6 - Slayer of Men
1041 Words
Madge had her good days; this was not one of them. Her eyes burned like... well, Harold hadn't seen anything that burned quite like Madge's eyes when she became upset.
"You smell like the w***e of the forest!" she accused him.
"I got to meet her last night." Harold said. "Her name is Dryad."
"Her name is w***e, and you didn't even consider defending yourself!"
"Madge, thats... wait, defend myself?"
She ... reality seemed to jitter for a moment, and she was THERE. His sleeve was folded neatly back, the bite mark of the Bloodling clearly visible.
"Unacceptable!" she howled. "Such minor things should fear you, never daring to commit such impudence upon your tasty mortal flesh."
"Well, yes, in theory I agree with that." Harold said.
"Vain and slothful ass!" she howled. "When you look weak, it makes me, your dominatrix, look weak."
"Madge, you're my boss. That's it. We've had this discussion."
She smiled, saying in proper and measured tones. "Feel free to file a complaint with HR if you feel I'm treating you unfairly."
"I-" Harold didn't know what to say, put off by the normal moment from Madge perhaps more than his fellows would be by a glimpse at her true self.
"Over here, dumbass. A gift for your worthless carcass. Try not to lose it."
Madge was over by her desk, sliding open a drawer, from within which sounded the screams of the damned. She reached within, and drew out a silver letter opener.
Harold wandered over, more because he didn't want to seem rude than any actual curiosity.
Madge held it out. "This vain little thing cannot be given, only taken. It will go well with your own self, help you to open your sins, to become who we in hell know you to be."
"I don't need your gifts from hell." Harold said. "We've been over this before, Madge. I don't want... is your hand smoking?"
It was indeed, a thin smoke, like that which surrounds over-cooked bacon. Harold knew better than to take a deep sniff of the air; Madge herself was pungent enough to make that an unpleasant experience.
"Aha, even your Sloth-addled brain takes time off from Candy Crush to notice that! Yes, this little tool rejects Hell, and all its denizens, in spite of its own nature. Now take it, or do not, and I'll return it to whence it came! You can see what good a pistol will do you against the supernatural ... just before you join us in the afterlife."
Harold reached out. If he could truly find something that rejected his boss, that had to mean it was a force for good, right? Between his thumb and index finger, he tilted it slightly to look at the engraving.
It was in no language Harold recognized, but the words were plain to him. "Slayer of Men?" he asked. "What am I supposed to do with..."
But her hand was away, and so was Madge. Her cackle could be heard out in the parking lot. "Yes! Victory for Madge the Corruptor. I alone can tempt your pretty puppies into acts of perversion upon each other. Fear me and be glad! Tellers, obey and be ready."
Harold looked at the clock. "We DO open in ten minutes." he said, slipping the knife into his pocket.
it said to him.
"Uh... hello, I'm at work and can't talk right now."
Although he had thought his breakfast adequate, a low growl issued from Harold's midsection.
"I'm at work." Harold said. "While at work, I do work. That's how I get money."
"Hello, how can I help you this fine morning?" Harold asked his first customer. And for the next two hours, until his usual break, he ignored the silver letter opener.
"Okay." Harold said. "I'm on break now."
Slayer of Men said inside Harold's mind.
"Nobody is harming Madge." Harold said. "I work here; she lives here. This is her place, not mine."
"Look, you might be playing Dungeons and Dragons, but I have to live in this world." Harold said, considering his unchanged options at the vending machine.
Slayer of Men said.
"Nobody is ever granting you access to their mind. I'm also not promising my soul, nor are we forming anything that rhymes with the word pact." Harold said. "YOU are going to reside either in my pocket, or in my desk drawer, your choice."
"You are hardly a sword." Harold said, glancing at the clock.
"Sounds to me like you're spending a lot of time fitting into my pocket."
"That's my wallet, and it also lives there."
In the end, they compromised, and Slayer of Men resided in Harold's left pocket, with his keys and cell phone.
- Writer
