked.

“Then I said I wanted to know the touch of a man, and I was changed into a doll for a weekend,” Marie moaned, shuddering at the memory.  “I could not move an inch and the Undertaker’s breath was
horrid.”

“Yeah, that was funny,” Rasputin agreed, before hastily adding “– and prophetic.”

“Oh, don’t forget about the cake incident,” Henrietta called from her bedroom.

“The cake,” Marie hissed dangerously, her eyes narrowing as she glared at the shrunken head.  “I had to ask around, but I finally understand your ‘let them eat cake’ comment.  I’m still digging cake out of every crevice of my … person.  And none of those new dead will return any of my calls!”

“Hey, that was very pertinent to your prophecy request,” Rasputin protested, trying to roll so he could see Marie.  After a few abortive attempts, he managed to roll onto one ear.  He sighed and looked up at his owner.  “You wanted to know how you could become popular.  I prophesied how:  ‘let them eat cake.’”

“I’m going to sue your makers,” Marie announced suddenly.  She rubbed her hands together, a gleeful expression on her face.  “I’m going to sue them for false advertisement and breach of contract!”

“Look lady, I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye on this whole ‘prophecy’ thingy,” Rasputin said with a chuckle.

“You’re a vile little head,” Marie growled, hands clenched tightly at her sides.

“Marie,” Rasputin sighed.  “I know you may not have benefitted from my prophecies, but I can almost guarantee you that you will not win any lawsuit against Prophecy Dolls, LLC.  The contracts are iron-clad and designed to be litigation-proof.  Any claim will be summarily tossed out of court if the plaintiff cannot present clear, convincing evidence of intentional fraud.”

“Henrietta!” Marie called out in the direction of Henrietta’s bedroom.  “Do you know any lawyers?”

“In hell?” Henrietta asked, peeking through the crack in her door.  “Yes, one.  But he’s a stinking rat.”

“Call him.”

“But, Marie…” Henrietta protested, opening her door and stepping into the dingy living area, “…what if the head is correct?  What if we cannot win in the uncivil court?  You know how corrupt the circuit court of the Hall of Injustice can be.”

“We must win,” Marie stated firmly.  “We must be given what we’re owed.”

“To retain what you are given, great sacrifice comes with great reward,” Rasputin intoned from the dining table.  “Without sacrifice, nothing comes.”

“Shut it, you,” Marie ordered, glaring at the shrunken head.  “No more prophecies.  Henrietta, call your friend.”

“I dislike John Pym very much,” Henrietta muttered as she went back to her bedroom, searching for her hellphone.  “He was always so rude to my little King Charlie.  Pym and that ghastly ‘Lord Protector’ Cromwell…”

Marie picked up the head from the table and set it back on its perch.  She looked around the cluttered apartment before she found a box the right size to hold the shrunken head.  She brought it to the dining table and looked down at Rasputin.  “And as for you, I’m returning you to sender.”  Marie grabbed Rasputin by his disheveled hair, hoisting him into the air.

“Oh no,
not
‘return to sender,’” Rasputin mocked and rolled his eyes.  “Well, could be worse.  At least this time
I
won’t be the one blamed for a screw up….”

“Shut up.”  Marie shoved the head back into the box.  Rasputin glared up at her as she closed the box flaps.  “Don’t look at me like that.  You’re the one at fault – better, you’re the faulty one.”

“That argument might hold up in court,” the seer’s muffled voice called out from inside the box.  “Assuming, of course, I could be proved faulty, that is.”

“Henrietta?  Can this lawyer meet us?” Marie called out, ignoring the miniature head.  Henrietta poked her head out of her bedroom, frowning.  “He said yes, but he said there would be certain ‘stipulations’ if he took the case,” Henrietta warned, a very royal pout on her face.

Marie, doubtful, pursed her lips.  “What are they, these ‘stipulations’?”  She smacked the box.  A muffled “Hey!” angrily sounded from inside it.  Ignoring Rasputin’s protests, Marie carried the box to the doorway and tossed it into the hallway.  Someone would be along eventually to collect the trash, she hoped.  Or not.  She was done with Rasputin.

“About the stipulations … I don’t want to tell you what he’s demanding from me, but I’ve agreed,” Henrietta admitted after Marie returned.  “He’s asked us to come by now, since he is between appointments at the moment.  At least, that’s what I think he said.”

“Well, let’s go then.”  Marie led the way out the door, through the apartment building’s halls, and into the street.

The air outside their building was scorching hot and filled with soot – another constant reminder they lived in hell.  Hell was far hotter than her beloved Austria (what she was able to remember of it).  Events before she arrived in hell were blurred memories.

Marie avoided the random couples and groups groping each other out in the open as she led Henrietta toward Gremlins Chinese Theater, crossing the Hellywood Walk of Shame.  She ignored the screams of horror and pain which emanated from Gremlins and turned toward the rundown building which stood in the shadows of the massive theater.  Covered in grime and encircled with broken pavement, the dilapidated building fit perfectly with the underbelly of Hellywood.

She ignored the pitying looks from the souls who were succeeding in hell; women with disdainful faces and elaborate furs adorning slender shoulders; men, fattened and well-fed, smirking at Marie and Henrietta as they passed.  Marie bit her tongue and refused to acknowledge any of them, holding tight to her temper.  Henrietta kept silent as well.

“This, all this humiliation,” Marie said:  “This is what the prophecy doll was supposed to prevent.”  Being snubbed by passersby enjoying a more luxurious existence further enflamed her.  After all, she was the former Queen of France.

With Henrietta hot on her heels, Marie pushed open the front door of the small building and stepped into the lobby.  The hellevator bore a crudely drawn sign informing all that it was out of order.

“Typical,” Marie growled angrily as she looked for the stairwell.  She turned her basilisk stare on Henrietta, who cringed.  “Your
friend
is on the top floor.”

“You should not have worn heels, then,” Henrietta murmured, her gaze averted.  Marie scowled for a moment longer before she turned and marched to the stairs.

“Is he a good lawyer, at least?” Marie huffed as they ascended the stairs, their worn and faded skirts snagging on the angular edges of the steps.

“He was a fairly good one, from what I recall,” Henrietta admitted reluctantly as she struggled to keep pace with the faster and younger Marie.  Her ample waistline hindered her much more than the dress she wore.  “But still, a disgusting traitor and a rat.”

After a few pauses to rest, the two women climbed to the very top floor of the building.  There the stairway ended in a long hallway with a single door.  A cracked window and a broken doorknob were the door’s only features.  A pale blue carpet, stained and threadbare, covered the floor.  The plaster walls were ancient and cracking.  A single, flickering fluorescent illuminated the hallway.

Marie and Henrietta cautiously made their way to the lone door with the cracked glass pane; aside from their muffled footsteps, they heard no other sound.

Just outside the lawyer’s door, Marie and Henrietta stopped.  Marie raised her hand to knock on the glass pane but before she could do so, the door swung open.

Just within the doorway a stooped, elderly man awaited them.

Marie blinked and stepped back, startled.

His face was twisted in an unpleasant frown, and unevenly shaven.  A thin scar ran along the side of one cheek; his hair was in complete disarray; his eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles beneath them.

“Counselor John Pym,” said Henrietta.  “This is my friend, former Queen of France and of Navarre, Marie Antoinette.  Marie, Counselor Pym was leader of England’s Long Parliament.”

Nothing she’d seen in New Hell had prepared Marie for the hooks that now replaced John Pym’s hands.  A menacing hook ended in a sharp point below each wrist.  Barbs angled from the bases of each rusted and ancient-looking prosthesis.

Unable to help herself, Marie stared.

“Go ahead.  Take a good look.  Get it out of your system,” Pym said bluntly.

Still mesmerized, Marie blushed.

Pym grunted.  “Don’t worry.  You’re safe with me.  They frown on regicide here.  Yet despite my minor part in Cromwell’s execution of England’s King Charles the First, I’ve fared better in hell than Henri Sanson, the man who guillotined you.  My apartment even has a bidet.  Granted, the water is usually either
icy cold or scalding hot but it’s hell, is it not?”

“I s-s-s-see,” Marie stammered, confused.  She dimly recalled the name Sanson, though not from where.  She looked past Pym and into the attorney’s office.  “May we enter?”

“Certainly,” he said and waved them inside with one rusty hook.  He raised an eyebrow and leered at Henrietta:  “Charlie the Martyr was always the fool in the old days, wasn’t he, my dear queen?  Letting a handsome piece like you near the likes of me.”

“You traitorous rat!” Henrietta hissed through clenched teeth, squinting in the dim light as she shoved her way past the lawyer.  “You were lucky to avoid arrest when Charlie’s guard came calling for you.”

“That was a long time ago, Henrietta Maria,” Pym reminded her calmly, his leer disappearing.  “Anyway, what is the old martyr up to these days?”

“I don’t know,” Henrietta replied primly.  She folded her arms across her chest and looked down her nose at him.  “The king’s affairs are none of your business.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is!” Pym exclaimed, slapping Henrietta on the backside with the curved side of one hook.  “Love beyond the grave?  Or did he get his fill of little Catholic French princesses while he yet lived?  You were always good for a laugh, Henrietta.”

“We are not here to reminisce, Mr. Pym,” Marie interrupted.  “Henrietta told me you could help us.”

“Yes,” Pym nodded, closing his office door with his shoulder.  He kicked aside one of many stray manila folders scattered on the floor, motioning the two ladies to seat themselves on his couch before he pulled a chair out from behind his desk and sat heavily.  “So you want to sue Prophecy Dolls, eh?”

“They lied in their advertisement on PBS – you know, we should be able to trust Perdition Broadcasting System … PBS, funded by us, the damned….”  Henrietta played nervously with a loose strand of hair.  “The broadcast said the prophecy doll would help improve our fortunes.  So far, it has led to misery.”

“I bought one of those dolls myself, actually,” Pym nodded, smiling at the memory.  “I picked up the Nostradamus one.  Swell gag gift, if you ask me.  He predicted that the two ‘dames of air’ shall head into my office.  Classic prophecy…”

“Your Nostradamus doll dared to call
me
an
airhead?
  Oh, never mind, I’m not asking about
your
doll,” Marie reminded him sternly.  “The Prophecy Dolls company is in breach of contract for saying that their dolls work.  Maybe PBS is, too, for offering the dolls to contributors.  Henrietta said that you could possibly sue them … Prophecy Dolls, I mean, not PBS.”  Her voice trailed off.