Hell's Super by Cain Mark

Author:Cain, Mark [Cain, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Taylor Street Publishing
Published: 2013-10-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Hell actually seemed beautiful to me that night as I walked home along the main avenue of the Fifth Circle: there was less trash on the road than was common; the smell of sulfur was gone from the air; the screeching sounds of tires, of human souls howling in torment, were curiously absent. Silence reigned everywhere, which suited my mood. I looked to the sky. There were no stars to see, this being the Underworld and all, but the main burn-off fire from the oil refinery was unusually bright that night, and if I squinted a bit, the blaze looked a little like a full moon.

I was three blocks from my apartment, passing across the narrow entrance to a dark alley, when two sets of hands pulled me in.

Three toughs confronted me, the two who had grabbed me and a third who stood patting a baseball bat into his left hand. All three were dressed in white ballerina costumes.

“What’s with the tutus?”

The men looked at me sheepishly. Playing tough while dressed like a bunch of girls must have been hard on them. “We just finished performing in ‘Swan Lake,’ ” one mumbled, a heavy-set guy whose head was shaved bald.

“Don’t say it like that,” commented his near twin. The two reminded me of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. “At least it’s show business.”

“Shut up,” said a voice from the shadows. There was a crash, as what I assumed was a half-full trashcan was kicked over. I heard its lid skittering over the asphalt.

I had a pretty good idea who owned the voice. The man stepped forward into the faint light emitted by the burn-off moon. Yep, it was Putty Face. He had discarded his apron and wore a dark coat, the collar turned up, presumably to add to the tough guy effect, or maybe just to obscure the whiteness of his shirt. “Don’t answer his questions. He’s supposed to answer ours.”

The man turned to me. “Alright, ya mug,” he said in his thick New Yorker dialect. “Start talking.”

“About what?” I said, with a false sense of bravado. While he couldn’t really hurt me or my eternally damned soul, if he decided to do some nasty things to me, the pain would be real. I didn’t like pain.

The tough guy looked me up and down. “Well, for starters, what’s your name?”

That seemed like a reasonable question and, since I was pretty well known in these circles, especially the Fifth Circle, there was no reason to hide it. “Minion. Steve Minion.”

“Oh,” said the leader of the ambush committee. “A wise guy, huh? We’re all minions here, ya goon, and you know it.”

“No, really. My last name is Minion … OW!” I screamed, covering my eyes with a hand. “You poked me in the eyes! Why the hell did you do that? Shit, that hurt!”

“I don’t like wisecrackers.”

“Wait, boss,” said one of the men, one of the two who had grabbed me. In his tutu, he looked like Frosty in a skirt. “I recognize that name.

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