Demon of Spring
Kafoonshō skidded through polished halls of the middle reaches of Hell, late for his annual performance review. “Apologies, director…” he began, entering the spacious office of his superior. But there was someone new behind the great desk.
“Ah, Kafoonshō, demon of spring, please enter,” the unfamiliar devil urged. Behind him the curtains were pulled back to reveal a splendid vista of the cubicle farm abyssal, office workers stretching into infinity.
“Greetings, sire. Will my director be joining us?”
A vortex opened above the cubicle farm, sucking up a section of poorly-rated workers in a torrent of paperwork, chairs, and office equipment.
“No. I am Gortoc, summoned by auditors of the Ninth Plane to boost numbers in this division,” declared the new boss. “You’re familiar with the More Hell on Earth initiative?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Very well. Your performance will be rated in accordance to its principles. Tell me, demon of spring, what torment and suffering have you brought upon humanity this year?”
Kafoonshō composed himself. He had worked damned hard to get down to this level of Hell, and would not go up easily. He summoned a vision sphere on the desk between them and cleared his throat. “Behold the scourge of spring! Frigid winds eject the demon seed from trees, grasses, and weeds; saturating respiratory systems of the weak and winter-weary. Millions suffer sneezing fits, irritated skin and burning eyes. Their happiness drowns in a river of snot!”
“Excuse me,” Gortoc interrupted, putting down a file folder. “Only one quarter of humans are vulnerable to these discomforts?”
“Ah, yes, but more are afflicted each year. Some of our best progress has been in Japan, where we’ve managed to push back the peak impact of the vicious cypress pollination to coincide with flu season. Such misery!” The vision globe showed Japanese children rubbing their puffy eyes and wailing for relief, faces awash in mucus and tears.
“Bah! Japan is no good for your numbers,” scoffed Gortoc. “Hell is unknown to these godless people.”
“Please also consider long term effects and residual fallout,” Kafoonshō backtracked. “Days of discomfort turn into weeks of exquisite torture. Sinus infections, ear aches, fatigue – even back problems caused by sneezing. Family relations are strained. Sick days rise. Economic production is slowed. Bloodshot eyes lose sight of a bright future!”
Gortoc lifted one hand off the desk to halt the presentation. “So, effects are isolated, temporary, and non-contagious, with an end result that includes beautiful meadows filled with wildflowers? This effort hardly qualifies as pestilence, and I’m afraid your numbers fall just shy of our expectations.”
Kafoonshō swallowed hard and prepared for the worst.
*
Somewhere in the outskirts of God-fearing Knoxville, Tennessee, in the bowels of a warehouse mega-store, worn down by weeks of itchy eyes, congestion and non-stop sneezing, Sally Creel wiped her nose with a tissue and exclaimed to all the shoppers around her: “Lord, I hate spring. God damn it to hell!”
And a demon of middle Hell kept his job.
END
THANKS FOR READING! This is part of a forthcoming series of Twenty-Nine Flash Fiction Stories examining the oddities of working in the modern world.
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