Stiltskin

Prologue

The gentleman stepped up to the podium and straightened his tie. He looked out at the several hundred students whose eyes all rested upon the gentleman’s athletic build. An athletic build he was quite proud of, at that. He was a renowned gentleman, scholar, professional assumptionist and part-time religious expert. His theories and social experiments were famous the world over, and as a result, he was invited to the best parties and most prestigious events. He was happy. New theories were getting harder to come up with, and it had been at least a year and a half since his last lecture at Oxford University, but here he stood, once again on the brink of high expectations, with not one but three new theories to present.

The students were honored to have him as a guest speaker, and the other professors had waited for this lecture for several months, many of them having abandoned their families, moved across the country, and re-shuffled their schedules to make time to listen to what was expected to be a world-shaking lecture. Members of the national and international press arrived two hours earlier to get the pre-lecture buzz from the students and faculty. Things like profoundly excited and would trade my left testicle to see that man speak were uttered.

The auditorium sat in silence, poised on the edge of their seats, notebooks at the ready, recording devices fully loaded, their studious brains humming, fully prepared to be inspired.

The gentleman shuffled his notes and got right to the point.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I realize that I need no introduction and so, I will get right to the point."

Several students quickly wrote that down in case there was some hidden meaning to be uncovered later.

"Today, I have three new theories for you and they will be presented here for the first time."

Thunderous applause roared throughout the auditorium. Several people lucky enough to get a seat stood up and applauded harder.

The gentleman breathed in his last breath of true success.

"My first is a modern proposal of sorts; at first glance it may seem absurd, but as we all know, first impressions can be deceiving."

A few respectful chuckles arose from the audience.

"I believe that this modern proposal will benefit the world if taken seriously and pondered to the utmost." The gentleman cleared his throat, shuffled his papers once more, and launched into it with hasty abandon. "I present to you A Proposal for Global Public Nudity!"

When expectations had been so high that people reorganized their entire lives in the fond hope that their anticipations would be more than met, it came as quite a disappointment when not only were those not met. But instead, those expectations were drugged, tied, gagged, placed in a bag, driven out to the middle of God knows where, and buried in a twenty-foot-deep hole which was then covered with concrete.

Almost everyone in the room stopped breathing, and only a few people remembered to blink.

The gentleman mistook the looks of shock and awe as surprise and delight and continued enthusiastically.

"Firstly, designer labels and fashion have ruled our lives for long enough. The re-introduction of the tube-top should have been a clear signal that the industry can now manipulate us to wear whatever they feel is necessary for daily living. And furthermore, can charge whatever ludicrous prices they deem suitable. How many girls have come home from school crying because their best friend has the new designer label? It is a ploy. A well-thought-out ploy to separate us from our hard-earned wage. If we instigate global nudity, then the war over who is cool and who is not according to fashion becomes obsolete. No one needs to buy skin. We are all born with it; it’s waterproof, durable, and available in a wide range of colours."

No one wrote anything down; everyone had enough trouble concentrating as the once renowned gentleman on stage quickly and carefully fed his career to the sharks.

"How many people hide their true self and figure behind the many shades of fabric that hang in the millions of department stores around the world? Like the army, that is mere camouflage. Fat people pretend to be thin. Females with a self-perception of less-than-adequate bosoms dress themselves up to appear a little more well-endowed than they actually are. Thin, ugly, small, repellent males are simply handed the ability to cover their true selves with designer shoes, shirts, pants, and so on, only to be later discovered by some poor unsuspecting female, or male, that he is less than he appears. The inhibitions that have clouded the minds of the general populace for so long would be stripped down to reveal the truth, and only the truth.

"What follows is a short list of some of the absolute advantages of Global Public Nudity.

"Parents will no longer have to endure the hassle of teaching their children the delicate art of tying their shoelaces. There will be no shoelaces to tie.

"Breastfeeding will become a communally shared experience, much like asking for directions or helping an elderly lady across the busy street. There will always be a wide number of portable milk outlets available, especially in busy places like malls or Starbucks.

"Global public nudity holds a great deal of advantages for men, also. No longer will a suffering male have to wait for a celibate fiancée to display the goods. Playboy will become a thing of the past, therefore cutting down on the clutter of magazines that shroud the bathrooms of many homes.

"The ever-present zipper problem will be abolished, as there will no longer be a vicious cutting device hanging around the groin section of the male body. But the greatest advantage to males will be the decrease in time that taken for women to get ready for work, a date, dinner, a movie, etc., etc.

"There will be a sharp decrease in the amount of emotional stress caused by elderly people exposing themselves in public places. The act of exposing oneself will no longer be an issue, as everyone will be totally stark naked.

"In conclusion, I realize that some of these points may initially appear as nothing more than barefaced cheek, an insult to society. But I assure you, these points are logical and viable and would instantly solve many of the problems that plague the world as we know it today. So I propose that we strip away our inhibitions and bare to the world our true selves," he finished with a flourish.

There was no applause, no standing ovation. If the university had allowed crickets to be present at the lecture, they would have been the only sound heard.

The gentleman mistook the looks of pity and disappointment as eager interest and spellbound curiosity, and so he quickly launched into his second theory, which involved aliens not only building the pyramids, but also inventing the mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried cranberry sandwich. He managed to get through the majority of the theory before the Oxford security guards intervened. The mango chutney-curried chicken-mayo-dried cranberry sandwich theory was the last nail in the coffin of his career. As the security guards dragged the gentleman off stage, his last words were, "No, wait, I also have a theory about the devil, the dead not dying, Santa Claus, his elves, and a penguin!"

But no one heard him. They were all too busy laughing.

In many ways, he was wrong. Global public nudity would be amusing, somewhat entertaining, and probably really disgusting, not to mention completely absurd. Aliens did not build the pyramids. Slaves built the pyramids while under the overpowering influence of large men holding even larger whips. But on certain points he was absolutely correct. Had anyone bothered to listen to his theory about the devil, the dead not dying, Santa Claus, his elves, and a penguin, they would have eventually found out that he was right on the money.

Chapter One

There were deals, and then there were deals. And this was a deal. The signature sat, burning comfortably, on the dotted line. Then, while the Prince of Darkness gleefully packed his clothes, the document was on its way to the administration office via the Underworld Postal System for filing. He didn’t really like the demons in the administration office; they were low even by his standards.

Decisions, decisions. Whether to take the blue underwear or the orange?

It had been so long since he’d been allowed to get away from it all and really commit to some good old-fashioned deceiving. And to walk on the Earth again, that would be truly fabulous. The last time he’d possessed a body must have been at least three thousand years ago. Reflectively, though, he really hadn’t had the best of luck with possessing people.

He shuddered as he packed his knitted doilies and remembered the whole Adam and Eve fiasco. That had been his first real possession. He’d been aiming for Eve but missed by a few feet and ended up in that stupid snake. He’d had to slither round for a good few hours before he got the hang of how to move, and then had to deal with the constant compulsion to eat eggs. It almost wasn’t worth the hassle. Everything turned out okay in the end, introducing sin to the Earth and all, but he’d found the whole episode a rather trying ordeal.

No matter how many times he steeped in a bubble bath, it still took him weeks to shake that slimy, scaly feeling.

The Devil looked in a mirror and stared at the grim, distorted figure before him. Sad. I really have to start getting more sleep. Maybe he’d take up a relaxation program when he got back from the Earth, something to improve his quality of life. Tai Chi: that’s what he’d do. He’d go down to the dungeons and find some ancient Chinese souls who could teach him Tai Chi. After he’d tortured them for a while.

I’m forgetting something. The Devil picked up his going-away checklist and a pen.

-Pack clothes… check!

-Clean bathroom… check!

-Turn off coffee maker… check!

-Send Deal made with God stating Devil may walk the Earth for One Week document down to the administration department… check!

-Give bone-chilling speech to the new arrivals… check!

-Leave instructions with one of the demons on how to feed the fish…

That’s it. He’d forgotten about his fish, Percy. The Devil walked out of his apartment onto the high rocky precipice that served as a sort of porch and looked down at his rather overly warm kingdom.

Demons wandered hither and thither, dragging tortured souls around with them. The Devil grimaced; it was so hot down here, and it wasn’t even a nice dry heat, the humidity was unbearable. Soon enough, he’d be able to breathe the lovely fresh air that the human race so easily took for granted. The thought cooled him ever so slightly, and a small cloud of steam rose from his body. He stretched out his black, tattered, leathery wings and shouted out over the cavernous kingdom, his dark voice bouncing off the jagged rocks.

"Listen to me, all you inhabitants of Hell. For those of you who are new, there will be a public flaying of lawyers at six tonight. Make sure you bring something for the potluck dinner or you will not be allowed to enjoy the festivities. And if anyone’s seen Azeal, could they please tell him I’d like to see him immediately in my quarters? That is all!"

The Devil re-folded his wings and stalked back into his home. He playfully tapped on the fishbowl where Percy the goldfish swam happily around without a care in the world, except that he could never understand why his water always stayed so warm.

There came a sharp rap at the door, to which the door grimly responded by swinging open to reveal a short, stumpy, egg-shaped demon with only one leg and half a wing. Even his horns looked like something created by using a toilet paper roll and lots of sticky tape. His yellowy-green eyes darted suspiciously around the room.

"Ahh, Azeal, do come in," motioned the Devil as he made kissy faces at Percy, who felt somewhat confused as to why this large, ugly, black mass kept making faces at him.

Azeal hopped in, started to lose his balance, flapped furiously with his half a wing in order to straighten himself and then proceeded to fall over. The Devil shook his head sadly and made a tsk tsk kind of sound with his forked tongue.

"I really have no idea how you ever survived through the Crusades. Maybe survived is a bit of a strong word. You did lose your leg and the vast majority of your wingspan."

Azeal, not possessing the ability to speak, simply made a rude noise and pushed himself back up on his one leg.

"Now listen carefully, Azeal. Percy is very special to me, and if you should accidentally kill him, I’ll have you flogged 'til the rest of your wing falls off. Understood?"

Azeal burped loudly and grinned a maliciously stupid grin.

The Devil rolled his eyes.

"His feeding instructions are next to his bowl, along with his food. I’ll be back in a week. If any pressing matters arise, the Second Coming, that kind of thing, you’ll be able to reach me on my cell. Got it?"

Azeal farted and left it at that.

"Good," said the Devil. It suddenly became very clear to him that the clock on the wall was trying to tell him something.

"Oh my, is that the time? I’ll be late." And with a great flapping of wings he ranout the door, knocking Azeal over in the process. The Devil popped his head back through the doorway.

"Azeal, did I mention that I’d have you flogged if you messed up?"

Azeal jumped to his foot and bounced up and down a couple of times while making distressed choking noises.

"Good." The Devil grabbed his suitcase and took off at a sprint.

The Gates of Hell looked dark as ever as the Devil ran up to them. The excitement was really getting to him and he could hardly stop himself hopping from one foot to the other.

One of the two large guards at the gates of Hell stepped up to the Devil.

"Pass, please."

"What?" said the Devil, brimming over with disbelief.

"I said pass, please. Bit deaf, are you?" replied the guard.

Fire began to burn in the Devil’s eyes. "Do you know who I am?"

The other guard suddenly came running forward and pushed the first guard back. "I’m so sorry, boss," said the second demon guard. "You see, that’s Stan, he’s new here. Won’t happen again."

The Devil raised himself up to his full height and spread his wings in a terrifying arc. Then he folded them up again and burst out in a fit of laughter.

"I really can’t be mad at you today. Going to Earth, you see, approved by God Himself. Ha! Idiot. Do be a good boy and let me out."

The two demons pulled open the unbelievably large, iron gates to reveal a long line of people waiting to get in. Part of Hell’s policy clearly stated that everyone had to stand in line for at least five years before entering.

These pitiful fools, and they thought standing in line at the supermarket was bad. The Devil grinned an evil grin and sprinted off toward the end of the line, which disappeared into a set of double doors marked with a large pink neon sign that said Exit. And then underneath, in smaller, less bright neon letters: Fat chance.

The Devil ran through the doors without a care for the poor dead people on either side of him.

"Move it, coming through, get out of the way you insolent fools!"

The way out of Hell was a little more difficult than getting in. Getting in required that a person be ignorant, redundant, or evil, and preferably dead, or so unbelievably cursed by God that there wouldn’t ever be a chance of being redeemed. The Devil’s situation was that of the latter. But by the recent agreement with God Himself, the Devil had been granted a temporary pass to get out of the Fiery Inferno and walk around for a whole week. During which he would wreak unspeakable havoc and attempt to add to the growing line of people waiting to get into Hell.

The passage into the world consisted of a long, dark tunnel that stretched endlessly up into seemingly nothingness. People generally fell down the tunnel. It was an extremely rare occasion that anyone went back up it. However, the Devil had done this before; he knew the drill.

He unfurled his dark wings and prepared for the flight up. Oh, he couldn’t wait to see the body he would possess. He’d had a nice one picked out for quite a while now, a reclusive millionaire, young and healthy. The contract stated that he would have to inhabit a body the moment he reached the Earth, and the Devil knew it was just a matter of throwing himself into the right person. He flapped his wings, kicking up dust and debris, focused, then prepared for takeoff. He was pumped. He was ready. And so it came as a complete surprise at that point when a three-hundred-pound man in a white vest and boxer shorts with little hearts on them fell from the tunnel above and landed on the Devil’s face.

The fat gentleman got to his feet. "Bloody hell! Where am I?"

The Devil arose from the ground and folded his arms.

"Well, you’re dead, aren’t you? And I’m assuming that in life you were somewhat of an asshole and consequently, here you are. Torture for eternity," the Devil pointed a long, bony finger toward the end of the line, "that way!"

The fat man, somewhat confused, replied, "Uhh, yeah, thanks," and waddled off toward the line.

The Devil shook his head, unfurled his wings once again, and with a great big flap worthy of an American Bald Eagle, flew up the portal. Everything always went a bit blurry around this part; going from one reality to the next was never easy. It always gave him the kind of feeling that his insides were turning outside. The Devil loved the feeling. And as he rose higher and higher, going faster and faster, heading for the end of the tunnel, he smiled at how easy he’d found it to strike such a simple deal that would allow him to take human form and destroy lives.

The end of the tunnel was nigh as he rushed toward a bright blue light. Then, nothing but frantic oblivion. All was dark.

The Devil opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Ahh, fresh air. It would appear he was on the floor. He tried to stand up but, as he did so, he didn’t really move all that much higher. What was the problem here? His surroundings were simple: a couch, a TV, a lovely coffee table with some fine bone china.

The Devil stretched as his senses came into play.

A door opened off to his side and a pair of legs in badly wrinkled stockings appeared and dropped a plate of food in front of him.

The Devil looked down at the plate of brown mush and then up to see a little old lady grinning down at him.

She opened her mouth and cooed.

"Aww, who’s a cute puddycat, Fuzzbucket?"

The Devil mustered all his strength and cried, "What?"

What actually came out was meow.

I don’t believe it. I’m in a cat! How the hell did I end up in a cat?

The Devil didn’t know what to do. The Devil, the Prince of Darkness, Beelzebub, the Deceiver himself, trapped in a cat for an entire week. And not just any cat: a cat called Fuzzbucket. He suddenly had a strong urge to systematically clean himself, and being in complete shock and not knowing what else to do, went ahead and did so.

Down in the depths of Hell’s Administration office, a lowly demon examined the contract she’d just received to file. She made a tsk tsk sort of noise and shook her head as she read the fine print through a magnifying glass.

Please Note: If by any chance the above noted chosen body is unavailable due to death, dismemberment, or divine intervention, the party of the second part (being Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness) will waive all possession rights and will be deposited into a body of the party of the first part’s (being God) choosing.

The demon lifted a large metal stamp and branded the word received into the contract with a satisfying hissssss.

The evening air was close and the heat, relentless. It beat at every passerby in the small town of Obidos, located somewhere in the west of Portugal.

Sweat escaped from every available pore on the body of Raymond Miller as he wandered down tight, quaint streets.

He loved Obidos at this time of year. Not so much for the heat, as no one really loved the town for its heat. But because Obidos was so quiet, hardly anyone around, no tourists, just the locals. The locals left him alone; they didn’t like the strange visitor who appeared out of nowhere for a few weeks every year and then vanished without a trace. It became a favorite pastime of the locals to stand completely still with a fixed frown whenever Raymond would appear on the street. They would watch him walk down the street, moving only their heads until he disappeared into a shop or around a corner. Shopkeepers wouldn’t talk to him except to tell him how much he owed them. They would answer any pleasantries or questions with a severe umph, all the time frowning like their lives depended on it.

They didn’t like Raymond because he didn’t follow the tourist trend. He always turned up out of season, and he kept himself to himself, not to mention he’d built a ghastly, great big mansion on the outskirts of town.

Raymond was in fact a billionaire who had quite methodically worked out when the off-season occurred for every beautiful place on Earth. He would travel round all year to these places, then build a house where he could stay for a couple of weeks, and that was his life, day in and day out. All he ever wanted was a quiet life, and when his one-hundred-fourteen-year-old grandmother died, she left Raymond, her only living relative, all her money. Although on the surface a quiet and very innocent-looking lady, she had made her money by running drugs from the United States to Japan. She was a little old lady with too much time on her hands, and she liked traveling to the Orient. Or that’s what all the security people at the airports thought as they helped her off the plane and even carried her drug-filled luggage for her. Her drug-running name was Silent Grasshopper. Raymond had no knowledge of this, as she told him that she won all her money on the lottery, and so he remained blissfully unaware.

Raymond had been an Olympic swimmer before the inheritance, and although he remained in good physical condition, he no longer swam. When he got the money from his grandmother, he decided to follow up on his high school dream to do absolutely nothing. He traveled around the world, spending the vast amount of money he’d acquired. He partied occasionally, hired women to satisfy his carnal pleasures, hired people to cook for him, but really did nothing of any importance. If he vanished off the face of the Earth, the only person who would miss him would be his bank manager, who talked to him every few days and who could have been considered to be Raymond’s only friend.

As Raymond walked out onto the bridge that crossed the local river, he stopped and admired the sunset. He could see a couple of children playing soccer at the other end of the bridge, a little too close to the road, he thought. There really wasn’t that much traffic in the town, so there was probably nothing to worry about. At least, that’s what Raymond thought right up until he saw the bus.

The bus driver’s name was Dante and he was on the last route of the evening. He was, however, currently preoccupied with the sudden appearance of what appeared to be an orange object descending from the sky. Dante was so enamored with the strange object that he failed to see the young boy who ran out into the road after his run-away ball.

Raymond started sprinting before he even knew why. The urge hit him in the form of one simple word that felt very strangely as if someone had spoken it directly into his head. Run!

Everything happened very quickly. Raymond reached the boy just in time to push him out of the way; he looked up at the last minute to see an orange swirly thing plummeting toward him.

The orange swirly thing, consequently, was the last thing Raymond Miller saw in his life, as a millisecond later he was hit by the bus that killed him.

Moments later, the soul of Raymond Miller came face to face with a disgruntled-looking man dressed in a black robe standing next to a large neon sign that pointed up.