Mestoph paced back and forth in the living room of his messy but comfortable apartment. He would pace the length of the long built-in bookshelf, perform a snappy about-face that sent his dreadlocks flapping wildly, and then pace the length of the bookshelf again. He mumbled heatedly to himself, but little of it was intelligible. Occasionally he would plop down, exasperated, into his overstuffed and well distressed leather reading chair. It wouldn’t be long, however, before he was back up and pacing again.
He aggressively paced to his old ice-locker style 1947 Westinghouse refrigerator. He jerked the door open and a cold wave of frosty air and condensation roiled out. Mestoph grabbed a Rogue Dead Guy, his beer of choice, slammed the door shut, and popped the cap off with the bottle opener mounted on the door of the fridge.
Mestoph had a love for everything that represented the Atomic Era. From the restored fridge to an old avocado green couch with buttoned back cushions, on which he had spent many nights sleeping, the whole apartment looked like it was snatched straight out of the 50s. He had an artist friend who took old magazine ads and painted them large, only replacing the smiling pinkish faces of the perfect Caucasian Atomic Families and replacing them with various people of color and ethnicity. His personal favorite, which adorned the wall of his living room, was a redux of a Chesterfield Cigarette ad from the 40s that swapped a wholesome blonde in a two-piece bathing suit reaching out to offer you a pack of refreshing Chesterfields with a curvy black woman in a cleavage popping bikini. Mestoph stopped briefly to take a swig of his beer and admire the painting before he was back to pacing again.
“God damn it!” he shouted as he plopped down onto the couch, which groaned arthritically. It wasn’t a reproduction or conjuring; it had really been through more than fifty years of asses and was showing its age. Mestoph groaned, too. He had been trying to come up with a plan to steal the Omen that would go undetected. He was sure that security at Heaven Inc. had noticed the theft of the Prophecy by now, but he had no way of knowing what their response would be. If a Prophecy and an Omen went missing at the same time, he could be fairly sure there would be a swift and harsh reaction. Most likely involving a declaration of emergency, sending Heaven and Hell into a state of martial law until the goods were recovered, and the offenders—well, the offenders would be dealt with in a manner that fit the severity of the situation.
Then it happened, quite suddenly, like a cheesy connect-the-dots epiphany on a cop show with writers too lazy to actually make a logical chain of evidence that leads the investigator to the guilty party. Mestoph sat on his couch, looking around his apartment, which seemed more like a museum installation for an era he never lived through than the abode of a living, breathing person. Or demon. And just like that, his mind went from museum to hall of records. Specifically Hell Industries’ Hall of Records. The Hall contained every major, and many minor, piece of paper that had ever been produced by the underworld conglomerate. From press releases to expense reports to meeting minutes—and yes, even Omens. They were spent Omens, having been drafted and set into motion before being filed, but Omens nonetheless.
They were seen as mostly harmless because they were essentially spent ammo, and as such the security protecting them was considerably less than that of Satan’s office. However, like any empty shell casing it could be reloaded and used again with the right tools. It would involve forging the physical document as well as the digital copy of it, which is where the real power was these days. Mestoph was no forger, nor was he a hacker, but he happened to know someone with a grudge who was both. All he had to do was get his hands on a sparsely worded Omen with some wiggle room and he’d be back in action.
Mestoph jumped up, sending his beer tumbling to the floor, and grabbed his gun and trench coat. You couldn’t have a heist without a trench coat.
A few minutes later he was peeking around the corner of the hallway that led to the entrance of the Hall of Records. There were two guards dressed in standard security guard uniforms standing on both sides of a pair of old wooden doors with wire-meshed glass like those from a high school built in the 70s. They were both big guys, but one was muscle big, like he could have been a professional body builder or a superhero before he died, whereas the other was fat big. The kind of fat that doesn’t get made fun of at school because he didn’t necessarily have to be strong to win a fight, he just had to put his weight into it, and then it was all over but the crying.
Muscle Big was in the middle of telling Fat Big an elaborate joke. Mestoph leaned back against the wall, took a deep breath, and tried to make the sign of the cross just in case that kind of thing worked down here, resorting to the spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch mnemonic to do it properly. He pulled the pistol from the inside pocket of his trench coat and popped around the corner just as Muscle Big got to the tongue-twisting punch line.
“So I got a fuck for a duck, a duck for a fuck, and a buck for a fucked-up duck,” he said as Mestoph squeezed the trigger.
The gun made a spitting noise that sent a dart into Muscle Big’s neck. Fat Big guffawed, while Mestoph made a judgment call and spit two darts at him. The poison in the darts acted fast, and the two security guards dropped to the floor in a stupor that Mestoph hoped would last at least an hour.
Mestoph stepped forward and took a closer look at the two guards on the floor, noticing that Fat Big not only still had a smile on his face but that his eyes were still open. Muscle Big was staring straight up at the ceiling as well.
“Shit, I think I killed them,” said Mestoph, mostly to himself.
He nudged Fat Big with his shoe, but there was no grunt and no movement other than the undulation of his stomach in response to the nudge. This already wasn’t going as he had planned, but he could only shrug and move on. He was committed to his plan now, whether or not it was a good idea. He wished the two Bigs good luck in their re-sorting by the galactic computer and hoped they ended up with better jobs the next go-round. Then he dragged their bodies into a shadowy corner of the Hall of Records. It took a considerable amount of time, considering they both weighed at least 300 pounds each, being almost double Mestoph’s weight individually. Once the bodies had been stashed and searched—the Demon pocked the sixty bucks he found in their pockets—he surveyed his surroundings.
The Hall of Records was an enormous room that rested deep in the boiler-room warm bowels of Hell Industries’ HQ. It was like a never-ending version of the Parthenon, complete with monstrous Doric columns that ended long before they could ever dream of reaching—not to mention finding—the ceiling. The epic frieze that rested atop the exterior columns depicted a concise history of Hell. The frieze extended farther than Mestoph could see, but at the front of the hall it showed the fall of Lucifer on one side and the building of the first structures of Hell, all of which were anachronistically medieval looking, on the opposite.
Aside from billions of trivial and uninteresting Hell Industries documents, the Hall of Records also contained every Omen that had ever been passed since the creation of man. From Omen 001, the temptation of Adam and Eve, they were all represented here. A swarm of Imps kept everything clean, if not orderly, but they kept bankers’ hours. Once the little hand reached six and the big hand reached twelve, they scurried to their little holes and did whatever Imps did in their spare time. It was now three a.m. in Hell, and the place was deserted.
Hanging from the empty blackness that was, presumably, the ceiling were signs that designated the various areas of the immense hall or gave general directions to other sections. The nearest sign hung, seemingly from nothing, over a pentagonal counter and declared it to be the Information Desk. Dozens of smaller signs hung from the Information Desk sign with little info icons and arrows pointed in various directions with numbers beside them. Mestoph assumed the number was a distance of some sort, but had no idea if it was paces, miles, or even light years. The hall was so immense, any and all seemed possible.
Mestoph walked up to the Information Desk, hoping to find a computer or map. He was surprised to find instead a nude, corpulently obese person was seated—or possibly even standing, for all he knew—behind the counter. Multiple layers of fat draped down on top of each other and pooled around the inside of the information desk to the point that Mestoph wasn’t sure the creature had legs or feet. He stared at the creature for several seconds, trying to figure out how to address it since he couldn’t and didn’t want to figure out what sex it was.
“What are you doing here?” it asked in a voice both guttural and nasal, which was more feminine than it was not.
Mestoph walked around the counter and noticed that her surprisingly dainty wrists were chained to the desk just within reach of a keyboard. The chains were completely unnecessary, as the woman had to be at least a thousand pounds and wasn’t going anywhere without a crane and a miracle. It was Hell, however, and he was sure the shackles were more psychological than practical.
“Um, yes. Uh. Excuse me…miss?” He stumbled over the last part, still uncertain, “Yes, I’m looking for the Omens section.” Mestoph tried to instill a little more confidence at the end than he had started with.
The woman screwed up her eyes, and he couldn’t tell if it was doubt or hyperopia.
“And why the fuck should I help you?” she asked in a flabby voice full of contempt and a definite Southern drawl.
“Maybe because it’s your fucking job.”
Mestoph was trying to out-bitch a classically trained bitch. After a few seconds, he realized she just wasn’t going to reply to him at all. She continued to stare in his general direction and nonchalantly scratched at an enormous fold of fat hanging from her chest that he realized was actually one of her breasts.
“Do you know who I am?” asked Mestoph, trying to hide his disgust.
The woman squinted in various ways, indeed trying to figure out who he was. She gave up and squeezed both eyes tightly closed to reset whatever focus she had left.
“All I can tell is that you’re short and you ain’t white. You could be Sammy Davis, Jr. or His Excellency, President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin Dada, Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular and the Most Ubiquitous of all King Of Scotland,” she said, spitting it out in one long, uninterrupted stream as if she were vomiting the words. She panted heavily, sweat forming on her brow as she finished.
“Huh?”
“You know, the former President of Uganda.”
“Umm, yeah. I’m not Idi Amin. Or Sammy Davis, Jr.”
“Well seeing as them’s the only darkies I give a shit about, I couldn’t give two fucks who you are,” she said.
Mestoph, who’d had his hands in his pockets this whole time, ran his finger over the trigger of the gun and strongly fought the urge to shoot her between the useless, rheumy eyes. The truth was that he only had nine darts left in the clip, and aside from the fact that he might need them yet, he also wasn’t sure nine would be enough to kill the super-sized cunt. Nothing less than death was worth wasting his time.
Then something piqued his interest.
“Why just those two? Of all the black people in the world to put aside your blind hatred for, why Sammy Davis, Jr. and Idi Amin?” asked Mestoph.
“Cause they cracked me up. Them’s were some crazy-ass ni—”
Mestoph had spent some time working both sides of the Civil Rights movement during the late 50s and early 60s. In one town he would enrage the nervous and ignorant white locals by sleeping with their wives until they ended up murdering him, which gained the movement sympathy and traction. In another town he would make waves by inciting the civil rights workers into a fury that would lead to rioting, pillaging, and general violence. This would make the supporters of the movement look militant and act as a justification to the way white people treated the African Americans.
To Mestoph, this was just another day on the job. He didn’t see himself as a race traitor since he didn’t really have a race. Sure, he was black, but he wasn’t of African descent. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t even human. It wasn’t until Mestoph spent time in the Mississippi delta during the Freedom Summer of 1964 that he got a taste of what it meant to be black in America.
During that summer, he was working for the Council of Federated Organizations in Clarksdale trying to register black people to vote. The delta area of Mississippi was unusually hateful and aggressive toward blacks, even considering the generally racist mentality of the Deep South at that point in history. Working to give black people confidence and respect by way of registering them to vote created an unbelievable amount of unrest, which made the area ripe for Satan to pick up a few good souls. Mestoph was there in the guise of an educated black man from the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He had always been relatively well spoken and even managed to stay polite and mild mannered during his time there. Despite keeping a low profile, he was still a target for some of the members of the local KKK, who also happened to be members of the sheriff’s department.
He was alone one night, trying to finish up some paperwork at their makeshift office in the locker room of the Coahoma County Agricultural High School gymnasium, when the lights went out. Moments later, he was hit over the head with what he assumed was a baseball bat, and then it was lights out for him as well. When he woke up, he was in a wooden chair with his wrists and ankles bound by barbed wire.
Over the course of the next three days, Mestoph was repeatedly tortured until he passed out. Every time he woke up, he was greeted with water, some kind of slop that looked like it was meant for farm animals, and three men in crisp white robes and pointy white hoods. By the time he passed out again, those robes would be covered in blood and sweat, but they were always nice and clean when he came back around.
The thing that confused Mestoph during the three days he was beaten, burnt, prodded, and stabbed was that they never asked him anything or make any demands. They didn’t tell him to get out of town or even threaten his friends and family—not that he had any. The only thing they said, just before each punch, kick, cut of a knife, or sizzle of a brand, was the word nigger.
Finally, after three days of nearly continuous torture, with breaks only for him to regain consciousness and his assailants to regain their strength, Mestoph died. It wasn’t the first time he’d died, and not even the first time he’d been tortured to death. It was, however, the first time he ever wanted revenge. Satan pulled him off the job, likely sensing his new personal stakes in it, and he never got a chance to pay a visit to those three cheerful white guys who killed him.
“—ggers.”
Before he even realized what had happened, the gun was out. His hand was as steady as it had ever been, and he felt disconcertingly calm as he stared down the barrel of the gun. He followed it to the dart that was sticking out of the woman’s eyeball. Her eyes crossed as she tried to stare at the dart, and then she looked in Mestoph’s direction and began to laugh. If was a condescending laugh that was so deep and guttural it sounded like it should be coming from a man the size of a building instead of this woman who weighed as much as a dump truck.
Rage overtook Mestoph’s calm, and he leaped onto the counter. He planted one foot on what he could only assume was one of the gelatinous woman’s many breasts, leaned down and grabbed her by the hair in one hand, and jammed the dart with the palm of the other until it was lost in her cavernous head. He saw a slight twinge in her face, and then the pupil of her remaining weepy eye dilated. She now had the same vacant stare as the two security guards.
“Guess I’ll find it on my own,” Mestoph said, jumping down and dusting himself off.
Three hours later he regretted killing the woman at the information desk, racist or not. He had been wandering the Hall of Records, and now not only did he not know where the Omens were, but he had no clue where he was either. He had seen a sign with an information icon—the little italicized “i” inside a circle—over an hour ago and had followed the arrow, which had a “3” beside it. It had definitely not been three paces, and he was beginning to feel reasonably sure it wasn’t three miles either. He was on the verge of following his old rule of thumb of just taking left turns until he got to where he wanted, which had served him surprisingly well over the last three millennia, but was spared the need when he finally spotted a small circular information terminal up ahead.
There was a bright beacon of light emanating from its top, it and Mestoph realized he had probably passed a dozen of those in the distance since he had set out to find the Omen. He sighed but gave it no more thought, as it wasn’t going to solve anything. He was at this one now, so everything would be okay. He hoped.
Even when he zoomed out the map to its limits, it seemed endless. There was a blinking info icon in the center to show where he was, and a quick scan told him he was nowhere near the Omens. They didn’t even show up on the map. There was a search box and an on-screen keyboard, so he typed in “Omen” and tapped the search button.
The terminal queried for a moment, asking him politely to “Please wait while we determine the best route.”
He waited several more moments, tapping his feet in impatience. The terminal cycled through a few pleasant phrases, starting with “Please wait while we ask a friend.”
Mestoph sighed.
“Please wait while he asks his mom.”
“Come on, you piece of junk!” Mestoph shouted at the screen
“Hmm, she didn’t know either. Let me check previous queries of the same nature. I appreciate your continued patience.”
“I’ll show you patience when I tear you apart once piece at a time and dance on top of your mechanical corpse,” said Mestoph through gritted teeth.
The message stayed on the screen for several minutes. Finally said it changed to “Fuck if I know” and went back to the main map.
At this point Mestoph was tired, sore, thirsty, and feeling frayed by the stress and murdering. He kicked the machine repeatedly, yelling, “Tell me where the Goddamn Omens are or I’m going to find your friend and his mother and turn the mother inside out to use as a condom to fuck your friend and then rip his dick off and watch him bleed out and then use his dick to piss on you until you short circuit, you overly polite piece of shit!”
There was a deep rumbling and the map on the screen instantly drew a short green line that pointed directly behind him. Mestoph turned around and saw that a large stainless steel and glass capsule had popped up out of the floor only a few feet behind him. A door swished open from the previously seamless tube to reveal a plush white leather seat that was lit by a soft, warm glow. It looked like something out of a 70’s architecture and design magazine. Mestoph stepped in and sat down, and the door whispered closed. There was a momentary sucking sound, and then the capsule dropped away into the floor with a whoosh.
The capsule hurtled at an amazing speed through a system of thick, transparent glass tubes, which sprawled, branched, and forked like a hundred cans of silly string had exploded. The seat was built like a Ferris wheel bucket so that no matter how many loops, curves, and switchbacks the tube took, Mestoph was always right side up swaying lightly but smoothly with the motion. It was a good thing, as he imagined vertigo and vomit would have hit him within a few seconds otherwise.
The pneumatic tube took Mestoph deeper and deeper into the depths of Hell Industries’ sub-sub-sub basements, until he finally broke through what was obviously the bottom of the bottom—except the capsule kept going. It descended through the strata of basements and bedrock, into a vast sea of magma dotted with small islands of rock or hardened lava and rock columns that had been created from the meeting of unimaginably long and snaking stalagmites and stalactites.
Mestoph imagined that this would have been the part of Dante’s tour of the Inferno where he pointed off into the distance asking “What’s over there?” and Virgil would just say “Fuck if I know. Now, let’s check out that gift shop.”
The freefall had gone on for long enough that Mestoph was no longer marveling at the endless expanse of tidal lava and was instead wondering if he had chosen unwisely when he had jumped into the capsule. He breathed on the glass and played a game of tic-tac-toe against himself. Before he could finish his game, he realized that he was running out of tube. He had been hurtling downwards toward the endless ocean for long enough that when it suddenly became obvious that the pneumatic tube ended and he was about to plow through the glowing surface and deep into the sea itself, it came as something of a shock. In a panic, Mestoph jumped to his feet, though he wasn’t sure what that was going to do, as the tube hit the surface of the magma.
Nothing happened. In fact, the capsule hardly jostled as it dove beneath the molten sea; the glass windows were unscathed, and it was still the same pleasantly cool temperature it had been up in the Hall of Records.
After a few moments, the capsule entered another tube through a door that dilated like a camera shutter, and the familiar hiss of suction returned. When he was sure he wasn’t going to be flash-fried, melted, or suffer some other gruesome lava-related death, Mestoph sat back down and finally breathed again. Calm once more, he sat down and tried to pass time. He was still too nervous to touch the glass, which was glowing a bright orangey yellow, to finish his game of tic-tac-toe. It wasn’t necessary anyways, as moments later the tube pulled into what could only be described as a small subway station. The glass slid open and Mestoph stood back up and stepped out.
The station was about fifty feet wide, seventy feet high, and a hundred or so feet long with walls that were covered in glossy white acoustic tile for the first third and then curved into a barrel-vaulted ceiling. In the center of the vault was a long, narrow glass window that ran the length of the station and allowed the bright glow of the magma to shine. Although it was bright, it didn’t throw light very far. For that reason, and possibly to complete the subway station feel, the place still had fluorescent lights. In the center of the platform were two sets of three interconnected orange plastic chairs, placed back to back so that each set of three faced the opposite direction.
The air in the station swirled, coming out hot and dry from the pneumatic tube, causing the hanging lights to sway slightly. The hissing from the tubes faded and then stopped. The air inside stilled and quickly took on an acidic, oily taste and smell. It felt slightly damp, too. Mestoph imagined the dampness was the trapped sweat of the Imps or lesser Demons that had built this place however many eons ago, which had created a tiny, isolated evaporation/precipitation cycle. In reality it was a carefully controlled humidity system to counter the vampiric, moisture-sucking property of being beneath an ocean of magma. If it weren’t for the moisture, any paper documents, the plastic chairs, and even the tiles would dry out, the walls would crack, and the magma would quickly reclaim this small bubble of habitable space. The oily taste, on the other hand, was much closer to Mestoph’s imagination than he’d have cared to know.
Other than the capsule he had arrived in and the plastic chairs, the only other thing in the station was a small metal door with a sign that read “Authorized Personnel Only.” He walked over and looked carefully at the door. Seeing no obvious traps or security measures, Mestoph authorized himself to open the door. He turned the knob, wincing as he did. The door simply opened with a little squeak from disuse. Inside, Mestoph found a long, low-ceilinged room that looked like a closet that had forgotten to stop. He couldn’t tell exactly how far back it went because it was full of row after row of tall filing cabinets. The cabinets stood four abreast in two sets of two, with a small path in the middle. Mestoph opened the top drawer of the nearest one and found it full of newly minted and executed Omens. They were signed by the board of directors, had an elaborate wax seal at the bottom bearing the Official Crest of the Office of the Prince of the Underworld, and underneath that was the immaculate signature of Satan. The “S” was illuminated as a serpent and the rest was a slow, loping trail of thick black ink.
The Omen he held was from only a few weeks ago. It precisely described a coup in Kenya that, much to Mestoph’s chagrin, had actually failed miserably due to the last minute intervention by Freewill International. The coup had been a pet project of his. Mestoph had assembled an impressively gruesome band of rebels who would have swept through the Kenyan jungles, absorbing or abolishing tribes as necessary, until the accumulated army had reached Nairobi. As long as an all-out conflict erupted, the outcome of the bloody revolt was inconsequential. It only served as a smokescreen for a hostile takeover of the governing body of Kenya.
The rebels had been poised to launch the first of their attacks when Freewill International caught wind of the build-up of forces and interceded, citing the Ancient Agreement and forcing Hell into arbitration. The result was that not only could they not have their revolution, but because of the instability that had been created amongst the rebels and tribes, they would have to take good faith measures as well. That good faith would come in the form of an AIDS awareness campaign and an education initiative on condom use. The meeting with Satan over that particular SNAFU had been an intense and uncomfortable one, but Mestoph had managed to salvage things at the last minute by suggesting they use defective condoms.
Mestoph put the Omen back into the filing cabinet. A quick look at the other Omens in the drawer showed that they were filed chronologically, so anything in that cabinet would be too new and therefore verbose to serve his purposes. They needed something older, preferably an Omen that hadn’t been scanned into the digital system yet. Hell was a bit behind the times and had just recently begun building a visual, searchable archive of Omens. Mestoph was already going to have to have the database record changed in addition to having the physical document forged; he didn’t want to have to worry about manipulating a scanned image as well.
He walked further into the large closet, passing a dozen or so rows of filing cabinets, before picking another drawer at random. He pulled out an Omen near the back and looked it over. It was from the late 1980s and was a lot less wordy, but still not what he was looking for. He checked the drawer below it, and after opting against several others, he found exactly what he was wanted. The paper had started to yellow and was tattered around the edges from being shuffled around over the years. The Omen was dated 1981, and all it said, in plain lettering in the middle of the document, was “Union Strike.”
Mestoph set the Omen down, opened his trench coat, and pulled out a large poster tube from the deep pocket he had dubbed the Highlander Pocket, named for the propensity of the sword-wielding characters from the popular movies and TV series to pull a full-sized katana or claymore from out of nowhere. In reality, it was probably closer to being a Redneck Pocket, more likely to hold a shotgun than a sword. Regardless, Mestoph rolled up the Omen, stuck it in the tube, slapped a shipping label addressed to a Mr. A. H., and shoved the tube back in his Highlander Pocket. Mestoph closed the filing cabinet and walked back to the front of the room. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t a mail slot down there, so he would have to drop it off on his way back home.
When Mestoph returned the subway station, it took a moment for him to register the fact that the pneumatic capsule was gone. There was no reason for it to be gone unless someone else had summoned it to come down. It was a small station, with only one tube leading in, and Mestoph had a hard time believing that the system was programmed to leave stranded everyone that visited. Unless he had seriously pissed off the information terminal—a distinct possibility—then there was someone on their way down.
Mestoph tried to figure out how long the ride had taken, but he had been both so astounded and overwhelmingly bored by the trip that he had no idea. He knew he had only been in the filing closet for a max of fifteen minutes and assumed it had taken at least that long to get down. If the return trip was the same length, he should have at least fifteen minutes left before the capsule returned. Which meant he didn’t have a whole lot of time to find a hiding place.
He hadn’t given the station a thorough look when he had arrived because there wasn’t much to look at thoroughly. There was the platform that made up the majority up the station. There was also a small recess where the capsule docked, and where he would be thoroughly squished if he tried to hide. Hiding under the chairs wouldn’t do anything but make him look stupid. Beyond that, the only other place was the filing closet where he had gotten the Omen. Hiding in there would only buy him a few minutes of sanctuary since there was nothing in there but rows of filing cabinets. Granted, there were seemingly endless rows, but how far would he have to go before he was reasonably sure whoever was coming would stop looking before they got to him?
He was beginning to feel the first cold, prickly hints of panic when he noticed the room had suddenly gotten drafty. Hot, dry air was rushing in from the pneumatic tube. The capsule had to be close.
If Mestoph left another dead body, this time right outside the scene of his crime, he would have Nephilim after him before he could even celebrate his victory. Desperate, he pulled out his dart pistol and shot out all the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. Despite the glow of the lava, the station became surprisingly dim. Nothing even close to dark, but enough to make it hard to see into the far corners. The wind was picking up quickly, and Mestoph made a dash for the corner nearest to where the tube came into the station. He hoped that whoever exited the capsule didn’t look behind them as soon as they got out.
There had been just enough time between hiding and the capsule arriving for Mestoph to realize exactly how bad his plan was, but by the time he thought of making a mad dash for the filing closet it was too late. The capsule slid smoothly into the station and up to the platform. The door opened and warm light flowed out, illuminating the half of the station where the door to the filing closet was. Out of the capsule stepped a tall, skinny man with long, mangy reddish brown hair. He was wearing a tattered, powder-blue zip-up sweater and dirty black corduroy pants that looked like they were either covered in splotches of paint or condiments. It was hard to tell from Mestoph’s vantage, but it almost looked like the man was sniffing the air. He had an overwhelming resemblance to a weasel, which made Mestoph uncomfortable for reasons he couldn’t explain.
The Weasel pulled a pack of cigarettes from inside his sweater and took out a half cigarette. Whether he had saved it or found it was unclear, but it reinforced Mestoph’s impression that this was an unsavory man. Everything about him seemed dirty. The Weasel took a few puffs from the cigarette, licked his fingers, and extinguished it, putting the remains, now about a quarter of a cigarette, back into the pack. He looked around again and then walked over to the closet door and inspected it. Mestoph hadn’t noticed any kind of counter-intrusion measures or anything that would’ve have given away the fact that the door had been used. He wasn’t sure what The Weasel was looking at, but the man was clearly examining something. The Weasel finally opened the door and stepped in, letting it close behind him.
Once again Mestoph didn’t have a lot of time to make a major decision. He could jump in the tube and take off, but this would give away the fact that someone had been there. The tube would be gone when he came out, and when no one ever came back in the tube, The Weasel would be able to figure it out. If he stayed and hid until The Weasel left, he ran the increasing risk of being found out. It was a lose-lose scenario, but Mestoph figured that taking the tube bought him the most time. As he was trying to quietly work his way out from his hiding place, The Weasel exited the filing closet.
Mestoph froze.
Again The Weasel just stood there, this time facing Mestoph. The man really did look like a weasel; he had dark, sunken eyes with a small but sharp nose, a patchy mustache that looked more like whiskers, and odd sideburns that seemed to turn and grow toward his mouth about halfway down his face. He was also definitely sniffing the air. Mestoph didn’t wear any cologne, but depending on how sensitive this man’s senses were, he might be able to tell that Mestoph had showered earlier that morning, or even detect the fear-laden sweat that was now pouring.
The Weasel made a quick, random looking sweep of the room with his small, black eyes and then started walking. Instead of returning to the capsule or pulling Mestoph from his half-assed hiding place, he walked to the opposite end of the station and pushed on one of the white wall tiles. A door opened silently, causing the wind to pick back up. The Weasel cocked his head to the side and then turned, sniffing the air again. His eyes darted around but never landed on Mestoph, and after a few seconds he turned back and walked out of the door, which quickly closed behind him.
Mestoph waited several minutes in the shadows for The Weasel to come back, but he never did. Finally feeling safe, he stepped out and walked over to the wall where the man had disappeared. None of the tiles looked different from any others, but he began pushing randomly in the general area where he thought The Weasel had pushed. It took several tries, but he found a tile that gave way with a little pressure. The door opened into a random hallway somewhere in the Administration area of Hell Industries HQ, far above where he was now, judging by walls that were the most putrid color of green imaginable. That particular color of green had to be the horrendous love child of Avocado and Baby Shit, and managed to be worse than either one could possibly be alone. It was only found in Admin.
The doorway was obviously a portal. He stepped through, looked around for any sign of The Weasel, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He had done it. He dropped the tube containing the Omen into a mail slot and went home. He needed another beer.