It is late in the offices of Consolidated Press. With the air-conditioning off the air is stuffy and close, warmed uncomfortably by the humming computers. A faint smell of pipe-tobacco lingers in the air, and in the greenish light of the emergency exit sign, the beige partitions have an unpleasant cast. Like a rat-maze in some B-grade science horror flick.
The bustle of traffic from the LA streets can't be heard through the dark windows, but the wash of traffic lights sweeps the thin blinds every few seconds. In the foyer beyond the glass doors, the elevator pings, its maw growling shut.
Pressing the button for the 9'th floor, home of his employer Entertainment Magazine, Asto's confident grin remains fixed until the elevator doors closed totally.
A sneer replaces Asto's friendly grin. Fucking twink guard
His self-superior revellry interrupted by the arrival ping of the elevator, Asto makes his way directly to his desk. Casually tossing his laptop carrybag onto the desk he slumps into his chair, opens the bottom draw and draws out a half-empty bottle of ouzo. Unscrewing the lid and tossing it aside Asto tilts the bottle back and takes a stiff slug.
Lighting a cigarette Asto props his feet on the table and leans back with a sigh, closing his eyes. The familiar stimulants do nothing to settle his adrenalin levels.
"Fuck it!", loud in the stillness of the office as he rises to his feet. He stubs out the half-finished cigarette and tosses the near-empty bottle into the trash.
Scooping the laptop once more into the crook of his right arm Asto stands straight and still. Seconds crawl by as he stares vacantly into spaces beyond. Then a sharp snap, and he is gone.
A mini clap of thunder richochets through the mixing studio of Green Lite Doc Inc. as Asto arrives. The posters on the wall bespeak lurid docutainment and Consolidated Press ownership.
In the subdued lighting from the control panel Asto's grin of relief has a nightmarish quality. Two floors down in half a second -- not so hard to beat the locks and cameras after all. And here is what he needs: a mini studio for interviews and link shots. The trick is, he reflects, to accept the inevitable. You're a demon, Asto. Live like one. Now get this right. He descends the stairs from the control room to the floor of the studio. Two trips and ninety minutes later, the little glassed-in room is transformed.
Ringed by a star of five pairs of powerful studio lights, the centre stage blazes brightly. The space beyond is dark and now feels cavernous. The lamps score streaks light over the dark blue carpet, each connecting with another to form a pentagram five metres on a side. Behind each pair lights of winks the red recording light of a studio camera. Traced in white chalk, parallel lines 30cm apart join the five corners of the pentagram. Between the lines a strange mixture of symbols and images had been traced: here a diagram of a satelite dish with the equation of a parabola below it, there images of the communications media: news-print, TV and radio, and mixed throughout more traditional symbols associated with diabolism: the inverted cross, the spiral.
In the control room above, the laptop sits connected to the control panel. On the monitors a 3-by-2 image tiles the feed from the cameras. In the bottom right, a sixth image is a photo-ready article for a magazine. The faint whir of a tape machine records the images. In the centre of each, at the heart of the pentagram is Asto, illumined by a single overhead spotlight.
Arms thrown wide he holds a sheaf of papers in one hand and a lighter in the other, while at his feet other sheafs of paper lie. "In the name of our Dread Lord Lucifer, and with the power of these symbols about me, I call on thee Arch-demon Nybbas...", he intones in a deep and solemn voice. Lighting the papers he holds, "..to hear the call of one who would serve thee."
The spotlight is hot, and beyond it the red recording lights of five cameras wink. Asto turns sunwise to each of these, lighting sheafs of paper. "In the names of Satellite and Cable," he chants, as firey leaves flutter to the floor. "In the name of Yellow Journalism." "In the names of Docudrama and Beat-Ups." "In the name of Syndication." The air is now full of ash and little slo-mo commets of flame. "IN THE NAME OF RATINGS AND MARKET SHARE!"
Lights dim.
There is no sulphur, no smoke, just a sense of *presence*. Then a high voice -- full of Glad and Happy, "Baby, that's music to my ears."
*Applause and laughter. A boppy funk rhythm.*
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Blazing white lights illuminate a set that wasn't there before. A penthouse apartment kind of look. L.A. skyline through half-moon window. Desk already miked up, coffee-cup, scotch glass, comfy black leather chairs under a boom mike.
Short, immaculately groomed, broad grin, black horn rims blazing white noise. Blue sequin jacket with zebra-skin trim, canary yellow pants, white loafers. he strides on-set in time to the music, grinning into the darkness, pausing to dance and box the air. Takes a seat behind the desk. White noise gives way to test pattern on the specs, then a pair of baby blue video eyes. "Evening! Evening! Hey! Hiya! Yeah. Thanks!" Smirk, wave to laughter and applause. "Thanks!"
"Woohoo. Hey, guys and damned, have we got a *show* tonight! That guy over there torching fistfuls of copy furiously to get his head on my show is none other than the poison pen of `Inside Entertainment' magazine, Mr Asto Peophus. Hey -- keep it up, guy! In a moment we'll find out what the deal is with him. But first -- and I gotta thank Kobal for these. Check this out: The Top Ten Ways of Knowing When Your Baby's two-timing you with a Malakite. Ho, yeah. What we got here is The Top Ten Ways of knowing when your chick Is doing the Wild Thing with a Malakite."
*laughter*
Lower, in a mellow announcer's voice:
"10. Complimentary candy on your pillow. *scattered laughter*
"9. She goes out in high-heels, perfume, cleavage down to her navel.
Comes home in flats, peter-pan collar and a handkerchief pinned to
her chest. *loud laughter*
"8. Girl guide cookie crumbs in your bed. *laughter*
"7. She's got hickeys -- on her *toes*. *laughter*
"6. There's an unwashed milk glass in your liquor cabinet. *laughter*
"5. You take a shower, and find all the lint is picked out of your
towel. *loud laughter*
"4. You bring a porn movie home for Valentine's Day, but she's already
watching ``101 Dalmations''. *laughter*
"3. Her idea of dressing sexy is to wear a little paper ribbon saying
``Sanitized for Your Protection'' *laughter*
"2. She tells you she's off seeing a movie with friends, comes home
with her mouth scrubbed out. *loud laughter*
"1. All of a sudden she's into the wet stuff, and she wants you to
call her `Novalis'. *loud laughter, applause, whistles*
High voice again. "Ho, yeah. That Kobal.. Yeah. Humping a Malakite -- baby, I tell ya..." The little guy shakes his head. Scattered daisies rain down the video display on his glasses. Silhouette of a buxom gal spanking a winged warrior. *Hilarious laughter*. The little guy grins, shakes his head, takes a sip of scotch from a glass on the table. The laughter subsides.
"Okay... My guest tonight has been described as the poison pen of LA. In his Entertainment Magazine column `Behind the Silver Screen' he's dished more celebrity dirt than Lilith on Truth Serum. But who is this guy? What makes him tick? How come he's burning Essence like crazy just to get a spot on `Late Night with Nybbas'? Well, we're about to find out. Please give him your hottest welcome... The Golden Greek of Hollywoodspeak: Mister Astooooo... Peophus!"
*Applause*
Throughout Nybbas' spiel, Asto remains motionless, his arms akimbo and mouth more than slightly agape. But finally hearing his name, he starts and draws himself tall, absently brushing the ash from his fingertips. He winces, realising that some time the last two minutes the article had burned down to his fingers.
Lightly stepping over the parallel chalk lines and out of his pentagram Asto's face breaks into a grin and his left arms raises in a partial wave to the imaginary audience, "Ahhh, hi there", he falters before fixing his attention on Nybbas and his set. Crossing the intervening space he thrusts out his right arm over the desktop, "Hi Nybbas", he says in a light voice that is belied by the stiffness of his posture and rigidly fixed grin, "Thanks for having me on. Let me say first", he continues as he slumps back into the black leather seat nearest the table, "that from what I hear, you're *the man* and I feel honoured, yes *honoured* to be invited on your show."
Gazing about he continues, "I like your set, but must say I'm a bit surprised at the decor. I was kind of figuring on a game show set since I'm here to ... Make a Deal", Asto gazes out at the non-existant camera and audience, his expectantly jovial mask not fully hiding his discomfort and fear.
Nybbas smirks at Asto's comments and beyond the darkness there is laughter. It sounds much like the laughter at his earlier jokes -- canned. He offers Asto his hand, but pulls it back it when he sees the ash on Asto's fingertips. Reaching below the desk he produces a latex surgical glove, which he snaps on with a flourish and shakes Asto's hand to more canned laughter. ``You sound like you want Wheel of Mammon, Asto. But that's on at six, and you chose the late-night spot instead.'' He waggles his eyebrows into the darkness to tinny chuckles and snickers.
Tilting his chair back, Nybbas says, ``Well, welcome to my show. As you aptly put it, it *is* my show. The whole shebang... and you're in it. Or should I say: You're *of* it. Reality is a myth, and I'm the mythmaker. Realer than real, larger than life, bigger than Ben Hur.'' (From the darkness, the whipcrack of a lash, and the sound of wooden wheels racing into the darkness. Horse snicker).
"And do I deal? Why baby, of *course* I deal. *Nothing* gets produced in this little bag of hyperreality without a whole lot of back-scratching, ass-kissing and pocket-pissing. Kid, you wouldn't be here right now on *internationally* syndicated Tell-me-Vision (*laughter*), if you hadn't sold a whole lotta your heart, brains and balls to me already."
"But kid, time is ratings, ratings is sponsorship, and sponsorship is grist for the mill. To rate you gotta entertain. You gotta gimme a sound-bite I can sink my *teeth* into. You gotta give me new, big, grab-my-balls-and-yank. You gotta throw me a bone that'll give my audience a boner." (*laughter, whistles*)
"So here's your sixty-second shot, baby. What do you got, and what do you want?"
At these last remarks Asto's demeanour actually relaxes, his grin becomes more genuine as he sinks back into the plush leather while crossing one leg over the other.
"You want entertainment?", Asto gazes aslant into the darkness, as though at a floor manager or technician, "Can we show that image please?", after a pause of a second or so Asto turns towards Nybbas, a slight note of pleading in his voice, "Nybbas...".
Hovering in the air between the set and its imaginary audience a somewhat grainy, lifesized still image of Senator Mellish with a nude buxom redhead over his lap. He wears a false, handlebar moustache on and is holding a table-tennis bat raised for a down stroke. The target of Mellish's blow is frozen kicking her legs. The profile of young actress Madeleine Titian is unmistakable.
Raucous laughter, catcalls, whistles and guffaws from the darkness Asto speaks loudly over them: "How about: `Anyone for Tennis?' or `Dastardly Whiplash Rides Again', `Senator Beats out new Censorship Laws in Private Sitting' or even 'Mellish Places Stamp of Approval on New Pornography Bill'?" *HOOTS of laughter*.
Turning back to face Nybbas: "That's yours to do with as you wish. Broadcast it and my articles to the world, use it in deals with your fellow Arch-demons, many of which have an interest in this scandal and *believe* they control the information. Its your choice."
Leaning forward, elbow on the table: "Take it as proof of my ability and as the price of my admission. The way I see it, I've been doing Hell's work for the last couple of years but, and here's the big but, I've been a loose cannon, or more aptly a loose pen: often advancing Hell's cause, but sometimes inadvertently throwing a spanner in the works. Wouldn't it be better if I joined the team, *your* team and ensured that *your* plots and name were advanced?"
"As to what I want...", Asto sits back and opens his arms , palms up, in a deprecating manner, "well, I want recognition and reward for my work, plus the backing and resources of a *name* incase I run afoul of other powers active in the world." Asto gazes at Nybbas expectantly...
Nybbas eyes the image thoughtfully. "Crusading Chris Mellish. Darling of Dominic, Mighty Whitey Christian Righty, and you caught the motherfucker with his pants down, and his dick in -- what is that over there. Green Jello?" A slow grin spreads over his face. "I *like* it. This redhead -- that's really sweet Maddy Titian? You can get her to cry rape, maybe? No.. Coercian? Sure. Why not? Baby, we're talking prime-time courtroom drama. Yeah. I like it."
Turning to the darkness, "Whaddayathink?" *Cheers, applause, hoots from beyond the glare of lights*. Turning back to Asto, "They like it. Go, go, go Astoboy." Cartoon theme music starts up, to laughter and loud applause. The little guy laughs too.
"So you want on the team, kid? You want centre ring in the Greatest Damn Show on Earth? Well, baby, I'm listening." The five bright spots sharpen, split -- two on Asto, three on Nybbas. In the hornrim specs, the video eyes grow like they're looking through a fishbowl. "Tell me about *you*, Peophus. Don't kid me you're not under contract. *Nobody* dicks with Dominic's guys unless they've got some clout. So who's after you? And how come you're running? Dish the dirt, baby. Feed the Beast."
Asto has listened with a relaxed attention though a slight smile flickers on then vanishes from his face at Nybbas' mention of contract and running, "That's the beauty you see. I truely am freelance at the moment. That photo is from some scam that Andrealphus is running. I've come out of it smelling of roses and owed a favour from helping to recover the material. Belial was also involved in some way as a rival, though I don't know the details. I have made contact and forged relationships with servants of Andre and Valefor, all of whom have come to trust me."
Asto frowns in thought, "As to Dominic, that's a bit more complicated. To the best of my knowledge any Angels of Dominic guarding Mellish are totally unaware of my involvement. However...", Asto pauses and scratches his scalp before rushing ahead, "I'm recently Fallen. Probably about 3 years. I *did* work for Dominic. But, at the time I fell I lost most of my memories--until a week ago I didn't realise what I was or even remember that celestials existed. It looks like Dominic's crew believed I was destroyed during the battle surrounding my fall. Unfortunately, one tracked me down just a few days ago. It was destroyed by one of my new acquaintances but...", Asto shrugs, "they now know I still exist and have not reported in."
Asto sits back, hands palm up on the arms of the chair, "Look, to be honest, I think I could escape Dominic's boys on my own. Now I know what I am, I could just leave this Role and not look back. But wherever I go I'll be on my own and end up running into celestials of both camps-- and thats truely being between a rock and a hard place. I'm not strong enough to survive comfortably on my own, I *know* I can be an asset to you, and thats the simple truth of why I'm here."
A heroic soundtrack plays gently in the background. Nybbas studies Asto thoughtfully. "Recently Fallen huh, kid? You're smart to cut loose. Lost your memory. Heh, heh. That's a good one. Didn't stop you coming to me though, huh?" He smirks, sits back and stares into his scotch a while before sipping. Then he looks out at the blackness.
"You heard his story. Do you believe it? Shall I take him, or turn him over to Asmobubba? Or put him on `Shop Till You Drop'? What's it to be?"
Murmurs from the darkness, then calls of `Take him!' `Waste him!' `Shop Till You Drop!' `Turn him in!' `Take him!' `Take him!' Nybbas turns his palms up. "Hey, guys. I've got an important decision. Help me out here." The voices from the darknes grow frenzied. `TAKE HIM!' `TAKE HIM!' `SHOP TILL YOU DROP!' `WASTE HIM!' `TAKE HIM!'
Nybbas listens a while, then smirks and sips his scotch, gesturing for silence. A tympani rolls, pressing. The darkness sinks to silence; the lights dim -- a single baby spot on Nybbas. He leans forward, and as he speaks a triumphant soundtrack swells. "Okay, Peophus! You're in. You're coming to Perdition with me now. We'll get a good look at you, and I'll forge you a new Heart." He leans forward, bright smile on his face, hand extended. "Welcome to the Big Time." Riotous applause as Nybbas shakes Asto's hand and claps his shoulder. From nowhere, a gorgeous honey blonde in gold lame' appears and kisses Asto's cheek.
Snap. Snap. Spots dim. Snap. Snap. Studio lights back up. The blonde is gone. In her place is a shambling figure resembling a Balrog on steroids. In one meaty claw he has a slender gold chain, leading down to the waist of a dragon the size of a chiahuahua. A thousand scaley hissing heads in skinny worm-necks, all joined at the waist to a scaley dog's body. Each face a beautiful, miniature dead movie critic. As the hulking monster shakes the gold chain All whistle and cheer and clap their tiny hands wildly, filling the studio with their raucous applause.
Snap. Snap. Snap. Yelp! The studio is empty, and gone is the set and the ash on the carpet. Up in the control room, the tape whirs empty spools.