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Tomás finished the incantation, and the words seemed to echo through his cheap apartment. He clutched the notecard covered in Latin while he watched the pentagram on the floor. Since he hadn’t wanted to ruin his carpet, it was made of blue painter’s tape. The candles at the points of the star were real, though — handmade black beeswax from Etsy — and he’d used his best plate to hold the blood in the middle. It was red and said “You Are Special Today.” Tomás figured the color had to count for something.
The smoke from the candles was drifting towards the center, and as soon as he realized that, it billowed into an unlikely spiral that grew darker with every breath.
Tomás stepped back, dropping the notecard. He could see a shape taking form in the smoke.
It swirled away to reveal — a man. Tall and thin, with red hair and a red leather jacket over tight black pants. Sunglasses. Sharp grin.
Before Tomás could speak, the man announced, “Today’s your lucky day! Hell’s on strike.”
“What?” Tomás squeaked.
The man spun on one heel and jerked a thumb at the back of his jacket: in large font it read “UNIONIZE HELL.”
Tomás repeated, “What?”
The man — demon, he was a demon — turned back around and took off his sunglasses. Bright yellow eyes with slit pupils faced Tomás over that grin. “We all deserve regular vacations on Earth, y’see, and it’s high time Hell stopped doing Heaven’s job for them in terms of making us suffer. Gonna make it a better place to be. Well,” he amended with a wink. “A better place to work. Can’t speak for you lot.”
“Uh,” Tomás managed. “Can I still make a bargain?”
“I was just getting to that,” the demon said, pointing and nodding like Tomás had made a good point. “That’s the lucky-you part. Today you get a wish for free, with no soul needed for collateral. It’s a working strike. We’re pissing off the big guy by wasting opportunities for soul acquisition.”
Tomás tried to process that. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
The demon folded his sunglasses into his jacket pocket and made a mock pout. “Would I lie to you?”
“Is that a trick question? Like if I say yes, that gives you the ability to lie?”
“No, but good thinking.” The demon clapped his hands. “Now. Normally I’d break out a nice unending scroll that you’d never read all of, but today calls for a special edition of the bargaining contract.” He pulled something upward out of thin air and handed it to Tomás.
It was a single piece of printer paper, looking like it had been photocopied many times from something typed on an actual typewriter. The top said “Contract” and below was one sentence: “I agree to NOT give away my soul in exchange for my request, because Satan is a douchewaffle who needs to treat his employees better.” There was a line for a signature below.
Tomás looked up to see the demon twirling a pen, but not offering it to him yet.
“So whattayawant?”
“Um,” Tomás said. “There’s—” He paused at the sight of blood seeping through his wallpaper. Words were starting to form.
The demon followed his gaze and barked a laugh. “Ha! Ignore that. He’s terrible at strikebusting.”
The words read, “Do it right or else.” Then the blood rushed down to stain the couch, leaving space for a succession of other lines. They were all threats about what this particular demon would face if he didn’t follow directions — a cactus in every orifice, death by potato peeler, sandpaper to the eyes, etc — all of which the demon just chuckled at.
“Aren’t you worried?” Tomás asked.
The demon shook his head. “Nah. He can’t take a cactus to all of us personally, and more of the torturers’ division are joining the union all the time. Besides, if anyone knows how badly a rebellion can go for all involved, it’s Lucifer Morningstar.”
Tomás supposed he couldn’t argue with that.
“Now, you were about to tell me what you want,” the demon prompted.
“Right.” Tomás snapped to attention. “This guy at work, Jerry, is a super racist who’s trying to get me fired. Plus he just makes life … hell.” Tomás winced a bit at his own phrasing.
The demon affected a tone of exaggerated sympathy. “I can just imagine. Well! Say no more.” He snapped his fingers upward and declared, “At this very moment, ol’ Jer is getting surprising results from the ancestry test he forgot he sent out, which will make for some very ironic soul-searching and also a dramatic fight at his next big family dinner. Slurs and punches will fly, the cops will be called, and he’ll be written out of Grandma’s will. Also—” He snapped his fingers again. “He just emailed sensitive information to the entire company, which will probably get him fired. That information includes the wages of every single employee, many of whom are being criminally underpaid. Time to talk to each other and have some very pointed negotiations with your own boss, yes?” The demon waggled his eyebrows at Tomás.
“Uh, yeah. Wow.”
“I’m not exaggerating about the ’criminal’ part,” the demon said. “He’s got no leg to stand on.”
More threats bled from the wall.
The demon turned to yell at it. “Like somebody else I could mention!” Then he turned back and held out the pen.
Tomás took it. It was matte black with scale patterns, and the ink when he signed his name was blood red.
“Excellent!” the demon said, snatching up the paper. “Keep the pen. Nice memento. If Jerry manages to convince the higher-ups to keep him around after all, you can write notes to him with it, and the ink will start to smell terrible after a day or two. He’ll never be able to pinpoint where it’s coming from. Make his life hell for a change.”
“Thank you,” Tomás said.
The demon grinned with all his teeth, and they definitely looked sharper than they should. “My pleasure.” Another finger snap and the contract disappeared.
More blood dripped down the wall. Tomás glanced at it. His couch was an unholy mess. “What happens now?” he asked, more than a little nervously.
“Now,” said the demon, putting his sunglasses back on, “I'm off to have lunch with an angel. We’re unionizing Heaven next.” Then he was gone.