The Chronicles of Enoch

I“Krampus” A circle of chairs in a room which is heavily draped with dark cloths. It has no windows, this room, only half-seen lamps shielded behind drapes. An atmosphere of secrets best kept that way; of meetings it’s best to not even have the vaguest suspicion about and of people whose faces never venture out into the light. In fact, they probably made a deal with the light so it would look the other way. These seven people, well it would be better to not even think about seeing them all together. The six chairs were occupied by one woman and five – ah, well I am not sure but, if I am pressed then, fine – six men, I suppose, will have to do. The man who is clearly the leader, from his body language and the way the rest of them look at him wears an expensive though simple suit of dark blue with a very fine red pin-stripe. He has dark green silk tie in a good Windsor knot and a fine tie-pin of gold damask. He is middle-aged but in good health and vigorous with a solid and handsome face; fine cheekbones, somewhat patrician nose, dark blue eyes under well-managed short grey hair. He has that look of a Politician or maybe a salesman of some kind or other; the two are not that different really. Next in line, we have the woman; she is of average weight, we think; neither too fat nor too thin but somewhere in between in a manner, we think, that Goldilocks would approve of. She wears her black and somewhat wavy hair in a kind of loose bob which reaches her shoulders. She wears a fine pant-suit of charcoal grey with a pale green blouse with a round collar underneath. Aside from a pair of small gold stud-type earrings, she displays no jewellery of any kind. She has been told that gold sets off her dark brown eyes and caramel skin so well but she would simply sniff at that. The man beside her looks like a scholar of an ascetic sort. His long face is fine-boned but also consumptively thin; cheeks hollow and pinched, his complexion pallid and sickly-looking. He shows every day of his eighty-three years and, perhaps, several more even. He wears a well-tailored Italian suit of black with a light charcoal pin-stripe, a black shirt and the Roman collar of a clergyman. Thin, pale and liver-spotted hands are folded on his lap as he laughs softly at some joke. There is a brooch of silver in the shape of the Seal of St. Peter on the lapel of his jacket; meaning he has come straight from the Vatican. The military uniform and bearing of the man in the next seat is as complete a contrast as could be imagined after the old holy-diplomat. This man is solid, almost square-shaped as if he has been stamped out on a production line. His suitably military hair is flame red and his eyes a deep sage green. He has the pale, freckled skin of Ireland or perhaps Scotland, together with the slight floridness such complexions get from a deep pleasure in drinking. There is a faint scar crossing his forehead, down the corner of one eye which stops halfway down one chiselled cheek. He is somewhere in his mid to late-50’s but it is hard to be sure as he has that worn and almost leathery appearance of someone who has spent much time in the sun. He looks like he belongs on a Marine Corps recruitment poster. In fact, he has the insignia of the corps and the eagle of a colonel on his epaulettes as well as rather decent Technicolor barcode pattern on his left breast. Maybe he knows what all those stripes, pips and bits of colour mean but we do not. At last, we arrive at number five and he would easily win the distinction of strangest person here were it not for the figure to his immediate left, to whom we will get momentarily. This fellow is, as we have mentioned, rather – ah – unique. He is rather short but not quite what one might call – in a rather politically incorrect fashion – a dwarf. He is just barely over five feet tall but broad of chest and shoulder. He has stringy black hair which corkscrews over his forehead and down to his shoulders; across his saturnine face partially hiding a strange and lumpy scar on his left cheek. Unlike our man of the cloth, who looks like he is about to die, this man has the paleness of one who has simply had all of the blood sucked out of him. He has intense, even piercing eyes which are spaced just a little too widely, a long nose and mouth which looks just a little wider than one would expect. He is not exactly ugly but handsome would never be a title given to him by anyone with eyesight. He might even be considered passable were it not for his eyes; he has one of those “they should've known it was him” looks assigned by lovers of true crime TV shows. Don’t be ashamed. We’ve all done it; we’re friends here and it’s safe; you can admit it….This fellow has the eyes, the smile, the expression and even the eyebrows of someone you would run away from; someone who would generate creepy theme music when he just looks your way. He also has a piranha’s teeth. He parted his sensual pale lips rarely and always intentionally, just to show his mouthful of ivory needles off. As we study him we realise he has an incredible poise and deliberateness about him. Every gesture, movement and word is calculated. Every affectation of dress and appearance is intentional, carefully designed. He wants you to be distracted and not see beyond his outward appearance. Here sits a man considered a buffoon by many and one who not only does not care about that but also works very hard to maintain such a façade. Finally, we arrive at the winner of the weirdest attendant prize. It would be hard to not let this fellow win because while everyone else – despite how wrong such surface appearances can be – at least appears to be human, this figure does not. It is about the height of its neighbour but of a much slimmer and sinuous build. It also had quite an impressive tail, which is about four feet long and about as thick as three average fingers; smooth and prehensile, it has a large tuft of black hair on the end. The tail appears to have a mind of its own, coiling and uncoiling, twisting and twitching like that of the irritated cat who’s about to scratch you. Like the rest of its skin, its tail is black; not the dark brown of Africa but the deep black of night-time shadows and coal. It is almost furry in places, stiff black hair doing a passing service towards decency, in fact, in just the right places because it is also naked. Its eyes are angry red as is its tongue which flicks constantly from his mouth like an inquisitive worm. Its face is sharp and appears almost triangular; an illusion which is aided by his perfectly trimmed trident beard and waxed moustache. In fact, it looks like it is wearing one of those carnival devil masks which have always been popular around the world. There is even a small pair of curly black horns curving out from its forehead. He looks the perfect laughing or mocking devil. It is not laughing or mocking now, though. In fact, it looks terrified. Yes, that is only six people but be patient, we’ll get to the seventh soon. “Lady, Gentlemen and – ah well, yes – gentleman,” Lucifer stood and held up his hands for quiet, silence flowed immediately into a space which appeared very much designed for just that purpose. The drapes and décor were there to swallow both sound and light as if neither were welcome here or, if they were, they were not encouraged to leave. “You will notice that we have a visitor today, some of you may even have an idea about whom, or at least what he is.” He gestured with an open hand towards the devil caricature, “This, is Krampus.” The sharp-bearded fellow bowed its head and licked its lips. “What? The German child-frightener?” Cried Penumael, her voice was rich and sensual. It had a tone of amusement to it now. “The beater of strangers with sticks?” “Indeed, the very same,” Krampus itself answered uncertainly. Its voice was thin and reedy, carrying the heavy trace of a German accent. It made a half bow at the waist. “One of Lilith’s brood!” Asmodeus added, showing his needle teeth, which glinted in the low light. “I thought they were all banished by now.” “Most of them are,” Lucifer said a little too indulgently. “Krampus, however, is not.” “I know this – ah – creature!” Sammael sparked up, most of them had thought that the old man had fallen asleep but his eyes were bright and amused. “The restaurants – “ “Exactly,” Lucifer cut in and produced what looked like a takeout menu from the inside pocket of his jacket. He brandished it then passed it around the circle of chairs, allowing each to inspect it. KRAMPUS’ KRISPEE PIGGIES the thing was titled and showed a large logo at the top; it was Krampus - looking pretty much like the nervously seated chap - pushing a terrified and slightly anthropomorphic pig dressed in short suspender pants into a blazing fire with a pitchfork. It appeared to be both rather enjoying his task and deeply amused by it. Its long red tongue was sticking out and its head was thrown back in laughter. It was amazing what humans would tolerate if you made it funny. This fast-food pork products joint was famous around the land and had franchises as far as Alaska. Even in Europe, you could find its greasy fare. Asmodeus accepted the menu with a nod and, with a nasty smile to Abaddon, began to peruse it. It was a decent likeness, he decided, flicking his gaze back to the rather uncomfortable looking model for the illustration. Krampus gave him a nervous smile in reply. The poor fellow is terrified but then again, I would be too! “You may all be aware of several things. This Krampus did indeed inspire and model for the logo of this popular junk-food chain. It has indeed been around and active for quite some time. You may also be aware that the owner of said chain of restaurants, a billionaire and reality TV star is a man by the name of James Oliver Horn. You may also be aware that the good Mr Horn announced his intention to run for President of this fine nation on a vehicle of what many term – what was it again? – hateful vitriol and Hitlerian politics.” He waited for these words to settle and float in the air for a moment. He wanted to see if they got it yet. “I sense that one of your secret plans is about to be revealed to all.” Asmodeus drawled finally, drawing a sharp look from Lucifer. Oddly enough, the smaller Fallen saw that his master actually let it slide without so much as a threat and smiled. “A brilliant and cunning plan?” “Razor-sharp both in wit and observation as always,” Lucifer laid his own sarcasm on thickly. “Our funny little friend is indeed correct. I have been subverting Horn for quite some time now and funnelling money from a variety of shell corporations into his burgeoning campaign. I would very much like for him to win.” “But that man is as much of a pig as the – ah – donors of his nasty food are.” Penumael scoffed. “Nobody in their right mind would vote that clown into the most important office in America.” “Do you think so?” Lucifer looked her straight in the eye, something none of them liked him to do, it always felt that he could look into places you wanted nobody, not even yourself to pay too much attention to. “Do you really believe that to be true?” His tone clearly communicated that he did not believe it to be even close to true. Asmodeus studied Lucifer’s face and then those of the others here present. This was going to be interesting. He had an idea where Lucifer was going with this so chose to remain silent and listen for now. “Do any of you believe that to be true? That America is the enlightened beacon of the so-called Civilised World. You all who have been here since before civilisation was even invented?” “Well I think things are getting better at least,” Penumael sounded uncertain though, her voice lacking conviction. “We had a biracial female President for eight years.”