A middle-aged man ran down the dark and tangled alleyways of Burlington, Vermont. Hot sweat rolled down his cheek, and his breathing sounded like his lungs were going to jump out of his mouth. His breath puffed out like little clouds of smoke. He was wearing a plain T-shirt and boxers under his long brown trench coat, and he only had adrenaline flowing through his veins to keep him warm. Having left his apartment several blocks away in a panic, he didn't even have time to put his shoes on. The only thing protecting his feet were his gray dress socks, and even then, he kept stepping on gravel and broken glass. However, the pain and fear was keeping his exhausted frame awake. For he knew if he stopped moving, that cursed devilish envoy would catch him.
He made so many twists and turns into another new block. Too many for him to count. As he passed by them, he grabbed and tipped over numerous metal cylinder trash cans that are full of nasty, smelly garbage to try and slow down his chaser. But despite his best efforts, his pursuer was still on his heels.
When the man finally had the courage to look over his shoulder to see how close the envoy is, he turned his head to one side and saw many terrifying melting faces with glowing red eyes in all of the windows of the buildings he was running alongside of. He screamed at the top of his lungs as he found the same things on the other side, too. Picking up the pace, he refused to look back again until he tripped over a large rat scurrying across the alleyway floor perpendicular to his direction. He fell and landed face-first into a dead-end, his nose cracking against the brick wall and blood began to drip from his nostrils.
Trying to regain his composure, he soon heard someone whistling a slow ominous tune from right behind him and it was getting closer. The man scrambled on all fours, trying to crawl away from his doom, but he had nowhere to go now. He was cornered, and once he turned around again, Brandon's shadow was already looming over him, still whistling his song. Trembling in fear, the shadow concealing him from the sunlight appeared to be moving on its own. Wiggling, bubbling, scorching, and growing into something fierce and imitating.
When he finished his tune, Brandon sighed and then asked, "You just had to make me do this the hard way, huh?"
"Oh please, Mr. Envoy, I'm begging you!" the middle-aged man got on his knees and pleaded. He was clasping his hands in front of his chest as though he was praying for a miracle—and he felt like he really needed one.
"How many times do I have to tell you people?" he suddenly snapped, "My name is Brandon. Brandn Jay Weaver. I hate being called an 'envoy'. That's not who I am."
"Ah, of course, B-Brandon! Eh-Anyway, please, just give me a few more days on our agreement. Give it to me and I swear I'll have your payment then!" the man replied. Tears were streaming down the man's cheeks from his bloodshot eyes, and his breath still reeked of alcohol from his hangover just hours ago. His eyes were also bulging out of his head as a result of the actions he'd committed the other day, and his hands were still coated in his coworkers' blood from the office.
Brandon thought to himself, I let this guy off the hook because I was with Mallory. I wonder how many innocent people he could've killed in the time I let him be.
Normally, Brandon would never consider any human being was innocent. Not before meeting Mallory. Had she really changed his perspective on the world that much?
Still, it didn't surprise him how bad things became in this situation. However, it churned up nausea in Brandon's stomach. Even though he'd already come to terms with how rotten humanity was, it bothered him that he had to witness it in the front row. But in the end, this man was just getting what he deserves. Besides, he had a job to do.
"You know, pretty much every other client I've ever had," Brandon finally told the man, speaking with the shadows masking his face as the sunlight hits his back, and the only part of him that can be seen are his red glowing eyes, "They said exactly the same thing as you are now. Do you know what would've happened if I had given them that second chance?"
He paused dramatically as he leaned his face in closer to the man, both of their eyes locked into each other's gazes. Their faces had only a few inches of space between the tips of their noses. The man's mouth hung open as if he was going to answer his question, but he couldn't find his voice due to the lump in his throat.
"They would've prolonged their deals," Brandon continued, "Would've tried to have milked things for as long as they possibly could until they found a way out, to save themselves. But for people who only think of themselves, with no regard for their fellow man…"
He suddenly reached out his arm, grabbed the man by his slick brown hair and lifted him up so that his knees dangled about a foot above the pavement, but his toes still touched the ground. Without any warning, Brandon then slammed his head into the building behind him, creating a crater where the back of his skull collided into the foundation. Blood spurted and began to pour from the man's eye sockets, ears, and mouth. A few droplets splashed onto Brandon's face, on his left cheek.
He then concluded, "…Those kinds of people don't deserve to live."
Releasing his grip, the man collapsed from the blow to his brain, landing on his side while still facing his dealer. He raised his head slightly up from the pavement while trembling a lot, just in time to notice that Brandon just conjured a small flame of hellfire in the palm of his hand, holding it up like a fancy wine glass. The man could only guess what was coming next.
"No! No, no, no! Please, don't do it! Not like this! Don't murder me!" the man shouted, hoping someone will hear him and rush to his rescue. But there were no other souls around for at least a mile. It was just the two of them. Alone.
"How many people you killed said those exact words?" Brandon asked, "How many times did they plead for you to not kill them as you squeezed out their last breaths? Or did it not even occur to you? Heck, I'll bet you felt like you were in paradise when you silenced them for good."
The man looked at him, stunned, "How…how did you know?!"
Brandon didn't answer that. Instead, he held the hellfire in front of his mouth, took a huge inhale, and blew into it so a tiny ball of the flames separated from the source, flew in a straight line through the air, and it landed on the helpless man's shoulder.
His entire body was engulfed in the flames in an instant. It only lasted ten seconds, but the pain is so intense that it feels like a century of agony. The smell of his own flesh melting off his bones pricked at him with the force of a thousand needles. He could barely see Brandon through his weakening vision, which was becoming clouded by suffocating smoke and red hot flames. Despite this, he knew the young man was still standing there, watching him burn, with that same bored expression on his face.
The man's rage exploded in his final moments. His eyes lit up with fury, and his teeth gritted so much it sounded like metal grinding against metal within the heat of the hellfire. He summoned what little strength he had left to lift one bony finger and pointed it at Brandon. As the skin and flesh on his face melts off and he became a flaming talking skull, he screamed with his dying breath as his voice echoed into oblivion, "Curse you, bastard! I hope you burn in Hell!"
Then his whole body turned to ashes, which then evaporated into nothing before they had a chance to reach the air.
There was a moment of silence after that, as if all of the noises in the world shut off. Slowly, Brandon's ears began to pick up the sounds of the bustling city one at a time. The light thuds of innumerable pedestrians' footsteps walking along the sidewalks. Cars honking on the streets at a traffic light. Flocks of pigeons flapping their wings as they fly and cooing as they sit on the electrical wire power grids. All the while, he kept looking down at the spot where the man had perished. Not even a stain of blood or flake of ash on the concrete remained. He was the only one who would know whatever happened to him.
Then he lifted his own hand and stared at it. It was the same hand he used to conjure the hellfire that ended someone's life. The life of his latest client who became a felon, blinded by rage and vengeance, but a human being, nonetheless. This wasn't the first time he's taken a life, though it still sat like a rock in his stomach.
Thinking about those last words the man used to curse him with, Brandon faked a smirk and whispered to himself, "Heh. I'm already in Hell. Idiot."
Just then, an image of Mallory's smiling face appeared in his mind. Every bit of guilt and remorse he had stuffed deep down inside of him came rushing back in a pent up wave that made him dizzy for a moment and he almost lost balance. But then he regained his composure, reminding himself that this was all for her.
It had been days since he was last in the Vermont suburbs that he called home. He had only his resolve sating him and his conviction keeping him awake.
As he began walking toward the exit of the alley, he put his headphones on over his ears, took out his cassette music player and pressed the play button. An oldie-but-a-goodie song from the 1970's that he still didn't know the name of turned on, right where he had left off before pausing the tape several hours ago. The melody was upbeat and funky, and the lyrics were somewhat inspirational. It was something to take his mind off of the carnage he'd produced minutes ago. He approached the light at the end of the tunnel, and he stepped out onto the city sidewalks.
It was a bleak chilly morning, and yet the streets were crowded with people. Most of them were bundled up head to toe in multiple layers. Some wore long trench coats over their business attire, while others tried to stay warm with winter hats, mittens, and scarves. Others were heading into the subways underground, while some thought they could withstand the subzero air but then decided to hail a taxi instead.
Brandon, however, stuck out like a sore thumb. Receiving innumerable glances from bystanders, he was the sole pedestrian who wasn't appropriately dressed for the weather. The people who dared to look at him were undoubtedly wondering how he could endure the morning freeze, but he didn't let them bother him. He'd grown accustomed to the skepticism of others towards him.
Jesus, how many days has it been now? he suddenly thought inside his mind, while still walking forward. I wonder why Satan hasn't called yet. He did say he'd contact me in like one day, but wasn't that a while ago? Whatever he's got cooking now, it can't be good…
He almost decided to make it back to Mallory, thinking she might be in danger. But he knew better. Losing control would only make things worse.
Making his way through Burlington's shopping centers and parking lots, his attention was starting to get fixated on the music from his headphones. Suddenly, replacing the music from his headphones was a hiss filling his ears along with sinister laughter that sounds like it's coming from a child. It was coming from above, and when he looks up, he sees another messenger. An impish demon creature with naked wrinkly baggy dark red skin and stubby horns on top of its head was perched atop a street sign for Garnel Lane, which was right next to Brandon to his left. No one else could see the demon, only him. Its long razor-sharp claws on one hand kept curling and scratching the sign, and its glowing red eyes were staring directly at Brandon. Numerous pointed teeth are revealed within its widely smiling mouth, and it keeps snickering at him as if mocking him.
Brandon instantly knew its arrival meant that another client was waiting for him. The work was relentless and exhausting, with a back-to-back schedule giving him no time to rest. He was already feeling so sleepy and hungry that the world was starting to spin circles around him. But he had been able to plow through the strain many times before, and he thought today would be no different.
"Oh well. I've never been good at not killing people, anyway," Brandon said to himself, only for his head to slump forward as sleep tried to pull him under. But he bounced back, and then stared up at the little imp, and he said with a sigh, "Alright. Lead the way, you little bastard."
Still cackling, the imp creature then leapt off of the street sign, up and over Brandon's head, and landed on all fours about ten feet in front of him. It began scurrying in that direction, zigzagging n between the legs of pedestrians who were oblivious to its existence. Its claws scraped against the sidewalks and made a turn down a different alleyway two buildings ahead of Brandon. He followed it deep into the shadows where a bright crimson light started to glow, emitting from the imp's entire body with the source at its brightest inside its abdomen. It just stood there in the middle of the alley, waiting and laughing. Its head tilted to the side, taunting him, beckoning with one long bony finger for the young man to come near.
He walked up to the creature, looming directly over its figure that was no more than two feet tall. Showing no remorse at all, he lifted his right foot above its head and stomped on the imp oh so hard. There was a loud squishy crunch beneath his sneaker. Inky black goopy blood splattered all over the pavement, and the hellish creature's body was completely crushed.
As soon as the imp had deceased, a circular portal with ancient satanic symbols surrounding the circumference and cast in a crimson glow as if made of pure dark magic opened on the ground, transformed from the corpse. The portal grew in diameter until it was wide enough to fit a whole person through, and Brandon immediately jumped into its center that had a black and red swirling smoky vortex.
It only took a few moments for him to reach the other side. When he did, the portal was nine feet up in midair and facing the ground. He landed clean on his feet with a thud, took his hands out of his pockets, removed his headphones and shut off his music.
Looking all around, he finds the room he is now in is all dark aside from the blue light coming from the sixteen inch long computer screen. There was a fat zit-faced teenager sitting at the computer in a black cushioned desk chair that spun around once he noticed Brandon's presence.
"Greetings, Brandon Jay Weaver," the teen spoke ominously, much to Brandon's surprise, "I'm glad you came. I've got a bone to pick with you."
Suddenly, someone with red glowing eyes emerged from the shadows behind Brandon and clocked him in the back of the head with a wooden baseball bat. He was knocked unconscious immediately before he even hit the floor.