Chapter Three: A Demon’s Guide to Hustling
1049 Words
Krok sat cross-legged on the damp grass, staring at the glossy business card in his claws. The name Jason Markowitz – Convention Organizer was embossed in gold lettering, accompanied by a logo of a smiling cartoon demon.
“So, let me get this straight,” Krok growled, turning to the ghost, who was floating nonchalantly beside him. “You’re suggesting I take this human’s offer and… what? Parade myself around like some sort of hellish sideshow?”
“Pretty much,” the ghost said, grinning. “Think of it as freelancing. You do some appearances, take a few pictures, maybe sign some autographs, and boom—money in the bank.”
“I am a foot soldier of Hell, not a performer!” Krok snapped, his claws clenching the card so tightly it almost folded in half. “I have dignity! I have pride! I—”
“—am broke,” the ghost interrupted, rolling its eyes. “Face it, Big Red. You need money if you’re going to survive here. Everything costs cash. Google? Costs money. A place to sleep? Money. Food?”
“I don’t need food,” Krok said indignantly.
“Okay, fine. But what about fixing your Rift thingy? Think you’re gonna walk into a RadioShack and say, ‘Hey, I need a dimensional repair kit’ without handing over some cash?”
Krok frowned, his glowing eyes narrowing. “This world is ridiculous.”
“Welcome to Earth,” the ghost said, smirking. “Now, are you going to take the guy up on his offer, or are we gonna sit here all day while you sulk?”
Krok hesitated, his pride warring with practicality. Finally, he growled and stood up. “Fine. I’ll find this… Jason Markowitz. But if he tries anything suspicious, I’ll incinerate him.”
“Atta boy!” the ghost cheered. “Now, let’s get you on the road to capitalism, baby.”
The business card included an address for Jason’s office, which turned out to be a small, cluttered room above a coffee shop. Krok had to hunch to fit through the door, his horns scraping against the low frame.
Jason looked up from his desk, his eyes widening in recognition. “Oh, wow! You actually showed up!”
Krok crossed his arms, his towering frame casting a shadow over the desk. “I require… funds.”
“Right to the point, huh? I like that.” Jason grinned nervously, pulling a folder from a stack of papers. “Okay, so here’s the deal. There’s a cosplay convention happening this weekend, and I want you as the main attraction. You’ll get a booth, do some meet-and-greets, maybe judge a costume contest. You’ll be the star of the show!”
“I don’t understand half of what you just said,” Krok admitted, his voice dripping with disdain.
Jason laughed awkwardly. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle all the details. You just show up, look scary, and stay in character. Oh, and I’ll pay you $500.”
“Five hundred… what?” Krok asked suspiciously.
“Dollars,” the ghost whispered, materializing just enough for Jason to shiver and glance around. “It’s money. Take it.”
Krok leaned down, looming over Jason. “You will pay me this… ‘money’… in advance.”
Jason gulped but nodded. “Sure, sure! I’ll write you a check.”
Krok straightened, looking triumphant. “Then we have a deal.”
As Jason scrambled to write the check, the ghost whispered in Krok’s ear, “You know you can’t just cash a check without a bank account, right?”
“What’s a bank account?” Krok muttered back.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” the ghost said, stifling a laugh.
By the time the convention rolled around, Krok was ready—or as ready as a demon with zero knowledge of Earth’s customs could be. Jason had provided him with a simple task: “Stand here, look scary, and let people take pictures with you.”
What Jason hadn’t mentioned was the sheer volume of humans who would show up.
“Is this… normal?” Krok asked, his glowing eyes scanning the crowd of humans dressed as warriors, wizards, and bizarre creatures he couldn’t identify.
“It’s cosplay,” the ghost said. “They’re dressed as their favorite characters. Just roll with it.”
One by one, humans approached him, asking for photos and autographs. At first, Krok stood stiffly, his arms crossed, glowering at everyone. But as the day went on, he started to find a rhythm.
“You look amazing!” said a young woman dressed as a knight. “What’s your character from?”
“I am Kroktathax, Foot Soldier of Hell!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the convention hall.
“Oh my gosh, your commitment to the bit is incredible!” she squealed, snapping a photo with him.
“Uh, thanks?” Krok said, confused.
“See? You’re a natural!” the ghost whispered.
By the end of the day, Krok had signed dozens of autographs, taken hundreds of photos, and even judged a costume contest, where he loudly declared, “The winner is this mortal dressed as the fire demon! You capture the essence of infernal wrath perfectly.”
The winner—a teenager holding a foam trident—nearly cried with joy.
As the convention wound down, Jason approached Krok with an envelope stuffed with cash. “You were incredible, man! People are already asking if you’ll come back next year.”
Krok took the envelope, glancing inside. “This… is human money?”
“Yup. You earned it,” Jason said with a grin.
Krok nodded solemnly. “Good. Now I can Google.”
Jason laughed, thinking it was a joke.
But Krok wasn’t joking.
As they left the convention, the ghost floated beside him, smirking. “So, how does it feel to be a working man, Big Red?”
Krok growled. “I feel… dirty. Like I have sold my infernal soul for this meaningless paper.”
“Welcome to capitalism,” the ghost said. “Now, let’s go find you a laptop. You’ve got some Googling to do.”
Krok sighed, clutching the envelope. “This world is ridiculous.”
- Writer
