Chapter 9 Part 1 – Call for Obstruction

So far, Barry collided with a courier van, and the accident turned into a job opportunity to drive for their service. After signing an employment contract he has second thoughts about working for his new boss, Margery. Only Barry’s contract gives Margery control over him to the point she’ll do whatever it takes to get him to do what she wants. When Margery sends Barry on his first delivery to Trinidad, he’s attacked by large white birds with human faces. A murder of thrushes come to his rescue. At the Trinidad warehouse, Barry uneasily guesses that he’s sold his soul to the devil.

As Margery and I round the corner back into the break room, she turns up an eyebrow at the disarray of chairs. “What were you doing in here?”

“Nothing.” I snap back, then pick up the chair on its side and slam it back upright, assuming I should be seated when Margery catches me up on my new reality.

“Would you like a soda?” Margery opens the refrigerator and pulls out an off-brand of cola for herself.

“Energy drink?”

“One left.” Margery sits across the table, slides a can in my direction, then pops open her own drink.

I grab the can, fall back in my chair, and kick my legs out. I stare at the wall and pull open the tab, afraid of what I might do if I look at her.

“What do you want to know?” she asks.

“Just get to the point,” I tell her. “Did I sell my soul or what?”

“You can’t just sell your soul anymore. No one’s been able to do that since the end of World War II.” Margery’s eyes roll back like she’s dreaming. “Those were the days. Everything was so much simpler back then.”

“So you admit Satan has something to do with the contract I have no memory of signing?”

“Well of course, honey. Difference is you signed over your human life to serve Satan on Earth.”

I choke on the energy drink then burp out, “Like a slave?”

“Oh, honey, it’s not so bad.”

It’s not so bad? Is she nuts?

“No, I’m not nuts. Seriously, it’s not that bad a deal.”

I lean over the table. “Did you just read my mind?”

“If only you knew the half of what old Margery can do.”

There’s a glint of malevolence in her eyes that makes me shiver. Then it hits me. “You’re Satan?” I jump back in my seat, and the energy drink splashes out of the can and onto my chest and lap.

“Of course not,” she replies, “although the mistaken identity happens quite often. I suppose I’m flattered, but more so I’m surprised you new drivers would consider old Margery the ruler over all of Hell.”

I drop my head in my hand. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”

She keeps talking. “Satan, or the CEO as he prefers we address him these days, has no time for us minions? Hell, I’ve been working for him for three-thousand years and I’ve never met him in person.”

“You expect me to believe you’re three thousand years old?”

“I’m actually thirty-two-hundred but at my age you round down, even though by demon standards I’m kind of young.”

“Demon?” I half chuckle, half cry. Shit, I think, I could use a shot, no a fifth.

“Booze’s in the far right cabinet,” Margery says, “beside the refrigerator.”

I frown as I get up, keeping sight of Margery while I gravitate toward the liquor.

The cabinet is loaded with at least twenty different brands of booze, including my favorite whiskey, right at the front of the cabinet, like it’s waiting for me. I grab the bottle, unscrew the cap and take in the aroma. The first swig, straight from the bottle, goes down smooth, but only for a few seconds before the burn hits the back of my throat. I take a few more swigs, hoping for a drunken stupor to kick in quickly.

“Honey, we like to indulge in our vices every chance we get around here. Just take it easy, you’ve got to drive back north.”

“Can’t you snap your fingers and make me sober?”

“I’m a demon, not a witch. You won’t enjoy what I’ll do to sober you up.”

“What, a little fire and brimstone up my ass?” I laugh and down another swig.

“Give me the whiskey and sit down.” Margery’s eyes turn black and her voice lowers.

There’s a loss of control in my lower extremities as one of my legs lifts and awkwardly steps forward, as if a marionette string is attached to my foot. One involuntary step after another I move back to my chair, my hands held away from my body, keeping me from drinking from the bottle. Then, an unseen force shoves me down into a seated position.

“Lightweight,” Margery says and holds out her hand. “Give it to me.”

I slide the bottle toward Margery, and it nearly tips over before she grabs it. Then I drop my face down on crossed arms.

“Should I leave you to nap, or tell you more?”

I lift his head, but continued to slump in my chair. “Tell me more.”

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