Tonight, he’d demonstrate what many would call an act of God. For generations to come they’d talk about the monster Phuck could be, and the way he saved them from the fire and brimstone his brother Balaam would’ve brought to NOLA.
Thanks to Phuck’s power, the evening temperature grew at least ten degrees, maybe fifteen. It was hot, damn hot. The air was rancid with sulfur. It could almost choke a man.
But Phuck wasn’t just any man; he was a prince of hell. And this prince had caught himself a bounty worth nothing more than the shit on the bottom of a shoe.
Phuck had trapped his brother in the hellbox with a demonic command. Using an earthquake sized leap of power, he moved them from the cell in his bedroom to St. Louis Cathedral at Jackson Square. At first, his citizens cried out at his sudden appearance. He rarely exposed his demonic form, so his appearance alone would rattle his people. It also made an impact with them, a reminder not to fuck with him. That he showed up out of thin air reminded them of his power.
Despite his no-fuckery message, he saw more than a few cell phones lifted and centered on him. Thanks to Voodoo Mama, there’d be a malfunction, and they wouldn’t get anything of value to upload to YouTube.
The audience settled down, going from a loud roar of yells and screams to a few whispers here and there. He knew he’d made the right decision when he informed his town about his demonic abilities. Tonight might have gone much different if he hadn’t.
He lifted the black box with red demonic sigils etched into the wood. The markings allowed Phuck to trap his brother inside. It was Phuck’s heightened mojo that gave him the ability to manipulate his sibling.
All around Jax Square, Voodoo Dawgs stood arm to arm, hemming in citizens and blocking out tourists. They’d clogged foot and street traffic with their united presence. Their biker kuttes were on display and made a statement to all of ‘Nawlins.
“Alexo’s death hit all of us hard,” he yelled from the top of the steps of the cathedral. “Your doubt in my protection did not go unnoticed.”
Several citizens up front shook their heads, eyes wide with their fear of him. They’d never admit their doubt, but his Dawgs had returned with the grapevine reports.
“The rumors reached my ears,” he continued. “I’m here to tell you, your fear is over. Tonight, those reservations have reached an expiration date. After this, you will never doubt your king again.”
It was a command, not a statement. Phuck glanced around the square, making eye contact with many of those gathered. Tourists attempted to peek over his Dawgs’ shoulders to view the commotion, but each one of his men sent them packing.
“Come forth, Alexo.”
A hush fell as Alexo walked from the sidelines and up the stairs to stand beside Phuck. All at once, murmurs surfaced loud and surprised cries filled the air.
The king of NOLA clapped a tatted arm around Alexo’s shoulders. “I saved our brother from death’s embrace.”
Alexo flashed a grin at the women up front. “I’m back, better than ever, and ready to party, ladies!”
A cheer went up that Alexo was back on the market to service women. Phuck laughed. Women had always loved Alexo. His easygoing nature and humor were apparently attractive assets.
The king held his hands up, and the group quieted on command. Thanks to Alexo’s reveal, he could already feel the change in the atmosphere. It’d gone from a presence that felt like a wet blanket draped over his head, to a light and airy feeling of hope.
“The demon that attempted to undermine me is trapped in here.” Phuck tossed the box holding Balaam into the air and caught it with his other hand. “I’ll punish him like he deserves.”
Whoops, shouts, and a few growls went up among the Voodoo Dawgs surrounding the venue. Several of them high-fived one another along with a few fist pumps over their heads. Some whistled their happiness, and others yelled like at a football game. They reminded him of the sounds coming from the Mercedes-Benz Superdome on New Orleans Saints football gameday.
His citizens mostly remained silent or murmuring to one another in quiet voices so their comments wouldn’t carry.
Phuck waited for their revelry to subside. “I thought you might like to watch him receive his due.”
Phuck didn’t give a shit if they wanted to watch it or not. He’d send a message with Balaam’s punishment, nothing more.
The mob gawked, a hush of expectation lingering in the air like moisture. He didn’t make them wait.
Phuck tossed the black box into the air once again. He didn’t catch it this time. It landed next to him at the top of the church steps.
“Misen.” As soon as Phuck whispered the demonic word, the box opened in a series of clicks and smoke. The smell of rotten eggs—sulfur—hit his nose first, and the front row groaned and covered their faces.
Balaam emerged from the fog enveloping him, his chains heavy and laden with Phuck’s magic. A smidge of Voodoo Mama’s mojo was thrown in for good measure.
They stood on hallowed ground, which meant the punishment he doled out to his little brother would be final. Hallowed ground could fuck all demons, including the high-powered bastards like Phuck. He kept that secret to himself. Only a few knew, like other higher-level demons and Amorette. The fewer who knew, the safer they remained.
“Meet Balaam.” Phuck motioned toward him and smiled at his sibling’s glare. If looks could kill, Phuck would be in ashes. “He’s my little brother, a prince of hell, and he thought to take what was mine.” He looked to the crowd. “You.”
Murmurs simmered among the throng. Sure, they feared Phuck. He preferred their fear to adoration. But Phuck was the devil they knew. He’d shown his intentions through his actions over the years of his rule.
Phuck had saved several families trapped in a burning building, delivered fair justice to citizens who were found guilty of crimes against one another, and he’d funded the homeless shelter in the French Quarter. He’d mediated disputes between citizens when necessary, making impartial rulings based upon facts, law, and just fucking common sense. The Voodoo Dawgs patrolled the streets to ensure security and had cleaned up the crime to create the lowest rates in history. Some of the lighter work was covered by the sheriff’s office. The heavy lifting? The Dawgs.
Alexo was beloved by many in the city, especially women, so his death was a demonstration of Balaam’s intentions.
“Do you want him as your king instead of me?”
“No!” the crowd roared in unison.
Phuck stepped behind him and used his booted foot to kick Balaam behind his knees, forcing him to the ground. Baby brother yanked and twisted at the chains, but they held firm. Balaam threw his head back and yelled, his anger cracking some of the nearby shop windows.
When his brother started praying to Lucifer, Phuck laughed. He leaned into him and whispered, “He can’t hear you. You’re on church grounds, dumbass. You should’ve spent more time on earth to learn the playbook before fucking with me.”
“You don’t deserve their loyalty.” Balaam twisted about to sneer over his shoulder. “You’ve fucked over more souls than I have.”
“The price of freedom, brother.” He’d spent endless millennia paying for his liberty, and Balaam thought he could steal Phuck’s kingdom and do it the easy way? His audacity pissed Phuck off.
He’d like to think the easy way wouldn’t have satisfied Balaam, but Phuck knew better. This plan was about sticking it to him and Balaam tossing his power around. Balaam had always been jealous that Phuck’s power surpassed his. If the demon took the time to invest himself in his craft, raised his hourglass of power by adding sand to it rather than watch it drain, then maybe Lucifer would have given Balaam more power.
Phuck also possessed the wisdom to get to the heart of what people wanted when making deals. His allegiance to his people inspired loyalty from them, whereas the majority of Balaam’s legion of demons hated him.
Old Scratch was the one that fucked Balaam.
Phuck wouldn’t let his people take the punishment for something outside their control.
“Earn it off the backs of mortals like I have.” Phuck gripped Balaam’s chin and pulled him back to hold his head motionless against Phuck’s stomach.
Using his dragon knife, he stabbed his brother in the right side of his neck like he had in the bar and dragged the blade to the left, opening him up. Blood spurted. Some of the audience gasped, others screamed, and a few vomited. The Dawgs remained silent, brooding as they watched the delivery of punishment.
“I claim your power as mine, Balaam!” Phuck threw his head back. “As it leaves your body, I command it to enter mine. I demand it to surrender to my influence.”
Phuck stepped back, arms held out, the knife still clutched in his hand. Balaam’s magic rolled and kicked outward from his back. His sibling slumped forward, and only the chains kept him from falling on his face. He raged against the theft, twisting and jerking against the restraints as his blood splotched the cathedral’s steps.
Everywhere Phuck looked, wide eyes gawked at the spectacle. Demonic red droplets defiled the hallowed ground, the irony not lost on Phuck.
His brother’s power expanded in a black haze around the brothers, then rotated into a funnel at the middle of his spine. It zoomed out of Balaam in a vortex of black and silver and slammed into Phuck’s chest. He stumbled backward from the force of the impact, and Alexo steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.
His breath stolen as the demonic mojo entered him, Phuck threw his head back. He surrendered to the burn that punched into his heart and moved through his body with his blood. In a few seconds, he’d command his sibling’s magic.
His head hurt, vibrated with the new power. The pain expanded and blasted outward like a mini nuclear bomb, knocking civilians on their asses. To seal the theft of magic, Phuck punched into Balaam’s back and yanked his heart from his chest.
The chains holding the demon banged against the concrete steps, no longer useful now that Balaam was dead. His little brother tipped to the side and sprawled upside down across several steps. Blood rolling up his chin and over his face from the neck wound. The hole in his chest sizzled with the stench of burnt flesh.
It is over.
His brother was stripped of power.
His brother was dead.
The swift justice was more than Balaam deserved. Phuck assessed his citizens to ensure they’d received his ‘do not fuck with me or I fuck back harder’ message. That they understood the significance of that was more important than what Phuck wanted.
The audience gawked in dead silence. Several tried to break through the Voodoo Dawgs lineup, but their attempts were futile.
In his demonic form, Phuck could feel the saturation of panic rising in the air. It was thick and heavy like the humidity but tainted with the stench of sweat.
Soon, he’d give Balaam’s magic a test drive, see how well it worked and how best to utilize it to his advantage.
Dandelion caught Phuck’s attention with a wave of his hand over his face. “Good lord, that stank smells like Godzilla farted all the cities he’s devoured over a hot plate crafted by the kraken.” The demon shook his head. “Release the kraken, indeed.”
Phuck laughed as he looked out over the citizens of New Orleans.
“You’re safe once again.” He laid a hand on Alexo’s shoulder and used his power to transport them back to the B&B.