A Job Offer to Die For

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Gordon Cockerill is on the road to hell but he’s given the chance to avoid being tormented for eternity. He must die and become a demon.

Submitted: January 20, 2019

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Submitted: January 20, 2019

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“Well, fartipants, you sure are a lardy cake.”
 
The voice woke Cockerill in mid-snore.  He spluttered, opened a bleary eye and cursed as the ceiling spun like a propeller.  Pink elephants, even trumpeting ones, were perfectly acceptable after a bender but foul-mouthed voices were totally out of order.  One packet of pork scratchings and a bottle of gut-rotting Chilean plonk had clearly been a lethal mixture to indulge in before bedtime.
 
“You’re a girl’s worst nightmare, you fat freak,” the nasally, high-pitched voice mocked.  “All lard and no cock.”
 
Cockerill tried to sit up.  Big mistake.  His head did a summersault and announced that it had died somewhere in the region of his buttocks.
 
“Do you know how butt ugly you are?” the voice asked, mercilessly prodding his jellified brain with every syllable.  “You’d crack a mirror at forty paces.”
 
“Go away,” Cockerill squeaked as the dark suspicion that his liver was laying siege to his brain hardened into certainty.  He placed a shaking hand over his bloodshot eyes and squeezed until he saw stars.
 
“Don’t I just wish,” the voice retorted.  “Do you think I want to be anywhere near your crappy pants right now?”
 
The voice had a point.  His boxers had clearly taken a hit from the pork scratchings and had morphed into the world’s worst bio hazard.
 
“Why do I get all the shit jobs,” his interlocutor sighed, “that’s what I want to know?  I mean, I suck arse like the best of them so why do I always end up with bum crud like you?”
 
Cockerill shook his head.  He’d sucked arse himself and it had got him sod all as well.
 
“I don’t know either,” the voice agreed.  “I tell you, I’m putting in a complaint to His Bigness if things don’t improve.”
 
“His Bigness?”  Cockerill’s rubbery lips stumbled over the words like a three-legged horse trying to jump a ditch.
 
“Yeah, His Unholiness, the Boss Man, the bugger in charge.  Why is it that suppurating turds like you never understand plain English?”
 
A suspicion not quite to his liking edged into the bomb crater that was Cockerill’s brain.  He made the supreme sacrifice and turned his head in the direction of the voice.
 
“Oh Christ,” he screamed as the room keeled over and he saw what was squatting on the threadbare rug, “I’ve fried my brain!”  Cockerill screwed his eyes shut and forced the contents of his stomach not to make a bolt for the exit.
 
“You won’t miss the sodding thing, so don’t worry about it.  And mind your language.”
 
“You’re not real.”
 
“You wanna bet?”

 
Cockerill uttered a piercing shriek as the thing rose and jabbed him with a razor-sharp talon.  A hot stain spread from the crotch of his trousers and puddled beneath his backside.

 
“Is that real enough for you?”


“Who are you?” Cockerill asked, whimpering like a child.  “What are you?”


“Your guardian demoness, Gordon.”


“Pardon?”  Cockerill squirmed on the red leather of the sofa as he half-opened his eyes and peered at the glowering fiend.


“I’m Patchwort, your sodding guardian demoness, you fucking moron.  What else would look like me?”


Cockerill blinked.  “Patchwort?  What sort of stupid name is that?”


“What sort of stupid name is Gordon Cockerill?”  Patchwort swished her scaly tail and released a long, rumbling fart.


“Jesus, that’s foul,” Cockerill spluttered as he ineffectually wafted the stench away.


“There’s plenty more where that came from, sunshine, so be warned.”


“Ok, OK, I’m sorry,” Cockerill bleated as he tried not to breath.  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”  He shook his head and sighed.  “Are all demons as touchy as you?”


Patchwort uttered a loud burp and smirked at him.  Most would eat you for breakfast, farthead.”


Cockerill felt himself blush.  “Do you lot always go around in the altogether?” he asked as he tried not to stare at her pendulous, salmon-red breasts.


“Have you ever worked in a furnace with your kit on?”


“No, I can’t say I have,” Cockerill admitted, uncomfortably aware of the growing bulge in his trousers.


“Then don’t expect us to either,” Patchwort growled, poking him in the groin and grinning when he grimaced.


“But you’re a ....”  Cockerill stopped as Patchwort narrowed her eyes.


“I’m  a what?”


“Well, I thought all demons were, you know ... male.”


Patchwort’s angelic face twisted into a Medusa-like scowl as she butted his chest with her diamond encrusted horns.  “Are you suggesting that only fat, paunchy bastards with yard-long dicks can be demons?”


“No, no, of course not,” Cockerill spluttered.  “For God’s sake, calm down.”


Patchwort’s blood-red eyes turned incandescent.  “A word to the wise, Gordon,” she hissed, pressing a gleaming talon into his quivering stomach, “never speak that abhorrent name again.”  She curled her lips back to reveal an impossibly large number of lancet-like incisors and snapped her jaws.  “Got it?”


Cockerill felt his insides liquefy as, one by one, Patchwort sliced the buttons from the front of his shirt.  “What—what word?” he stuttered, taking a sudden interest in the blank screen of the television set in the corner.  I only said, ‘For …’.  His eyes widened as he stared at Patchwort.  “Oh!”  He pointed to the ceiling.  “You mean …?”


She nodded.  “You will not blaspheme in my presence, Gordon.  Not unless you want your voice to be an extremely high falsetto for the rest of your life.  Are we clear on that?”


“Yes,” Cockerill squeaked.


“Good, now let’s get down to business.”  Framed prints rattled on the walls as Patchwort beat her leathery wings to a whirring crescendo.  “Gordon, I’ve come to buy your soul.”


“My soul?”


“Yes, the thing you profess not to have.”


“But I don’t want to sell my soul.”


“How can you not want to sell something that you say you haven’t got?”


“Er ….”  Cockerill’s pounding hangover made a determined bid to extinguish what remained of his mental faculties as he tried to unravel Patchwort’s convoluted sales pitch.


“Well?”


“I don’t know.  I suppose if you’re real then my soul is too.”


“Mmm ... you’re not as drunk as I thought you were,” Patchwort replied grumpily.  “Bugger!”


“I’m sorry,” Cockerill said, “but I have to think of the future.”


“The future?  What’s the future got to do with anything?”


“Won’t I end up in hell if I sell my soul?”


“Of course.”


“And I’ll be tormented for all eternity by you lot.”


“You can bet on it.”


“But I don’t want to be tormented for all eternity.”


“Few do.”


“Then surely you can understand why I don’t want to sell my soul?”


Patchwort wagged a slender finger in front of his cringing eyes.  “You’re not seeing the whole picture, Gordon.  You’ll be coming to us whether you sell your soul or not, so make the most of life while you can.”


Cockerill shook his head.  “I’m no saint but I try to be good.”


“All the saints are with us.”


“Pardon?”


“Every last saint is down below with us.”


“Don’t be silly.  How can all the saints be with your lot?”


“Gordon, I’ll let you into a secret.  The rules are rigged so that everyone comes to us.”


“I don’t believe you.”


“I’m a demon.  I can’t lie.”


“It doesn’t make sense.  Why would,” he jabbed upwards, “want everyone to go to hell?”


“Because it keeps Him toasty.”


“Eh?”


“Do you think hell exists to punish evildoers?”


“I suppose so, yes.”


“Well you’re wrong!  It exists to keep You-Know-Who warm.  Every time a soul comes down to us it’s like a log going on the fire for Too-Posh-To-Fart.”


Cockerill shook his head.  “I can’t believe that.”


“All right, Gordon, answer me this.  If you haven’t been a bad little boy, and I’m telling lies, why am I here?  Why does I’m-So-Good allow me to tempt you with an up-front payment if He wants you to be His footstool?”


“How should I know.  Maybe it’s to see if I’ll fall for your offer.”


“Really?  And there was me thinking Mr Whiter-Than-White knows everything.”


“Yes, well,” Cockerill said, shrugging, “I’ve never taken much notice of religion.”


“Very sensible of you, Gordon.  It’s all lies.”


“You would say that, wouldn’t you?  Anyway, if we all come to you in the end, why go to the bother of tempting me now?”


“A good point,” Patchwort said as she performed a ballerina twirl, the horny tip of her tail missing the bridge of Cockerill’s nose by inches.  “It seems a few of your brain cells are working after all.  And to answer your question, it’s all part of the job satisfaction package His Bigness offers us demons.”


“You what?”


“It gets boring prodding fat, farty bastards all day long, so His Bigness allows us to come and tempt the likes of you once in a while.  The pay-off is that we get first prod of your lumpy arse if you sign on the dotted line.  See, you lot are like a teabag that’s repeatedly stewed.  The first brew is the sweetest, and so is the first prod.”


Cockerill shook his head.  “Knowing that does nothing for me.”


“Gordon, you’re a miserable sod, aren’t you?  You should look on the bright side while you can.”


“Look, I can’t see anything good in being prodded up the arse by a demon.”


“It’ll be charming, little me ramming a red-hot poker up your farty hole, not some big, paunchy git with a hard-on.”


“Well, charming as you are, the thought of being tormented isn’t a big come-on.”


“What’s not to like?  Blokes pay out good money to be thrashed by fat-arsed, titty blondes.”


“I’m not one of them.”


“No, you’re a snivelling, little shit.  A mommy’s boy who doesn’t want his botty smacked.  You should grow some balls, Gordon.”


“And get them knackered by you?  No thanks.”


“I’m not a bad demon, Gordon, so help me out.  Do you want to rule the world?  Strut about like Hitler?  I can make it happen.  What about a few billion in the bank.  Easy-peasy.  Think of all the big, busty blondes you could be sinking your dick into, or sweaty blokes if that’s your thing.”


“You’re not listening,” Cockerill said irritably.  “I don’t want to be tormented for eternity.  Got it?”


“Oh!  Right.”  A cunning smile spread across Patchwort’s face.  “So you’d be quite happy to sign on the dotted line if you could avoid the, ‘Ouch that hurt’, bit?”


“Maybe,” Cockerill replied guardedly.  “It would depend on the small print.”


“OK, but in principle that would be a ‘Yes’.”


“It might be.”


“Excellent!  I’ll have to check with His Bigness, but I think I can swing that for you.  Just give us a tick.”


“No, wait!” Cockerill shouted, but it was too late.  A cloud of sulphurous, red smoke swirled where Patchwort had been.


“Right, Gordon,” Patchwort said, reappearing with a whoosh, “everything’s settled.”


“What?” Cockerill spluttered.


Patchwort held out a biro and a sheet of greasy paper.  “Sign on the dotted line and you’re on the team.”

 
“On the team?  I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”


“It’s so simple even a thickie like you should be able to get it.  You become one of us, a demon.  See, Gordon, it’s either torment or be tormented.  It’s the deal of a lifetime but you have to sign now.”


“Become a demon?  Are you kidding?”


“I kid you not, Gordon.”


“I couldn’t torment people.  It’s not in my nature.”


“Is that so?  So you wouldn’t like to shaft that prick Wagstaff?”


“Mmm ... well, that’s different.”  Wagstaff, Cockerill’s sarcastic shit of a boss, was ripe for the attentions of a demon.


“And there’s Ilka?  Didn’t she break your heart when she buggered off?”


Cockerill nodded.  It wasn’t just his heart his wife had broken when she left him.  She’d left him penniless, the bitch.


“Then, of course, there’s Mrs Dalleywater.  I believe you and the old slapper don’t get on too well?”


Mrs Dalleywater, the foul-mouthed crone in the flat above, was the bane of Cockerill’s life.  Her television, its volume always turned up full, was driving him insane.


Patchwort jiggled her breasts provocatively and smirked as Cockerill leered at them.  “What about that snotty-nosed bitch in the supermarket?  I believe she wasn’t too complementary about your parentage the other day.”


Cockerill considered the blowsy, forty-something cashier with loathing.  Just because he’d queried the bill was no reason to call him the spawn of a whore and a goat-screwing wanker.  Boiling oil down her throat would be far too good for her.


“Of course,” Patchwort said, her face oozing mischief, “I could offer this deal to one of them instead.  How would you like the trollop from the supermarket reaming out your jacksie with a red-hot poker?  Could be fun.”


“You wouldn’t?”


“Gordon, use your loaf.  I’m a demon, remember.”


“You would.”


Patchwort’s grin nearly split her face.  “Of course I would, which is why you should sign right now.”


“Tell me something first.  What do you get out of this if it’s not first whack at my arse?”


“I get to mentor you.”


“You what?”


“Show you the ropes.  Inflicting torment is a skilled job.  It takes real finesse to stop it becoming boring for the punters.”


“And mentoring me is better than tormenting others?”


“It’ll be a change from hearing silly sods like you begging for mercy.  And I get to jab your sorry arse with a pitchfork every time you fuck up, so what’s not to like?”


“So where’s the catch?”


“There’s no catch, Gordon.  It’s a straight-up, honest deal.”


“Don’t flannel me.  There’s always a catch.”


Patchwort sighed.  “You’re a cynical bastard, Gordon, which is why you’ll fit right in.  There’s no catch, but there’s a stipulation.”


“Oh yes?  And what’s that?”


“That you start right away.”


Cockerill frowned.  “But that would mean I’d have to ....”


“Yep, dead as a doornail, which is something that can’t be said about your cock.”


Cockerill cleared his throat noisily and slapped a hand over his crotch as Patchwort sniggered.  “I’m not sure I want to die right now,” he muttered as his eyes strayed to her swinging breasts.


Patchwort winked at him as she ground her hips.  “We get Sundays off to do other things, if you know what I mean.”


“Other things?”


“That’s right, Gordon, other things.  And considering your life’s a train wreck, it’d have to be a sexual thing if you wanted to carry on with it.”


“That’s easy for you to say, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”


“And a flea-ridden thing it is, too.  So stop being an arse and sign.  Look, as an added bonus you get Wagstaff as your first.”


“Wagstaff?”


“Yeah.  His ticker’s about to blow a gasket and then he’s down to us.”


The thought of hearing his wormy, little boss squealing for mercy made Cockerill’s eyes twinkle.


“Will I get a tail?”


Patchwort grinned.  “Yes, a nice curly one, plus some dead pretty wings and a big pair of horns.”


“What about down below?”


“Excuse me?”


Cockerill pointed to his stained crotch.  “You know, in the little boy’s department.”


“Ah, got you.  You’re hankering after a truly massive trouser snake.”


“Well, not too massive.”


“But something more impressive than the thing you’ve got.  That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange, all things considered.”


“What do you mean by that?” Cockerill asked, his lips pouting.  “Ilka always said I was well endowed.”


“Then why did she run off with the milkman?  Was it his pint bottles that caught her attention, or maybe it was his salami sausage?”


Cockerill’s face flushed.  “The two of them came from the same part the world.”


“And went back to produce a brood of kids.  Seems Ilka couldn’t get enough of his cream.”


“Don’t push it, OK,” Cockerill growled.  He ripped the paper from Patchwort’s grasp and examined it.  “There’s nothing here.  It’s blank, back and front.”


“It’s a standard demon contract.”


“How can it be a contract if there’s nothing written down?”


“You do whatever His Bigness tells you to do, so there’s no need for anything to be written down.”  Patchwort flicked her tongue at him and smiled.  “Don’t be a stupid git.  Sign the damn paper so we can get ready for Wagstaff.”


“Where do I sign?”


“Anywhere, but make sure you write your full name and add your date of birth.”


“What?  Why do I have to add my date of birth?”


“It’s bureaucracy.  Don’t think that because you’re coming to work for us you can escape it.  You can’t, so suck it up.”


Cockerill drew in a deep breath, snatched the biro and scrawled his name and date of birth on the flimsy paper.  “So I’m on the team?”


“That you are, Gordon, that you are, but there’s one more thing before we go.”


“Oh yes,” Cockerill said, sure now that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, “and what’s that?”


“Is that a packet of Jammie Dodgers I can smell in the kitchen?  I just love Jammie Dodgers.” 


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