JACK & JILL

Jack was a scoundrel of the worst kind, his mother started to say after she found him pilfering the contents of her hand bag, at age eight. Twenty-five years later, Jack had moved on from hand bags. He used to frequent the sleazy premises of Rosie's Bar and Restaurant, located on the second floor of Acram building, just of Jewel Street. It was the kind of bar where you would encounter a trio of Russian mafia men, dressed in fur-lined leather jackets despite the blistering Indian heat, haggling with a bald chinese man over an aeroplane. You could find anything in Rosie's bar, the locals used to claim. The bartender, a one-eyed, former Mossad Agent called Zohar, knew the city inside out - with one telephone call he could arrange a police raid, a kidnapping, a packing crate full of cocaine or a meeting (for the right price, of course) with the city's top business men. No one knew exactly how Zohar pulled it off, but he did.

Jack was of a different order. The dealings that resulted in a stolen aeroplane, a drug heist or a mafia don killing were still above him, but Jack was a respectable pimp - he had a number of talented girls, to meet a variety of different needs. But the jewel in his crown, so to speak, was Jill.

Rumours abounded that the afore-mentioned Jill was none other than Jack's own sister - but this was speculation, not (as yet) confirmed by fact. Jill wasn't a beauty - in fact if you were to venture one night into Rosie's bar, and saw Jill lounging across a table-top, propositioning a scarred, burly gangster - you wouldn't have thought much of her. She didn't look like a moll - she was far too plump, had greasy lank hair, and acne-scarred cheeks. But the regular clientele of Rosie's Bar could testify to the fact that if you forgot the excess pounds, the bad hair cut and complexion, Jill could work wonders. She had been known to tease out the passwords for swiss bank accounts from the lips of infatuated, stern businessmen. Compromising photographs of her and a certain politician (whose was once touted as the next PM), ruined the politician's marriage and destroyed any prime-ministerial hopes. Once, the gossips claimed, a French actor, an academy award nominee, who had encountered Jill on a trip to India, had sent a private jet to ferry her to his private Carribean Island for a special party.

Jill was very good at what she did.

But it wasn't enough. Jill dreamt of love - of finding someone who would take her home and look after her - of a family, children and a suburban house.

Jack dreamt of being something more than a pimp.

It was their dreams that got them into trouble.

Jack had begun a small export business on the side - a way of getting bigger game. He had started a trade sending exotic, endangered animals out of the country. He had recently laid his hands upon a male Tdijre, a animal that was considered extinct. The Tdijre had been originally obtained for a British gangster. A local IT tycoon, catching wind of this news, outbid the British Gangster, and obtained the last Tdjire.

The British Gangster vowed revenge on Jack, and contracted a local outfit to obtain the Tdijre.

A plan was hatched.

While Jack was busy with the Rdijre deal, Jill obtained a regular. He was a handsome young man - not quite like Jill's other clients. In post-coital moments, he would whisper to Jill of love, and would steal up, during the day, to serenade her with old movie songs. He even began to write her poetry.

Jill was touched.

Soon, the regular brought her gifts. First it was a teddy bear, then a dress, then a golden locket. Her regular told her he was an orphan, a self-made man, and he was lonely.

Jill began to dream.

Jack returned and found Jill in a lackadaisical state, her eyes dreamy, her thoughts far away. Her talents, her clients complained to Jack, had begun to wane. She wasn't bringing her renowned enthusiasm to bed with her anymore.

Meanwhile, Jill's latest regular had asked her to marry him. He mentioned their dreams - of being together, of children, of a suburban house.

It looked like dreams could come true.

When Jack confronted her, Jill attacked him. He guffawed when she mentioned the regular's wish to marry her. "He? Marry you?" Jack had laughed cruelly. Hurt, Jill had picked her things, and sashayed out the door.

A couple of hours later, Jack got a call. He thought it would be his contact in the police, but it was different voice.

"We've got Jill," the voice said. "She's your sister. We know. We're going to kill her unless you bring the Tdjire to the top of the Hill in three hours."

The Hill was the city's largest building, in the center of the financial district.

Jack hungup. He didn't know what to do. He thought of his long-forgotten mother, of his childhood with Jill, of the fights and the good times they had together.

He sighed, picked up the phone and made a few calls.

A couple of hours later, thanks to a favor a security guard owed him, he found himself inside the IT Tycoon's house, next to a tank which housed the repitilian Tdjire. He filled a green plastic bucket with water, and fished the Tdjire out with a tea-strainer. He placed the Tdjire in the bucket, and quickly made his way out, as the obese Tycoon snored upstairs, in his four-poster bed, lying next to his slim, model wife.

An hour later, thanks to another favor, he obtained access to the Hill building, even though it was past midnight. He took the elevator to the top floor, and climbed the fire-escape to the terrace. There, in the moonlight, he saw Jill, she was bound and gagged, and her former parmour, the handsome regular, held a knife to her throat.

"Hand the Tdijre over, and she's yours," another voice spoke. Jack turned, and saw the British gangster, who he had double crossed, step out of the shadows behind the door to the fire-escape.

Jack began to sweat. Things weren't turning out the way he imagined.

He handed the pail over.

The gangster lifted the Tdjire out. The Tdijre lay limply, and curious, the gangster flipped it over.

The Trdjire was dead.

The gangster was incensced. He screamed at Jack, and began raining blows on him. Jack ducked and began to strike back. As they tussled on the rooftop, the gangster's bouncer intervened, and hurled Jack away. Jack stumbled, close to the parapet, and tried to regain his balance. The water from the pail ran over the rooftop, making the ground slippery. Jack slipped, in the mess, and fell over the ledge.

He fell down thirty stories, to his death.

Jill pulled away from her paramour, to watch her brother hurtle to his death. SHe screamed, but her scream was stuck in her throat.

The paramour and the Gangster exchanged glances. The Gangster nodded, just once, and the paramour stepped behind Jill, and pushed her over the edge.

And screaming, Jill fell, to her death.

Jack and Jill
Went up the Hill
To fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down
And broke his crown
And Jill came tumbling After

AN INDIAN VAMPIRE

There was a Vampire on my veranda.

"You're a writer, aren't you?" He asked.

I nodded, stunned by this strange apparition on my balcony. He was a tall, pale, gangly youth. I could make out tiny, pitted acne scars on his cheeks, bloodless lips. There were bags under his eyes, and lines etched across his forehead.

"I need you to write my story," the Vampire told me. He paused, and looked at me shyly. "Please?"

I frowned. "Why?"

He smiled, baring his pointed, gleaming canines. I shuddered, and a look of fear must have crossed my face, for suddenly his smile drooped.

He sighed. "It isn't like they say it is. All these hollywood blockbusters portray Vampires to be these good-looking, sexy blood-suckers, living the good life. You know - like Underworld Evolution. Or, like in Interview with the Vampire." His shoulders sagged. "Pretty girls, palatial mansions, a garage full of flashy cars, truckloads of money. If f life were anything like that, I bet the majority of the human population would be queuing up tomorrow to join the vampiric species."

I felt a little sorry for him then. "What's it like then? Really like?"

"It's dreadfully hard to be a vampire in the modern age. I mean, it's not too bad if you've already been alive for a century or so - that's a decent span of time to have picked up a decent bit of cash. But unfortunately, this isn't the case - at least not for us, the younger vampires. The old guys have it good - they've got that old-world charm that attracts legions of admirers willing to slit their throats and pour out their blood into crystal glasses, and most of them have managed to pick up that palatial mansion and swiss bank account somewhere along the line. But for the average vampire like me, it's a different story."

I was intrigued. "How so?"

"I still have to work and that's always a drag." He sighed. "You see....I live with my parents...."

"What do you mean - you live with your parents?" I was surprised. This was the first I had ever heard of a Vampire living with his parents.

The Vampire explained. "For all practical intents and purposes, I'm still legally alive, even if most of my biological processes have stopped. I could still drop off the radar, pretend I'm dead - but my parents would have been devastated by my loss. Not to mention, if I was actually dead, they would have had me cremated by hindu funerary rites - and that would have finished me off for good." He shuddered. "What would have been the point of becoming a Vampire then?"

I was puzzled. "But...you know...all that stuff about sunlight begin fatal to Vampires - what about that?"

"It's true." Another spasm of regret crossed his face. "No more sunsets or sunrises for me."

"But you work? What do you do?" Something else struck me. "Why do you work?"

"I have to work." He replied. "Otherwise my parents would have nagged me to get a job. Luckily, the BPO craze has hit India bigtime - and the night hours suit me perfectly, working a 9 pm to 5 am job is absolutely perfect when you're a vampire, and have nocturnal habits."

That made sense.

The Vampire continued. "On my salary, I'm hoping to get my own place. I still haven't found a decent apartment, but I'm sick of living with my parents. I still haven't told them about the whole vampire thing, I think that would be too much of a shock for them. You see, I come from a Tam-Brahm family. At home, we are completely vegetarian."

"That must be pretty difficult for a Vampire," I joked.

The vampire nodded sadly. "Eating any sort of food gives me chronic indigestion, my 'dead' system can't really take it. But my mother lurks in wait for me, a plate of dosas or idlis in hand. "Just one tiny bite, darling" she says, "just try this. It's so tasty. I made it just the way you like it." The Vampire shuddered. "The very idea of a dosa makes me sick. I try desperately to fend off her attempts - and now she thinks I'm turning anorexic. Sometimes I have to submit, pretend to swallow a handful of dosa, and then rush to the bathroom and vomit." He patted his stomach. "Loose Motions all the time."

"It sounds awful," I said. I really meant it. "A living hell."

"It wouldn't be so bad if we were non-veg, and I could have the ocasional rare steak, streaming with blood." He salivated at the thought. "But my parents are so vegetarian, and so absolutely brahmin, the very mention of a dead cow can cause them anguish."

I nodded. I could understand.

The Vampire continued. "So I'm waiting for the old folks to drop off, take off to Hollwood with my savings, and then pretend to pop off. They'll put me in a cemetery, and then in the dark of night, I'll climb out of my grave - and finally - I'll be free!"

There was a soft smile on his face, a dreamy look in his eyes as he contemplated his future freedom. "Hollywood, here I come," he whispered. He pulled out a grimy, folded piece of paper from his pocket, and handed it to me.

It was print-out of a Craig's List announcement. "CEMETERY LOT FOR RENT" The auction notice read. "IN WEST HOLLYWOOD. EXCELLENT VIEW OF BRAD PITT'S HOUSE." I perused the rest of the sheet, another Vampire was sub-letting his coffin for six months, while he took a holiday to Bangkok and visited relatives in Transylvania.

I folded back the sheet and handed it to the campire. "Why Hollywood?" I was curious.

His voice was soft, and full of hope as he answered. "It's a land of dreams, a land of opportunity." He licked his lips. "They're some pretty hot vampires in LA, I hear. You know - the extras they used in Interview with the Vampire and Underworld: Evolution. Real sexy ones."

I suppressed the urge to comment that the extras were very likely mortal actresses, and not vampires. The Vampire was so very hopeful, it seemed cruel to dash his dreams.

"That's the life," he said, dreamily. "I just have to get to America."

We were silent for a while, watching the monsoon clouds slowly drift across the moon.

"But why are you telling me all this?" I asked.

"You're a writer," the Vampire replied. "You can spin my story into some sort of best-selling novel. You know - the type that'll get picked to be made into a film. Lots of cash - we'll split it 50-50... and then I can fund my trip to America."

This didn't make much sense. "But you're story is depressing. Why would people want to read this?"

The Vampire shrugged. "Spin into anything. The call-center crowd - that's a perfect audience. You know - there's that guy who wrote that book about a call-center, sold tonnes of copies and got made into a film with Salman Khan and Katrina Kaif." His voice turned dreamy again.

I considered this. He was right. The call-center crowd was the perfect audience for middle-brow vampire lit, more importantly, the setting of his story in a call-center, would be a major selling point.

So I wrote the book. But after seventeen rejections from various publishing houses, we finally gave up. Apparently, one Publisher informed me, the book would hurt the sentiments of both Christian and Hindu Groups. "We can't afford to offend both at the same time," the publisher told me. "They'll burn down the office." With that, he pushed my manuscript from his table into the dustbin. And so the book, like my friend the Vampire, never saw the light of day.

After that, we lost touch. A few months later, as I walked through the center of the city, I saw workmen hoisting a new billboard into place. It was an advertizement for a fairness cream for men, featuring a thin, pale youth in a fashionable suit. With a shock I realized that it was my friend the Vampire, whose preternaturally pale skin made him the perfect model for such a product.

His star was on the ascent. He became a regular feature of Page 3 - seeming to grace every celebrity event with his presence.

A year later, I ran into him at the opening of a club that was being run by a friend of mine. The crowd was mostly the usual high-fliers, with a fair sprinkling of foreigners. I spotted the Vampire, attired in a jazzy, flamboyant shirt and a gold Rolex, standing in the corner. A handsome, sharp-featured foreigner stood next to him, sporting a fake tan. The Vampire greeted me jovially, and introduced me to his friend.

"This is Viktor," he said. Viktor shook my hand, and smiled. His lips parted to reveal a pair of sharp, pointed canines.

Another Vampire.

"A friend from Romania," the Vampire added. He led me to a table, and we caught up over a drink.

"I thought you must have made enough to head to Hollywood," I said. It had struck me as strange, that despite his dreams to go to America, the Vampire had remained here.

"I was going to go," he explained. "But then the recession struck, big time. Everyone, especially the Vampires started to come here. The recession bit heavily into a lot of their investments - so they came here, because it's cheaper to live well. India IS the place to be. Plus, the Indian market seemed to be stronger than the rest. So it was a good idea to stay on, and I've made a killing." He guffawed, at his own joke.

I smiled weakly."How?"

"Had invested in a bit of land. Once the foreign crowd started to come, I set up a cemetery, started renting out coffins. And then branched out into importing blood." He handed me the bottle he had been drinking from - it looked like an ordinary beer bottle, but as I glanced at it - the contents were red. "Class A blood, imported from Russia. High Alcohol content. I have a whole range, with various flavours, for every pocket."

"But what about the parents?" I asked. "Your mother still trying to feed you with dosas and idlis?"

The Vampire scowled. "Not so bad now, though. I've moved out - got a penthouse in the center of town. So at least I've got my own space. But..." His voice dropped.

"What?" I asked.

"The folks are trying to get me married." He sounded hassled. "They think I should settle down now, find a nice, tam- brahm girl, have some kids." He sighed. "Not ready for all of that yet. But it's given me a new idea for a business."

"What?"

He handed me a small flier, emblazoned with the letters "VAMPIRESHAADI.COM"

"Arranged marriages for Indian and NRI Vampires," he told me. "We can match you with your caste, gotra, community etc. We should launch next week. Already, we've netted excellent ad revenues."

I was impressed. The Vampire had really come a long way.

He smiled, when I complimented him. "Thanks. But what about you? How have you been?"

I grimaced. "Alright. Could be better. Work's not that great. The recession has hit us freelancers quite bad."

The Vampire smiled, sympathetically, and leaned across the table. "I have an idea," he whispered. "Especially, for someone of your talents and outlook."

"About what?" I was intrigued.

His voice dropped lower, and he told me. We spent the rest of the night talking. By Sunrise I was convinced.

And that's how I too became a Vampire.

Shadows

A shadow follows me. I see it slide across the walls of buildings, over tarred roads blistering in the noon day sun. And when rain comes, clouds clotting the sky, the shadow skitters across the surface of a puddle, and reappears, mocking me, in the scattered shards of a broken mirror.

In darkness the shadow disappears.

Once, in a dark room, I met a lover. He came from a masquerade, a domino of sequins and glitter masking his face. He pulled me, gently, into the darkness, and then I felt his hands, along my back, tracing my spine. I laughed, and pulled away his domino but - there was nothing there. No one there, just an empty suit of clothes, drifting in the wind, and a blue sequined domino in my hand...and then I heard laughter - dry, mocking laughter. But there was no one there.

There was no one there.

Once, there was the sound of wings flapping, a sudden, small breeze tugged at my hair, drifted across my face. But I saw nothing. Something fell into my lap, I felt for it - I felt the soft fringes of a feather. And then I heard a chuckle - the soft whisper of words - and I knew, there was a God with me in that room. A God with wings, and laughter, a God whose language, whose half-whispered words, I could not begin to understand. I heard this God, I felt this God, but I could not see him.

I saw nothing.

Once, I stood in an empty street. It was dark, at night, and a flickering street lamp scattered a twitching pool of shadows that danced across the empty street. A man stepped out of the shadows, towards me, the light outlining his dark, black form. He stood in front of me, shoulders hunched, tentative.

"Who are you?" I asked, suddenly afraid.

He moved towards me, and then I saw that he had no eyes, no nose, no features. He was just a shape, a vague man-shape. But he had lips, soft shadings of black on black - lips that moved in the darkness, dripping with soft words.

"I am you," he said, and then he reached towards me, with his shadowy hands.

I watched, stricken, as his hands disappeared into my chest. I felt a vague tugging, and then his hands emerged, gripping something. It was my heart, bleeding, in his hands. And even as I watched, those soft lips smiled, a horrible, sly smile, and he stuck my heart into his dark chest. And then, he began to walk away from me, towards the flickering, dancing light - and even as he moved, his form gained substance. The soft, grey lips turned red, the shadowy hands grew into firm, taunt fingers, and flesh wrapped itself across his shadowy form. Eyes appeared in his blank face - eyes, just like mine, over a nose, just like mine.

I looked down then, at my hands, which were fading. My clothes turned to smoke, my fingers and toes curled into shadows, my body blurred.

He laughed once, softly, and walked away - a man, fully formed, with eyes and skin and lips and fingers.

I am shadow now. I am darkness.

I spend the days and light following this man, this man who has stolen my heart, my shadow that has robbed me. I live a half-life now, merging with darkness, sliding across walls and floors, peeping out from glittering surfaces.

I hear nothing, I see nothing.

In darkness, shadows disappear.

I disappear.

The Dream

A dream crept out of my skull, through my ear, staining my white pillow case. I awoke in the morning, after a heavy, black sleep, to find the corpse of a dream, bleeding on my pillow. The blood had crusted and blackened, and there was just the heart of the dream itself, a glass-like shard, made of shadows and rainbows, embedded in the bloody, black mess.

Carefully, I pried the shard loose. It glittered, full of colours, in the morning sun. In the shard, I saw faces trapped and frozen - a princess, with tears cascading down burning cheeks, an ogre, with a mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth, a witch, black locks rioting through the air, as she sped through the skies. These things and more, I spied, frozen in the glass corpse of the dream.

I pounded the shard into a fine powder, which I corked in a blue glass bottle. I kept it there, on a shelf in my kitchen. Perhaps, someday, I would have some need of it - perhaps someday, when my craft and skill ran out, I could turn to the powder in the bottle. Or when pain and illness overcame me, I could turn and find release in the magical dreams the powder could bestow.

But one night, I awoke, to hear the sound of a scuffle in my kitchen. I donned my dressing gown, and quietly crept down the stairs. In the dark kitchen, I saw the shadow of a cat against the wall, pulling the bottle out with it's paws. The bottle fell off the sledge, splintered on the floor, the powder spilling out. The cat leapt through the air, and landed on it's paws, to lick the floor of the powder.

Horrified, I watched, as the shadow of the cat blurred and shifted. A sabre-toothed tiger stood in place of the cat, and then, a moment later, a lazy-eyed chameleon, colours shifting across it's skin, slumbered on the floor. A mammooth rose up, tusks piercing the ceiling, and then a snake - with a blue, sinuous tongue, slithered across the floor. But then, the snake shook, a shudder ran through the length of it's body, and it's skin changed into gold, red, blue and green. And finally, the cat, lay again, sprawled across the floor of my kitchen, tongue hanging out.

Minutes passed, and the cat didn't move. I ventured, tentatively across, to touch the cat. It was dead, frozen stiff.

When morning came, I buried the cat in the graveyard.

Days later, I found a hole in the ground, where I had buried the cat. Now, the children of my village claim that a cat visits them in their dreams, a furry, shadow-less creature, with a long blue tongue. There are also reports, of giant footprints in the forest - footprints that belong to an elephant. In my garden, I see the sliding tracks of a snake, and once, the postman found a long, pointed tooth, embedded in my post box.

The dream lives on.

HIGHWAY TO HELL

The strangest thing happened to me the other day. I had just entered a coffee shop, and ordered myself a cappuccino, when i noticed a cellphone lying on the table in front of me. When summoned, the buxom waitress looked askance. "Look," she said, fixing me with a stern look, "you found it." And with that, she flounced away, no doubt to hassle some other equally nonplussed and well meaning customer.
I stared at the cell phone lying on the table. It was the latest razr sleek model, in a gold covering. Very bling-bling. And even as I watched, the phone began to vibrate and ring. The display flashed, bright red. The ring-tone was Highway to Hell.
Interesting choice.
The phone kept ringing, and the other customers in the coffee-shop began to dart suspicious, evil glances at me. One pious-looking woman, accompanied by her five-year old son, placed her well-manicured hands over her son's ears, as his head started bobbing in beat to the refrain.
The song got louder and louder, till it filled the whole shop.
Soon all the customers in the shop had turned towards me, steely anger glinting in their eyes. One portly man, a regular mafioso-looker, approached my table and stabbed a stubby finger in the phone's direction. "Pick it up," he said, "Pick it up, or else..." He clenched his hand into a fist.
Suffice it to say I took the call.
"Hello?" I murmured, tentatively.
""Where are you?" A shrill voice shrieked. "All the junior demons are on strike! And you know what that means - no torments for all the wicked sinners! Tantalus is happily munching on fruit and drinking. Sisyphus is taking a break from rolling that stone uphill. And no one is prodding Adolf's butt with a fiery pitchfork! Can you imagine? He's actually smiling! And Stalin has sneaked across to talk to Chegniz Khan!" Here the voice dropped to whisper. "You better come home quick, I think a rebellion might be in the offing..."
"But..." I finally managed, after a stunned moment. "Who is this?"
"Huh?" The shrill voice was taken back. "Isn't this Lucifer?"
"I found this phone..."
"Christ!" The voice cursed and hung up.
I stared at the phone, perturbed. After a moment, I ventured to examine the phone, and called the last number dialed, hoping to discover who the cellphone owner was and return his bizarre instrument to him.
It was an American number. A girl with a southern accent picked up the phone on the first ring.
"Hello?" She drawled, shyly. "Is-Is that God? Sorry, I'm just an intern, the President didn't expect your call and he's just in the loo." She giggled now, a little embarrassed. "This is my first day in the Oval Office. God, if you have a moment, I was wonderin', if you heard my last prayer-"
I ended the call.
This phone was truly evil.
The phone rang again, and before the customers could gather and lynch me, I answered it. A germanic voice spoke. "Mephistopheles? This is Dr Faustus here. You haven't been..."
I snapped the phone shut. The phone rang again, and I stuffed it into my handbag, and ran into the street. No matter how many times I pressed the end call button, the phone would soon start to ring. Kim Il Jong, the editor of the New York Times, a leader of an obscure californian cult, Richard Branson's personal assistant, all called, in quick succession.
The devil was clearly a busy man.
I tried everything. I tried to lose the phone - but it wouldn't get lost. (which made we wonder - how had the devil lost the phone in the first place?) I tried to burn it - it proved immune to fire. I tried to drown it, to bury it, to convince a dog to eat, to give it away at blind beggar - but nothing worked. The phone remained, stubbornly, with me.
Finally, the devil called himself. "I need my phone back," he said.
"I've been trying to get rid of it," I told him. "Really, I don't want it. It's horrible. I've been getting a horrible perspective into how things really work - and it's really sinking me into depression-"
The devil cut me off. "Let's cut to the chase. Give me back my phone. What do you want? Helen of Troy - the most beautiful woman? Hugh Grant? Prince?"
"No!" I screamed horrified.
The devil sighed. "So what do you want then? Quick, I'm a busy man. What will it be? You're a writer, I see. The pulitzer? The booker?" When I failed to respond, he continued. "You drive a hard bargain. The nobel it is."
"Look," I finally managed to stammer. "I don't want those things, at least, not this way. It wouldn't be real. You can have your cell phone back."
The devil grunted, disgusted. "Nothing in life is for free, baby, that's my motto, and it's the only thing I stick by. So, if you aren't going to accept something in return, we'll have to work something else out." He paused. "Let me ask the Big Guy. Hold on."
I was put on hold for a few minutes, to the tune of Madonna's "Like a Prayer." Finally, the devil came back on.
"That was funny," I said.
"What was?" He replied, his voice suspicious.
I told him about the hold tune. He cursed. 'That Gabriel again! Always playing practical jokes on me! huh!" He paused, and then his tone changed. "I spoke to the Man Upstairs. He'll manage the exchange, but this way, you'll have to give up something."
"What?"
"Frankly, if I were in your shoes, I don't think I'd do it." The devil sighed. "But here it is. It's your choice." He told me how to get rid of the phone.
I couldn't believe it. "Are you sure that will work? It sounds so simple."
"Of course it will work," The devil replied, irritated. "A deal's a deal. You'll just have to stick to the terms. He ended the call.
I contemplated the phone for a couple of minutes. It began to ring. Then, I made a decision.
I did it.
Minutes later, I checked my bag. My prayers had been answered. The phone had gone.
Since that day, I've had to attend church regularly, even though I had been a confirmed agnostic for most of my adult life. As the devil says, a deal is a deal.
But one day, a thought crossed my mind.
A moment later, my landline began to ring.
It was the devil. "Yeah," he replied sheepishly. "I've been thinking that too. The Big Guy is the one that's gotten the most out of the whole affair - so it stands to reason...But there isn't anyway out of it. I'm mean, even if the Big Guy did set it up that way, you're bound to the terms, unless there's a loophole."
"Is there?"
"Well," the devil drawled, "I may be able to work something out."
And that's how I ended up in Hell Pit number 3, with a pair of horns surgically attached to my forehead, prodding Adolf's butt with a pitchfork.
Hell. It ain't so bad. The company's interesting - I got to give it that. Atilla and Rasputin are more entertaining company that Reverend Francis and Mervin, the church organist could ever be.
And Oscar Wilde, in Hell Pitt number 4, says the most hilarious things.

Red Rain

Light a fire. Light a fire that spreads fast. Light a fire that spirals into the sky, red tongues of flame licking the clouds, flames ascending the heavens. Watch the sky turn red, blood-red, watch the sky bleed red drops of rain onto the ground. The rain comes fast, red and full of fire, scorching skin, burning earth.

A god is dying, and his blood rains down upon us.

There is blood on our hands - on your hands and mine, and as we reach towards each other. My palms are slick with blood, my hands slide across your face, marking your face with blood. You reach, with your red fingers, inside of me.

And there under a red sky, under a bleeding, dying God, we make love.

His eyes are full of sadness, as he watches me climb onto your lap, watches you grasp my hips and heave, watches us beat a tattoo, faster and faster, against the red, bloody earth.

His eyes drip tears, crimson tears that drop upon my head and yours, tears that writhe down our bodies, sneak into our crevices, snake along the insides of our innards, worm through our veins, and pierce our hearts.

We shudder then, together, at the same time, we shudder. You pull my head down, onto your chest, and I rake my fingernails across your back. My screams are muffled by your skin, and your moans are silenced by my hand across your mouth.

Red rain still falls, as we wriggle apart, as I claw my way through red, bleeding mud away from you, as you struggle upright, zipping your fly, buttoning your wet, torn shirt.

The god above us breathes his last, his dying breath, forcing the clouds together, and thunder sounds across the sky.

I look up into the sky, full of horrible sound and noise. I am scared, and I pull my skirt down, wipe the mud and blood off my face.

In the distance, through the falling rain I see your back, as you walk between the trees. There is fury in me, and I clench my fist so hard, that blood spurts as my nails dig into my palm.

And you - you feel the heat of my glance on your back, you feel my burning anger sear your skin, charr your clothes. You pause, and you reach a hand across your back, fingering the marks of my nails, tracing a trail of love bites that lead towards your neck.

And then your eyes fill with fire, fill with venom, a poison that blackens your eyes. Your eyes spit black poison, and earth shrivels under that black, deadly glance.

Under the gaze of a dying god, Hatred is born.

The Future Is Coming

The city of the future, on Planet X, is filled with towering high-rises, like gigantic phalluses, thrusting out of the ground, ramming into an orange, smog filled sky.

In one yellow taxi, coasting a few metres above ground, three passengers are engaged in an act that defies description. The driver, a West Indian with a strong accent, nonchalantly whistles as he raises the partition between the driver and the rear seats. He's used to this.

A few meters away, a lone alien stares forlornly at the setting sun. She is unused to nighttime, coming from a rare planet, that boasts of five suns, and thus never experiences night. The sight of stars are a strange, bewildering experience for this poor alien, and the idea of darkness awakens dormant, primal fears. She shuts the window, pulls the curtains across to seal out every glimpse of the darkening sky, and turns on all the lights at full intensity. She gets into bed, and falls asleep.

In the next room, a blue-skinned, orange haired songstress unscrews a bottle of whisky. She sighs, and views the communicator in her room, contemplatively. She taps her fingers, lightly, on the bottle, and then summoning her courage, places a call. A few minutes later, tears running down her blue cheeks, she ends the call and takes a large swig of whisky. The bottle is finished, over the next hour, and the songstress falls asleep, lying on the carpeted floor, trapped in the throes of a nightmare.

In her dream, a young orange-haired boy falls down a never-ending hole.

In a hole in the ground, a rat burrows through a strange, alien soil. The rat bears little resemblance to his relatives back on earth; he has been bred specifically for this colonized planet, by a black-market trader, who deals in exotic, live goods. This rat, is one of many, bred for a new, off-planet cult, who sacrifice rats to their patron deity - a God with the body of a woman, and the head of saber-toothed cat, with a taste for genetically-modified rodents. This cult has grown in size and influence, ever since a rogue scientist advanced a hypothesis that the planet was originally inhabited by a race of intelligent feline-like creatures.

In party in a mansion in the Upper Reaches of the city, the rogue scientist is toasted by the elite of this city. A woman, with a strange tattoo of a snake that shifts and swirls across her skin, whispers seductively in the ears of the rogue scientist. He laughs, flattered by this woman's interest, and follows her into private, curtained alcove. There, he is startled when she bites him, vampire-like, on the neck, with two artfully concealed fangs, that retract into her skull. There is a powerful poison in her fangs, and the scientist falls, twitching, to the floor. Within seconds, he is dead.

The woman with the snake-tattoo, briskly exits the mansion, her job done. Within seconds, the rival cult that she belongs to, posts a notice on the planet-wide intranet, claiming responsibility for the scientist's death. This cult maintains the scientist is a blasphemous heretic, for they believe that a race of snake-like creatures, who live in the core of the planet, will rise, one-day, to the surface, when they will devour all heathens and unbelievers. Only the followers of the snake-cult will survive this apocalypse, and will live to see the dawn of a golden age, under the governance of these intelligent, alien snakes.

When the black-market trader sees the news on the intranet, he places a call to Earth, to inform his colleagues to cancel the last order for rats, and instead to work on developing a new breed of snakes, that can survive on Planet X.

Five years later, both rats and snakes are rife on the streets of Planet X, and most citizens have undergone state-sponsered genetic modifications that make them immune to rat and snake bites. The black-market trader is now making brisk business by importing mongooses, for wealthy citizens, who favour what they term an 'eco-friendly' approach.

In an artificial garden, a mongoose ferrets through a clump of imitation roses, as his owner, concludes a business deal with a client. He summons a boy from his mansion, and hands him over. He has discovered a loophole in Planet X's laws, that allows him to trade in livestock, which is not human. He has exploited this by breeding slaves who are not technically human. The boy, who has been summoned, has gills grafted onto his neck, that allow him to breathe underwater. His eyes flash, in anger, as is handed over, perfunctorily.

Three years later, the boy has reached manhood, and he swims in a distant lake, towards freedom, to a rebel slave colony. He is accompanied by a snake, one of the descendants of the snakes the black market trader brought to Planet X. In a short while, due to the radiation underneath the surface, the snakes have evolved a a rudimentary intelligence. This snake is a prophet, and he preaches, that a Day of the Snakes will come, when the snakes will rise up, with the slaves, and dispossess the humans of Planet X, a prophecy that ironically, bears much resemblance with the beliefs of the long-dead snake-cult.

And elsewhere, on Planet X, a baby is born, a mutant, with a third eye.

This is the future.