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Hellowe'en

Hellowe’en

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In the mysterious realm of the Underworld, far from mortal eyes and ears, things were getting busy. Although it could be said that there were no quiet days here, certainly no Bank Holiday Mondays on which to twiddle your many thumbs idly, a yearly event was upon the inhabitants of the city of Pandemonium that kicked things up a gear and really got a bustle of activity going.

It was Hallowe’en.

All Hallows Eve.

The one calendar day which gave this hidden netherworld direct access to the mortal plane for the purpose of causing mischief and mayhem. And if anyone knew a thing or two about making mischief and mayhem it was the upper management of Hell Afterlife Services.

A mighty steel and glass monolith stood proud in the centre of the sprawling metropolis, erected above the eternally burning pit, its neon signage oozing a phosphorous glow into the artificially sunny skies and lighting up the equally fake fluffy clouds drifting within it.

Any well-educated demon worth his flesh-burning salt would be found somewhere here in this smart, modern office building, either wallowing below in the dreaded basement – as suitable punishment for failing to meet a work deadline or simply smiling too much; or, more favourably, reclining in the lofty upper floors where the air conditioning was properly serviced and the comfy chairs didn’t squeak.

From the powerful and influential Inner Circle and its mighty demonic members of the Board of Directors, manipulating greedy world governments and planning the next plague, all the way down to the lowliest of low vermin, taking the last fresh croissant from the cafeteria even though they weren’t actually that hungry, just to spite the next worker in the line who was looking forward to it, in the Hell Afterlife Services office building was where they lurked.

Hallowe’en here was a big deal.

Heaven had Christmas as its party season, with gift giving and charity donations, random acts of kindness and generous blessings.

Hell had a special kind of fun all of its own.

For twenty-four mortal hours a direct link was opened into the unsuspecting land of the living; a one-way access point granting Hell’s denizen’s the means to fulfil their deepest desire of making innocent mortal souls suffer.

Hell-Hounds were given their annual bath and brush after being starved for a few days to make them extra bite-y and set loose off their chain leashes.

Headless horsemen (who were actually very rare and hard to come by these days), were hoisted up into their polished saddles and pointed in the right direction towards the portal.

Ghouls, spectres and ghosts were released from their containment unit and sent on their merry way.

Witches straddled their polished heirloom brooms, (being careful not to get painful splinters where the sun does not shine) to cackle off into the night, tricksy spells at the ready.

Minotaurs and Satyrs buffed their hooves and horns before arming themselves with sharp, spiky toys from the tormenting chambers, lumbering through the realm-link in search of hapless meatbags to play with.

Imps were whipped up into a frenzy and fed far too much sugar before being placed strategically in some of the most secure offices of the Pentagon, where they would gleefully wreak absolute havoc, resulting in at least one three-star General being court-martialled for leaking government secrets when in reality one of the little blighters had used their fax machine to send nuclear submarine launch codes to the Queen of England, along with a perfectly scanned picture of its hairy butt.

The jolly activities weren’t confined to the living world Upstairs though, there was plenty of entertainment to be had right here, even for those demons to whom this was just another working day in the grand scheme of things, even for those who wished they could have stayed in bed instead…

Anarchy Warlock brushed cobwebs carefully off his freshly gelled grey hair and gleaming curved horns and then brushed it in turn off his perfectly trimmed finger-talons, only to watch it cling straight back onto his long black, sweeping cloak. So, he proceeded to brush it off from there too, without much success, his frustration mounting. There were no real spiders in Hell; this was the artificial crap that came out of a spray-can, like silly string. It was everywhere. Including on him, now.

He sighed. What a way to start the day.

Above him, circling the bustling reception area, bats flitted. These were real at least, taken from lost caves in deepest, darkest Brazil, where ordinarily they would have been feasting on the blood of nearby farm cattle. Here, there was no dinner for them, so they were going absolutely crazy and shitting all over the nice carpet. He made his way quickly to the building’s elevator, keeping his comically large Count Duckula-esque collar up protectively around his long aardvark head.

The doors slid slowly open and he walked in, standing next to a plastic skeleton prop that was already looking like it was falling apart and the day had barely begun. He jabbed the clicky metal buttons for his destination of Floor Twenty-Two (administration) and watched as a rogue bat swooped in with him before the doors slid to a thudding close again.

He flapped his grey hands to keep the awful thing away. He was a not a fan of exotic nature. Being a British boy, anything that couldn’t be turned into dinner was met with fear and repulsion. They’d had a bunch of black cats brought in last year and that had been rather nice, until management had caught on that no work was getting done because all the lower demons were in the lobby playing with them.

The elevator doors opened again, the bat flew straight out into the open office space and Anar dropped his ancient, precious magical artefact of a bag unceremoniously at his personal work desk and went to get a much-needed hot coffee.

There were pumpkins sitting on the remaining clutter-free surfaces with their greasy candles burning brightly. Probably not the best idea, considering how much important stuff in here was flammable and there was no sprinkler system installed, but someone had signed off on it. Probably his immediate boss, Alexis Crowley. Never before had a Level 1 supervisor had such little authority with so big an ego. The idiotic human demon tosspot had about ten people under him but acted like he was in charge of the Third Reich. And all because his great-great-great grandad or whatever, Aleister Crowley, had been a complete piece of evil shit and got himself noticed by demonic royalty. Whoop-te-fuckin-doo. Still, it made every chance Anar had got to batter his ugly flat face in back at Infernal Holy College all that sweeter. Alexis wouldn’t be around today though, oh no, he was off being important with middle management, sucking up and kissing ass while marvelling at their wonderful ideas for mortal mischief. Git. He’d left the workers a little present in the form of a scribbled-on whiteboard sat in the middle of the floor.

**Hallowe’en Salutations!**

On this our very special day we have spooky fun galore!

9am: Yoga with Yog-Sothoth

10am: Succubi and lollipops

11am: Torture chamber – Live! (Big Screen, Room 5)

12pm: Dark Oath renewals

1pm: Pandemonium Parade

2pm: Pumpkin Carving Competition

3pm: Release the Kraken (Big Screen, Room 5)

4pm: Bloodbath Bingo

5pm: The Dictator Show – new this year - Pol Pot!

**Sweets and candy all day**

Anar groaned. It was all so awful. Not in the way it was supposed to be awful, it was a celebration of everything demonic after all, no it was awful in that forced ‘happy fun-time’ kind of way. Like management’s big idea of ‘Dress-Down Friday’ where turning up in your jogging bottoms and a hoodie was meant to be a mood-booster at the end of the week. In a company like this, where having a good time, or not dressing to code, could be punished with a stint in the dreaded office block basement it was a no-brainer that no-one wanted to join in. What if Dress Down Friday was all a diabolical trick, and they were dragged kicking and screaming into oblivion? Not worth the risk. Suit and tie every day for all eternity was the safest option. Joy.

As Anar entered the cafeteria, trying not to make eye contact with any other undead employee here, he remembered upper management’s past attempt at a seasonal joke that had been ‘Alternative Hallowe’en’ – one year a memo had been sent round for all underlings to come to work dressed as Heavenly Hosts (Angels) for a bit of a laugh. It had all backfired spectacularly when the Security Minions were suddenly flooded with calls that Angel spies had been spotted in Pandemonium’s offices and they had stormed the building, throwing magic around left and right until Upper Management had been forced to intervene lest half their workforce were carted off to the torture cells for unholy interrogation.

“Hallowe’en salutations!”

He shot the lesser demoness of a server behind the counter a dark look. It was an absolute cracker of a dark look, too, as he’d been practising.

She waited a second for a response, had the decency to look embarrassed about her unwelcome enthusiasm and mumbled for his order.

“Give me a blueberry muffin, a cappuccino with extra cream and wipe that smile off your face before I put you in your coffee grinder.” There was nothing worse than someone happy in their work. Especially as he was so miserable in his.

The lesser demon hastily completed his order.

Anar had a plan of action to survive the day: he’d log in to the system on his computer just to make sure he wasn’t marked as absent, and then he’d fuck off down to the archives where he could lurk until home time.

Back at the dilapidated building that was his shared apartment and home, out in the abandoned wasteland of Purgatory, his two flatmates – Rap and Rave the velociraptors, would be having a lovely time decorating the lounge with rubber spiders, felt rats and cardboard cut-outs of witches and pumpkins. It was alright for them, they didn’t have to work, bloody freeloading lizards that they were. If he was offered a toffee apple when he opened that front door at the end of his shift, there could well be bloody murder.

Anar returned to his desk, dropping crumbs on his way and stabbed his claws at his keyboard with malice. This was the beginning of his third year here at Hell Afterlife Services and he was sick of it all already. He’d had some thoughts on how he could get out, some mad schemes to try when he wasn’t so exhausted. One day, he hoped sooner rather than later, it would all be over.

As a Turned demon, he’d come here from the mortal world after studying at the infamous Infernal Holy College. He’d unfortunately passed all his exams with flying colours, despite his best efforts, and he and his loyal reptilian friends had passed through the Abyssal Gate to enter a sort of paused state of existence. He felt hungry, got tired, became restless, all while his body wasn’t actually functioning. It was something he’d been warned about, of course, but nothing could really prepare you for the sensation of a heart beating in your chest that wasn’t pumping any blood and lungs gulping for air that wasn’t there. He did not sleep well. He was not thriving. He was miserable.

He stared at his screen as he sipped his creamy coffee. He’d been entertaining himself by swapping pictures out in the Demonic Database – Amaimon now had a plate of spaghetti as a reference image, Baphomet was suddenly Sean the Sheep from Aardman Animations and Alexis Crowley was Mr. Blobby. No-one had seemed to notice any of this much to his amusement. He’d locked his own personal file entry up in his first week, as an extra measure to stay well-hidden and forgotten about. Working in administration was ideal for going unnoticed.

Around the office space, among the spooky decorations and one fugitive bat, a few other workers were typing away and uttering Hallowe’en greetings. They were an alright bunch, really, keeping themselves to themselves and giving Anar the wide berth he craved. They grabbed handfuls of Smarties out the glass dishes set out for them as they passed, skulking like pros.

The elevator dinged open and everyone froze on the spot. They weren’t expecting any visitors and it was too early for lunch breaks. Heads swung round.

A swarm of colour and smiles poured out, in the form of multiple Succubi smiling, laughing, and flashing exciting bits of anatomy from beneath chiffon and lace. They sat on worker’s laps and seductively popped lollipops into open mouths and maws while squealing with unbridled glee.

This was more like it!

Anar’s ears drooped as his lap was occupied by a voluptuous female form and a rosy blush spread on his grey cheeks.

Pretty serpentine eyes fluttered and a dainty, scaly hand wandered over his thighs.

“Hallowe’en Salutations to you, handsome! Have something tasty to suck on,” a massive red lolly was forced between his parting lips, “that’s good, huh? Ooooh, you’re so big…”

His cheeks were now as hot as the furnaces outside. He almost swallowed the lolly, stick and all, as he gulped. It had been a while since he’d had a hand on that particular part of his body!

“Are you a pony, cutie?” she smiled brightly, crimson lipgloss shining.

A tail tip slid up his spine.

“’M ‘n aard’k,” he attempted to explain, mouth full. Nobody ever got his species correct.

“That’s great, sweetie, thank you for working so hard for the glory of our Dark Lord, it’s minions like you who keep Pandemonium ticking, you know?” Ivory fangs grazed at his grey neck, suckling and biting as heaving, bouncy scaled breasts rubbed over his black work shirt.

He promptly bit the strawberry lolly clean in two.

“Enjoy your treats, boys!”

Just as swiftly as they had flooded in, the girls were flouncing off to the next floor, taking their baskets of candy with them as they wiggled coquettishly.

There was a silence upon the floor, broken only by the gentle wheezing of a dozen minions trying to compose themselves long enough to resume their duties. Those wily temptresses certainly knew how to get a guy going! Even a technically dead one.

After that bit of welcome excitement was over, Anar dipped out sneakily to the archives. There were no dangly cardboard skeletons nor crappy rubber rats here. This was a quiet, dusty, windowless and seldom-visited part of the building. Coming here wasn’t technically skiving, he needed the original copies of every demon’s official file from here to upload into the new-fangled database and Alexis usually brought him a fresh pile every day for his in-tray. Most were dusty pieces of parchment or papyrus, they really were that old, and written in the ancient Infernal language, too. Luckily for him, he did know enough of that dead language to get by, though as has already been said, he didn’t exactly carry out his duties with due care and diligence. Who was even going to check if ‘Unpronounceable Minion number Ten Million and Thirty-Seven’ had ten tentacles or twelve? It was whatever.

The room was dim from failing ceiling lights. Bookcases that hadn’t been polished in millennia stretched up to the ceiling, jam-packed with box folders, their labels peeling and faded.

Soul-bound contracts for various mortal magical artificers, granting them powers from Summoning Demons, among stacks of old spells that had fallen out of use, or that were proved dangerous and were deemed unfit for circulation were all stored here. There was even an instruction manual for the flame generator that gave the Pit of Despair it’s soaring temperatures. There were countless piles of old H.A.S. staff work handbooks, with outdated clothing guidelines and Codes of Conduct.

In a far corner was a shelf of lost items. Anar had a brief mooch, as he always did when he managed to creep down here, not at all hesitant to take something that took his interest. There were expensive designer watches, none of which worked, cufflinks of pentagrams and other Satanic arcana, ties and tiepins, a smart, lace up brogue-style shoe (who lost a shoe and didn’t notice?), branded golf tees, faded work cloaks, floppy disks with sensitive data on that had been carelessly dropped and forgotten about, wrinkled leather wallets (that were empty, he’d checked), and a single flat, circular item that looked like a lady’s powder compact. With a furrowed brow, he flipped it open.

Demons prided themselves on their perfect hideousness and a succubus would never leave her make-up behind.

A bright blue light spread about the room in the shape of a pentagram. It stretched up over the walls, floor and bookcases and he was in the middle of it.

He snapped it shut quickly, just in case an open connection was logged in the system somewhere and Security would come running. What was a portable Summoning Circle doing here in Lost property? More to the point, why hadn’t it been picked up yet? Had it really done that good a job of looking innocuous?

He furtively glanced about, his long aardvarkian ears strained for the sound of footsteps. There arose a curious feeling within his veins, a bubbling sensation almost, something he’d not felt since his college days. His skin pricked, and he had an urge to stuff the wonderful, secret device deep in a pocket, convinced it would come in handy at some point in the future. To what end, who knew? But a gut feeling like this should never be ignored. He dropped it in, so small and light it wasn’t even noticeable, planning on telling no-one what he had chanced upon, not even his nosey flatmates. In the murky world of demons, finders were indeed keepers and you never knew when you might need a bargaining chip.

Turning back to the ancient shelving containing important documents he fiddled about with some of the files for shits and giggles – swapping over finance statements so they were in the wrong century, shuffling up blackmail dossiers and rendering them useless, swapping top-level power-bestowing details for both the North and South Korea regimes. It wasn’t much, but if upper management ever requested these archived files for future reading and they were all over the place, it might just get someone fired. He could live, (sort of), in hope.

Then he paused and had one of his bright ideas. Contracts! They must be stored somewhere, right?

He scurried from bookcase to bookcase, blowing dust from splintering wood, looking for the vital documents that bound a demon to servitude in Hell Afterlife Services. Every underling who was on Payroll would have put their signature to one. Including Anar himself. If he could find it, and shred it to ribbons, would that make it null and void, perhaps? Or could the ink be erased or Tipp-Ex’d, and he would be freed from his Infernal Bonds that way? His head was buzzing with possibilities as he moved on through the shadows among the filing system.

Above him, the plaster sprinkled down off the ceiling like asbestos-laden confetti, accompanied by the sounds of footsteps and riotous jeering. The Big Screen in Room 5 must be on and minions eager for any old excuse not to be working were making their way to go see some poor schmuck get their entrails ripped out and used as a skipping rope. Or to have various bits sliced off and made into soup in front of them. It was the way of Hell, they urged mortals to do despicable, wicked things, actively aided them in doing said heinous acts, then joyfully punished them after.

He shook his head. To think all he’d really wanted to do in life was be a United Colors of Benetton model and yet he was here in the worst place imaginable trying his best not to get involved with anything nefarious! It was no wonder he was grumpy all the time.

His pocket vibrated, a sharp electronic beep sounded out and a flash of light lit up his thick, black cloak fabric for a second. For a confused moment Anar wondered why he had his dying Tamagotchi with him, but of course it was his work pager. The higher-ups were being issued mobile phones, the very latest in cutting-edge technology, and they could be seen pacing glass-walled corridors waving them about for better signals, shouting, “can you hear me now?!”, but the great unwashed such as he were left with little black plastic boxes with tiny LCD screens and BT stamped at the bottom as their portable communications devices. British Telecom provided all their telephonic needs and in return some of the most vindictive, vicious and thoroughly unhelpful senior minions of Hell ran the company’s customer services department.

Anar’s pager ID, same as his personnel file, were deliberately impossible to obtain. Last thing he wanted was for management to start harassing him to get work done, or to summon him into meetings! The only colleagues who could beep him were fellow troublemakers and surprisingly there weren’t many of them. Instead, most demons were awful kiss-arses, sucker-ups and snivelling twats, ready to abandon any semblance of self-respect they had remaining, desperate to be noticed by more powerful and more influential staff. They didn’t dare make a name for themselves as a radical free thinker, oh dear no.

The message from his friend read: INCOMING

Ah, bloody Hell, what did management want with him now? Someone on the upper levels was looking for him and that message was a quick heads-up for him to skedaddle from his desk. Luckily, he was hiding out here in the archives, the forgotten realm. Or so he hoped.

Dropping the pager back into the linty darkness of his pocket it sat amongst Wrigley’s gum, loose change for the cafeteria and vending machines, his car keys, a half-full pack of Marlboro and Zippo lighter, some paperclips, AA sized batteries for his Walkman along with tangled-up earbuds and a handy ball of Blu-Tak. If he were McGuyver, he’d probably be able to blow the building up. But he wasn’t.

His unusual new find was in the emptier, cleaner pocket. It seemed an awful coincidence that he had opened it, made a summoning circle connection in the system, closed it again, and now bigwigs wanted him. This could be trouble. He went to chew a lip, then remembered he had fangs now and that would hurt.

Anar was used to trouble, it always found him. Talking of things finding him, maybe he’d best hunt out a better hiding spot. His immediate manager, Alexis Crowley, would be champing at the bit to give up Anar’s possible whereabouts if it got him so much as a sniff at a promotion in return.

Where would Alexis not expect him to be? Anar was a workshy miserable git, with no real friends and no motivation to succeed.

His grey tail swished. He knew just where to go…

Bobbing for apples was a classic Hallowe’en game: all you needed was a big tub of water, a bucketload of juicy ripe orchard fruit, a blindfold and a bit of rope for wrists. You covered the player’s eyes, bound their hands behind their back and watched them try to pick an apple up using only their mouths. The apples bobbed on the surface of the water, hence the name of the game, making them difficult to obtain, and it was all good fun.

What wasn’t good fun was putting sharks in the water too. This year’s chosen entertainers would have been promised time off their sentences down in the Pit if they could grab themselves an apple, but all they were getting were their sinful noses bitten off.

The minions around him were on the pumpkin punch already, it was sloshing everywhere as they were laughing and placing bets on missing limbs or who would be devoured completely.

Anar kept his collar up and one glowing eye on the door, in case Upper Management suddenly appeared.

A shadow passed over the room from a black figure sweeping past the window. He felt goosebumps at his grey skin. Outside, various appointed monstrosities would be gathering for their parade through the streets of Pandemonium. Before that, though, they would all throng in the city square as the big guy – Satan himself - made his dramatic entrance. They would renew their Dark Oath to him while all their offerings piled up around him.

Anar had no intention of doing any such thing. He’d have a convenient loo stop. One of the benefits of being a Turned, if you didn’t feel like doing something, you could just excuse yourself and nip to the gents. Brilliant, really.

He stayed hidden in the rowdy room until the last victim was dragged under the surface of the water to be shark food, then the screen switched off. He looked at the demons around him and recognised most of them from the database. They had no idea that their entries had been tampered with by him– that they were now officially thumb-suckers or bed-wetters, or that their name was Clarence or Gerald and they collected stamps for a hobby. The Devil made work for idle hands, and Anar’s hands were, indeed, idle.

His pocket beeped and flashed again. His expired heart sank.

They were still looking for him. Bloody managers, incompetent when you actually needed them to be on the ball, and when you wanted them to be addle-brained idiots who couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery the bastards were sharp as knives.

What could he do, but stay with the masses? How long would they look before more pressing matters took their attention away from him? There was always a crisis springing up somewhere; angels constantly tried to sneak in and convert them, or one of their feathery spies would be among the demonic ranks collecting intel or putting holy water in the office fountains. Not that anyone was drinking water today with all the spiced punch up for grabs!

They made their way out the building as a stumbling group, down into the city streets. There were pumpkins, balloons and drippy candles everywhere. The sky was being kept dark for the perfect spooky ambience. Imps were chasing each other with chainsaws for funsies, evil clowns strode up and down juggling live hand grenades that went off bang at intervals to much amusement. It was very much a party atmosphere.

Rats scurried about his New Rock boots as Anar begrudgingly accepted a toffee apple from a particularly warty witch before entering the large open space they called the Square. It wasn’t really square as such, as Pandemonium had been carefully designed and built to be in an ancient sigil shape that didn’t have any straight lines, with the river Styx running through it as part of the mystical form and the great burning Pit at its epicentre. Even the massive structure of the Hell Afterlife Services skyscraper was included in the layout. The only beings who were able to look down and appreciate the arrangement of the aeons old handiwork, though, were the angels from their lofty paradise, and as far as the demons could tell, they were unimpressed. They’d certainly never received any positive feedback from them.

Dotted around, here and there, were the Security minions in their sashed blood-red uniforms, a faint blue aura around them. They were authorised to use magic here in Hell, unlike the resident demons. It had been decided that letting demon’s use magic down here would result in more chaos than even Hell could cope with. Beside every security officer crouched a hell-hound. Highly-trained and emotionally unstable, these rabid almost-wolves were kept on chained leashes. They sniffed and whined, always on the lookout for do-gooders or angels in disguise. It was an expected safety measure. Satan himself didn’t often grace them with his unholy presence, and much like a revered Rockstar he would be kept back at arm (or tentacle) length for the duration of the main event.

A large screen blazed to life, scrolling through an assortment of atrocities and disasters that had befallen the world of the living thanks to their diligence and hard work. It was the usual kind of thing: war and famine, pain and suffering. Some things never changed.

Then came their new advancements in technology, spyware and computer viruses, shiny gadgets and games to occupy time and spiral the living into the misery of debt. Lots of excited pointing was going on, probably from the underlings responsible for such toys.

Funky dance music came through massive speakers, undoubtedly the latest top 20 hits but Anar hadn’t a clue who the artist was. Living in the wasteland of Purgatory meant no MTV for him. All he had was his faithful Walkman and collection of old music tapes, or a few scratched CD’s for the apartment’s old struggling Hi-Fi.

It really did feel like they were at a concert as bright colourful lights strobed and the floor shook from an excess of bass from the tall speakers.

He didn’t want to be here for this, this was the warm-up to the whole ‘I Pledge My Soul To The Dark Lord’ crap. He edged his way the back of the assembly, still clutching his sticky toffee apple and nearly made it unnoticed until there was a ‘crunch’ beneath his metal-strapped boot.

He swore under his breath. He paused. He’d trodden on someone, or something. Getting in a scrap was not ideal right now! He slowly lifted his gaze, his dimly glowing yellow eyes coming to rest upon the one ugly mug he didn’t want to see today.

“Hallowe’en Salutations?” he gulped, trying to step backwards and failing due to the assembled crowd.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Warlock, look where you’re goin’, you stupid grey bastard.”

He held his breath. His fists clenched instinctively. “Sorry, boss. It’s busy, see.”

“Where are you sneaking off to?” the human demon snapped.

“Toilet. When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

Alexis sneered at him in that way he always did before Anar gave him a punch. “Sounds about right, for a streak of piss like you. Management won’t be happy to know you’re trying to weasel your way out of the Pledge. Cause that’s what you’re doing, I know you. Work shy little shit.”

Anar was almost convulsing as his body physically held itself back from just launching at the snotty lower manager and laying into him until he was a bloody pulp. “Nah, I’m just heading for a loo stop. Honest,” he replied through gritted fangs.

Alexis wasn’t going to let him, though, as he blocked the way with his wings out and his tail swishing, menacingly. “Honest, are we? Sorry, too? Look at you! Not so big and hard without your scaly entourage, are you? Where are Bill and Ben, anyway? Gone extinct at last? Meteor got them?”

“Crowley,” Anar hissed, “I’ll beat ten shades of shit out of you, with or without them.”

His red human eyes lit up, “come on, then. In front of Security, no less? You forget, Anarchy, that I am with my own mates here, you touch me, and it’ll be you in pieces.”

The fucker had a point. Up on floor twenty-two, Alexis was not so popular. He kept his distance. Here, though, he could cause some proper trouble.

Anar saw the swinging punch incoming, and took action.

The bright blue light lit up the square, the glowing pentagram lines blinding the would-be assailant for just a moment as security came running to see what just in the Underworld was going on, and Anar did what he was very good at and fled the scene.

His long ears picked up ‘It wasn’t me!’ in Crowley’s whiny voice, fading behind him.

Well, that hadn’t gone well, had it? He should have stayed in the archives and took his chances there. Whatever he was wanted for, he could also add ‘assaulting the administration manager’ to it, once Alexis had finished complaining to the authorities.

Still, better than letting the tosspot think he’d got one up on him.

As he trod the now quiet high street he could hear the riotous clamouring that announced the presence of Lucifer himself, and he debated just going home and dealing with the aftermath tomorrow. Hallowe’en this year was not working out for him.

His pocket beeped and lit up. He didn’t need to look. He knew it would say MOST WANTED.

In the car park of the office building, were an assortment of luxury vehicles belonging to the executives, directors and senior management. Big five-seater saloons, four-by-four’s, top of the range makes such as Mercedes, Range Rover and Lexus. There was also one bright red Ferrari straight out of an eighties late-night cop show. Anar’s mode of transport. It was a curious vehicle with many unexpected extras, including some sort of Artificial Intelligence so that it could nag at him and try to be his Personal Assistant. It also wanted to drive itself most of the time. He would be in for a telling-off for trying to go home early, but he still had a faint optimism that he would find the car’s AI ‘Off’ button one of these days.

He turned the corner to the car park and was greeted with a marked security vehicle in front of him, its lights flashing. It went ‘whee whoo’ as the minions inside caught sight of him and they opened the doors.

Fuck.

He had options, of course he did. He could try to run. He could use his natural magic. He could try and talk his way out of whatever exactly he’d done that they didn’t like.

Only one of those would not get him shot.

“Hallowe’en Salutations,” he nodded as they approached.

A slimy hand reached out to his lanyard, and dangling I.D. tag. An equally slimy voice burbled, “Hallowe’en Salutations, mister Warlock. The Directors are looking for you.”

“What, all of them?”

This was ignored. “You will come with us.”

He’d never been bundled into the back of a Police car before and though Hell security weren’t exactly British law enforcement, it was still an intimidating experience.

The Directors! Maybe he should have run for it and risked being riddled with holes. You didn’t upset the Board. That was a one-way ticket to the basement. Or deletion. He wished he had Rap and Rave with him, they always helped him out of scrapes. Well, Rap did, anyway. Rave berated him for getting into tricky situations and threw his weight around.

He asked what all this was about, but they simply said they didn’t know. He contemplated taking the portable pentagram out of his pocket, unwinding the window and tossing it just to cover his ass, but something told him the Board of Directors weren’t after a digital gadget. They wanted him. And that was bad.

How fitting, that on today of all days, he would be subjected to the stuff of nightmares. Authority. Would he have to explain his actions to senior staff regarding Alexis Crowley? Or had his database shenanigans been noticed, and he was in for a write-up for his unprofessional conduct?

The security vehicle drew up to the Square and stopped at the main stage where the Prince of Darkness himself was sat on his magnificent throne, surrounded by fire and brimstone, smoke and lights.

Anar was roughly pulled from the back seat and taken past all the excitement into a back area full of gathered monsters and hideous creatures. For a hot minute, he’d thought Satan himself wanted him, and that would have been unfathomably dire. Being surrounded by fellow curiosities was actually rather nice.

A Satyr holding a scroll peered over his parchment and smiled, putting a tick in a box, “ah, my Warlock! Marvellous! Now if you’ll just come with me”-

Anar’s baggy sleeve was tugged and he left security behind as they walked to a dressing room, complete with mirrors and lighting.

“Um?” he asked, bewildered.

“You’re wanted for the parade,” the goat-man replied, pulling at clothing on racks, “we’ve got witches, spectres, ghouls, skeletons, zombies, you name it. But no Warlock. So, it’s your lucky day! The Directors will be most pleased to have a full itinerary this year. I daresay there could be a promotion involved.”

Now Anar broke out in a cold sweat. A promotion! Aw, Hell no. Anything but that!

This was all a disaster. Anar’s plan for surviving the horrors of Hell was anonymity. He didn’t want to strut down the boulevard being watched by thousands of cold, calculating eyes. The whole idea of hiding away was so that inner circle didn’t put two and two together and realise they had a real demon warlock in their midst. A minion with his own magical power that was not bound by the Foul Oaths that kept a demon in check and under control. Technically, he could do anything he liked down here – he could brazenly tell the truth, be nice, smile, help out his fellow workers – all without repercussions. He could also use magic. There were safety parameters in place down here preventing demons from using sorcery, because if they could, they’d be murdering each other left, right and centre. Anar had the ability to do that if he chose. Oh, there would be consequences, terrible and sharp consequences, but nonetheless he was a danger because he had the choice. He’d been born with a tiny drop of natural magic coursing through his veins. It was insufficient in the mortal realm to achieve anything of note, but here in this form he was capable of amazing feats.

As he exchanged his heavy, still cobweb-smeared work cloak for a starry purple robe that looked absolutely ridiculous, he knew he had to do something before he would be spotted by demonic royalty and questions asked. It didn’t help when you were a funny grey creature with long ears and a big snout, neither. He was one of only two demon aardvarks under employment of Hell, and the other was his father. Thankfully, that bastard spent most of his time Upstairs in the mortal world and out of his way. Anar was easy to pick out in a crowd. True, he’d probably be described as a pig or a donkey, it happened all the time, but still, a weird grey demon in a bright purple get-up was as far from the inconspicuous look he wanted as was possible.

A matching floppy-brimmed hat was plonked atop his immaculate hair, much to his dismay, and he scowled as he was manhandled into a long line.

The Hallowe’en Parade was about to begin.

There was dancing, twirling, prowling and prancing. Ribbons spun and black balloons floated in the heavy, hot air. Hell-hounds and their handlers waved to the crowd. Werewolves snarled and loped. Headless horsemen trotted smartly along the tarmac. Vampires flapped about a bit. Scores of elegant winged succubi in tight leotards cartwheeled around as they spun lit torches.

The Dark Lord himself nodded to each as they passed, looking pleased and proud. It was all so wonderful. Heaven got weeks of partying out of Christmas, but they only had one day for their special black celebrations and had to savour every awful moment. The dark Lord’s terrible claws waved in the air, directed at his wonderful strutting subjects, a princely gesture indeed.

Then as the skeleton horde click-clacked their way carefully out into the city from the party preparations gazebo, some idiot behind them in a big, purple, floppy-brimmed hat pulled down over their head, with two left feet, tripped over their own shadow and stumbled forward. Bones were sent scattering as the skeletons fell like a line of dominoes. A skull with a very bemused expression on it skidded down the procession and immediately the Hell-Hounds wanted to play fetch, yanking at the heavy chains connecting them to the unprepared security officers at the other end, who found themselves facing the wrong way and being dragged into the fray. The massive slobbering dogs barked, leaping about, fighting over stray femurs and started frightening the Headless Horsemen’s steeds.

The black horses reared up, dumping their riders in an undignified heap, kicking out at the werewolves behind, who had nothing to do with any of this but weren’t about to have hoofprints on their snoots. They slashed massive hairy paws out in retaliation, spraying the pretty painted Succubi in blood splatters as they cleaved horse flank.

Cries of “oi, watch my outfit!” and “Rover, no! heel! I said heel! Aargh!” mixed in with neighing and feral growling as bedlam broke out in Pandemonium.

The skeletons tried picking themselves up again, but the witches emerging from behind them hadn’t quite caught up on recent events and they whizzed out on their broomsticks, flying low, knocking them back over again with that ‘clonk’ noise that skittles make when hit by a bowling ball.

“What the bloody Hell is going on?” the witches demanded, making evasive manoeuvres before they crashed.

Satan rubbed his wrinkled, red temple and groaned. It had been going so well.

The crowd dispersed hastily as various animals and creatures bounded around willy-nilly, chasing each other and fighting tooth and claw in their midst.

Security were given the nod and they raised their standard issue sceptres skyward, brief flashes of bright blue shining out as they attempted to round up the various groups and attain some semblance of order once more.

On a corner by Starbucks, two velociraptors watched all this unfold, and grinned. They sipped pumpkin spice lattes, heads turning left and right as they watched confused hounds whizz through the air and horses spin about as they were magically reigned in.

“I love it when things go wrong,” said the largest.

“It’s not Hallowe’en in Hell without something going tits up,” agreed the other.

“Big ears is missing out on all this,” Rave sighed.

“No, I’m not.”

They whipped round, almost choking on milky coffee.

“Maaaaate! What are you doing here? You hate all this kind of stuff.”

“Yeah,” Rave agreed, “you’re normally skiving off. My money was on you hiding in a stationary cupboard.”

Anar shrugged, slipping his arms through his trusty work robe, pulling the hem down so it sat just right on his sturdy frame. “Thought I’d get out of the office for a bit.”

Rap nodded, “fresh air and exercise will do you good.”

Anar froze and eyed the smaller dinosaur wearily, “that statement has so much wrong with it, I’m not going to even start to correct you.”

“What?”

“We’re dead, you numpty!” Rave tutted.

“Oh yeah… I forget.”

The street was emptying as workers made their way back into the safety of the office building. Even Satan himself had abandoned the failed parade.

Succubi could be heard grumbling about torn leotards and messed up hair.

“So… what happened, exactly?” Rap asked. “It was all going fine one minute, and then the next, chaos.”

“I have no idea,” Anar replied innocently. “Nothing to do with me.”

“You better get back to work before you get into trouble, mate.”

“He ain’t nothing BUT trouble,” Rave growled.

“Hallowe’en Salutations to you, too,” Anar sniped.

“We’ll watch Ghostbusters later, yeah?”

Everyone agreed that that was the true way of celebrating this Pagan festival: beer, pizza and spooky movies.

Leaving his pals behind to go off pumpkin carving, Anar fought his way back through the cobwebs of the reception area, slid into the elevator with the prop skeleton in it, (who’s jaw was now hanging off and body slumping, looking for all the world like a real, exhausted office worker), emerging into the safe and familiar territory of Floor Twenty-Two, administration department. He shovelled a fistful of Skittles into his mouth and chewed noisily, slumping into his creaky chair.

It had been quite the feat, disrupting this year’s Hallowe’en Pandemonium Parade. He was rather pleased with himself. Thank goodness even hell-hounds enjoyed a good game of fetch! He’d only needed a brief moment during the madness to slip away, discard that stupid purple outfit and join the crowd. That whole debacle would be the subject of office chatter for a while yet. Serve the Director’s right for disturbing his peace and quiet.

He flexed his knuckles with a ‘crack!’ and typed away at his keyboard as the escaped bat flitted overhead. No-one wanted him for anything anymore, he wasn’t in demand, and that was just the way he liked it. Just another minion hard at work, diligently and carefully doing his job, most certainly not altering the biggest file on the database system to say ‘Satin’.