Dan Cooley jumped as a bolt of lightning slammed into a tree in the park nearby, momentarily lighting the predawn sky and casting the Raleigh street in eerie shades of blue and white. He mopped his face with a sweat-soaked sleeve and shifted on the vinyl car seat, trying to find a position that would let him drive without touching the seat with any portion of his anatomy. He felt his shirt sticking and tugging at his skin as he moved. Damned irritating. He tried the air conditioning again. Sometimes it worked, but not today.
North Carolina summers are the worst, he thought as he drove along the empty street. It's ninety out here already. Might break the one hundred mark by lunchtime . . . if it doesn't rain.
It probably would rain, though. The thunder and lightning had to be bringing rain with them sooner or later.
A sudden gust of wind blasted between two buildings and buffeted the car. Scraps of newspaper and assorted trash spiraled up from the gutter and skittered across his windshield. His headlights picked out several winos huddled against the stained brick of an abandoned building. One passed a brown paper bag to another. The third turned his face away as Dan drove by.
Eight months ago, this part of town hadn't been too bad. It got worse every day, though. He passed Harriet's Fruit and Produce Company, which had still been in good shape when he moved to Raleigh. Broken bottles littered the empty parking lot. Someone had replaced the shattered glass panes with cardboard. Racist graffiti decorated the walls, along with crude drawings of nude women and oversized sexual organs and slogans like "Go to Hell for the Holidays."
The winos weren't the only bums living in the streets, though. Even some of the Hellraised were out of work. Dan saw stories about devils standing in bread lines and demons and gargoyles and imps clogging welfare offices demanding to be put on the rolls. According to some rumors, Hell was downsizing its operation in North Carolina because of the population drop as people fled the state.
God damn the Unchaining anyway. The state was driving straight to Hell, lights flashing all the way.
"I wish I could do something to make a difference," he muttered.
Lightning crashed into the top corner of the building at the next intersection and for an instant he saw the strobe-slowed images of bricks and trim flying in all directions. He hit his brakes to keep clear of debris. The rain started—a few hard, big splats on his windshield preceded a torrent so fierce that the roar of the rain drowned out the sound of the radio.
He slowed further and squinted past his flailing windshield wipers, looking for his turn.
There it was.
As he prepared to turn right, a small form dashed in front of him, momentarily illuminated by the glow of the headlights.
"Shit!" Dan slammed his foot on the brakes. The Mustang fishtailed on the wet road and slid to a stop.
"What the hell . . .?"
A man raced behind the child. Both were sodden, tattered, bundled in filthy clothing. The rain blurred them, and they dashed out of his headlights before he could decide whether they were running toward something or away from it, but before he could move forward again, half a dozen young men ran after the pair, which answered the question. The young men hooted and yelled obscenities. Several threw bottles and pieces of brick.
He thought he heard one of them shout, "Get 'em! Get 'em!" and another yell, "Let's cut 'em!"; he couldn't be sure. The rain and the radio together made their voices tiny.
There were still no other cars on the road with him. Feeling uneasy, he backed up and aimed the headlights in the direction in which everyone had run.
The pack of teenagers was spread out in a semicircle, its prey trapped in the corner of a warehouse parking lot. Dan could make out baseball bats and broken bottles and a knife in the hands of the various attackers.
The voice of common sense told him, "You can't do anything; there are almost a dozen of them. Get to a phone fast and call the cops." He wished he had a car phone. That would have helped. He didn't, though. All he had was his car—with its doors locked against any intrusion from the dangerous world outside—and a conscience that he could tell wasn't going to let him flee to the nearest phone.
Dan felt his stomach knot. The thugs were closing in on the man and the kid. "Oh, screw it."
He yanked the gearshift, aimed the car at the middle of the gang, then floored the gas pedal. He jumped the curb; the impact rattled his teeth. As the tires hit the parking lot, chunks of gravel rang on the Mustang's chassis; he kept accelerating towards the group. He leaned on the horn the entire time.
It worked. The kids ran off, but not too far.
Dan skidded to a stop near the two figures. He reached over and unlocked the passenger door and yelled above the sound of the rain, "Get in!"
His overhead light wasn't working; the two of them couldn't see him, couldn't see that he didn't intend them any harm. He saw their dark forms move forward nervously, way too slow, and he yelled, "Hurry up, dammit! Those creeps aren't going to wait forever!"
The kid jumped into the darkness of the car. "In back!" Dan said, pushing him over the bucket seat.
The man yelped, then squeezed into the car and slammed the door. As he did, a rock banged off the hood.
"Shit!" Dan said. "Hold on!" He shifted into drive and peeled out of the parking lot. Something thumped against the trunk before they got completely away.
His heart didn't slow down for another minute. When the shakes passed, he said, "That was close! Oh, shit, that was close. Are you okay?" He tried not to notice the smell of the two of them, which approximated wet dog only if the dog in question had been roadkill for a couple of days.
The man mumbled something.
"Huh?" Dan asked.
"Got hit in the face by a rock. But, yeah, I'm fine."
"What about your kid?"
The man turned to stare at him. In the darkness, Dan only caught the outlines of his passenger, but he noticed something subtly wrong. His skin began to crawl.
"My lad?" the man asked. His acid-etched ground-glass voice held a note of bewilderment.
"Yeah." Dan glanced in the rearview mirror. He drove beneath the light of a street lamp as he did, so he got a good look at the bright blue nightmare that popped over the back of the seat to grin at him. Heavy jowls hung in folds down both sides of its face, and beady black eyes stared out at him from a web of wrinkles. Dagger-pointed teeth poked out of the huge, lipless mouth, curving out and up toward the flat nose and down toward the receding chin. Two tiny horns erupted from the sloping forehead.
"Holy shit!" Dan stomped on the brakes. The car spun out of control. The Mustang spiraled to a halt in the empty intersection, then stalled.
Dan froze and pulled back from the thing. "What in God's name is that?"
"God had nothing to do with it. It's an imp."
Dan turned to look at the man beside him. His jaw dropped. Yellow eyes with square pupils stared back at him. Two horns larger than the imp's stuck out through holes in the ball cap, which bore the legend "George's Pepsi Vending Service." The devil's skin was covered with tiny shimmering copper scales.
"Jesus," Dan breathed.
The Hellraised monster grinned. "Nah, not hardly. I can understand though—folks get us confused all the time."
Dan felt dizzy. "Say what?"
"Oh nothing. I was just making a joke, you know?" The devil looked around. "I don't have a driver's license, but shouldn't we get out of the intersection? If I've learned one thing since I've been on Earth, it's that the yellow light means speed up."
Hell's monster had a point. Dan started the engine with difficulty, then continued down the street "So he's an imp. And what—I mean, who are you?"
"My name's Puck. I'm a devil. Second class." The tiny monster looking over Dan's shoulder whined. "That's Fetch. It's an imp. Class nine, level four. One level up from animated shit."
"Hello," Dan said to the imp. Jeez, he thought, it looks like a bright blue Shar Pei.
"Don't bother waiting for an answer. It can't talk. Too low on the pecking order," Puck said.
"All right. My name's Dan. Cooley." The stink, unbelievably, got worse. They were from Hell, and they smelled like it. He breathed shallowly and tried to think of a way to get them out of his car. "Why were those guys chasing you?"
"You know much about the Hellraised?"
"I know a few things. We haven't seen many of you people in Raleigh. Lot of you in Charlotte. Or so I've been told."
"Yeah. Used to be the case. Things were pretty good under Agonostis, and even Punksucker, the temp, wasn't too bad. I had a nice cubicle, a terminal, a Helmet account, a demon crew . . . . The new boss is Hell, though, pardon my pun. Corporation policy's changed." The devil frowned. "Next thing I know, I'm waiting to be downsized—direct orders from the boss. Say you don't know much about our kind, huh?"
"No, that's not what I said."
"We can't hurt people. Those guys knew that. The imp and I were sleeping in a trash bin nobody was using; they found us there. Wanted to have some fun with a pack of cigarettes and some matches. Under different circumstances, it might have been cute. You know, like kids trying on grown-up clothes. They'll be in Hell before too long, might as well get their practice in here. Things being the way they are though, I didn't feel like playing. So we ran."
Dan's eyes watered from the stench. He considered the potential unpleasantness of torrential rain pouring into the car and weighed that against the stink, and rolled his window down. He knew they couldn't hurt him, but he'd also seen people who pissed off a demon or a gargoyle and had to deal with their ideas of revenge. They'd had a lot of experience in revenge. He didn't dare kick them out of his car, so he toughed out the stink. "I thought you guys could pop in and out at will. Why didn't you teleport away?"
"We can't."
"Why not?"
"It can't teleport without help," Puck said as he jerked his thumb at the imp. "Satan's flaming balls, man, it's lucky they gave it a hole to shit with. Wish I'd had one when I started out. Made life tough in my early days, let me tell you."
Dan felt queasy. "I see. So why didn't you vanish?"
The devil slouched. "I can't. Not anymore."
"I asked you before, why not?"
He sighed. "I've been fired."
"Say what?"
"Fired. You know, terminated. Pink-slipped. Booted out the back door. I already told you; the downsizing. Understand?" The devil scratched his crotch. "I've lost most of my powers, so I can't teleport or anything. You with me, genius?"
Dan clenched the steering wheel. "Look, lose the attitude. I just saved your asses, after all."
The devil's demeanor changed instantly. He cringed, moving as far away from Dan as he could. "Don't hurt me!" he wailed.
The imp squeaked and leaped to the floorboard. Dan looked over his seat. The tiny monster crouched as far away as it could. It looked at Dan and trembled.
"Oh, come on," Dan said, embarrassed. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."
"You're lying!" Puck howled.
"No, I'm not." What's wrong with these two, he wondered.
"Honest?"
"Honest."
The devil's quivering subsided. "Well, okay." He straightened and managed a shaky grin. "Sorry about that. In Hell, you're either dominant or submissive; no in-between. I can't help it; after thousands of years, it's part of me. Didn't mean anything by it. Won't happen again, I promise."
Cold rain pounded Dan's left arm and the side of his face as he moved his hand to signal a turn. A small puddle had begun to form on the driver's side floorboard. "So where can I drop you off?"
The devil looked out the window. "I'm not sure," he said. "We was sleeping in that trash bin, but those guys know about it now. I'd rather not go back Tell you what, just let us out right here."
"You sure? I could let you out somewhere else, if it isn't too far."
"Nah, thanks anyway." He looked puzzled for a moment. "That felt weird."
"What felt weird?"
"Haven't had a reason to say thanks to anybody for a long time. Just hit me kind of strange, you know?"
The rain fell harder. Dan glanced at the two Hellraised, They're what everyone's so scared of? Jesus, if I said "Boo!" right now, I bet they'd go through the roof.
"Why don't we do this," Dan said. "I'll let you out when I get to work. We have a lobby; you could hang out there until the rain slacks up."
"You have a job?" The devil acted as if Dan had said he was a millionaire. "What do you do?"
"I'm a DJ for a local radio station, WKTU. K-Rock Raleigh. Ever heard of it?"
"Afraid not. Of course, I don't get to listen to the radio much, since I don't own one." The devil shifted in the passenger seat. "You sure it'll be okay?"
"Probably."
"So what do you want in exchange?"
Dan shook his head. "I don't want anything. I know how hard it must be to have no place to sleep."
"And no money."
"That too." Dan glanced over at Puck. The devil huddled in his seat, head down, looking miserable. "You said you were fired?"
"Yep," Puck said "See, we had an administrative shake-up just after we got here. Agonostis and Jezerael, two of the big bosses, got into a power struggle over the local branch of the Corporation. We small fry were running around like gremlins with our heads bitten off, trying to predict who would come out on top and sucking up to both sides just to be safe. I licked so many pairs of boots I wore my tongue smooth." He stuck it out for Dan's benefit. "Thee?"
"Very nice." Christ.
"So, of course nothing goes right. They both get busted, we get a temp, everybody relaxes a little, and then the new boss blows in—he's a Devil First Class, brevetted to Fallen Angel for this mission. He's gone as high as he can go in the company, and now he has to figure out a way to stay there, you know? Every other devil in the organization is gunning for him, so he decides to make an example and picks yours truly. Just my luck."
"Why you?"
The devil shrugged. "Why not? I suspect a certain demon told him I wanted his job. And if I ever find out for sure . . ."
Dan pointed over his shoulder at the imp. "Is that what happened to what's-his-name?"
Puck snickered. "Fetch? No, that isn't what happened to it. That's rich—an imp involved in Company politics. Nah, all devils have imps; that's one of our few perks. The new guy took my old one, though, which pisses me off. I had it broken in just fine, and he decides he needs a midnight snack. No more imp. But right before I got the ax, the Company gave me this," he said with a nod to the back seat. "Sludge from the bottom of the barrel. Just adding insult to injury. The Fallen wipe their asses with class-nine imps. Deep-fried, the little bastards aren't too bad, but as for getting any useful work out of one . . ." He gave an exasperated sigh.
"So what have you been doing since you were fired?" Dan said, desperate to change the subject.
"Waiting."
"Waiting for what?" He pulled into the station's parking lot.
"To get recalled back to Hell." The devil shook his head slowly. "I don't have a job, but that doesn't mean I just go straight back. It takes transportation to get there . . . and the crosstown bus won't do. Not that I'm in any hurry to go home. Soon as I roll through the gates, I'll be busted back to gargoyle for certain. There're some demons with long memories smacking their lips at the thought; I just know it."
"How long have you been waiting to be summoned back?"
"Eight months? Yeah, eight months. That feels about right."
"You guys have only been here eight months. You've been waiting the whole time to be summoned back?"
"Ummm-hmmm. I have two theories. Either Scumslag, that's the new boss, forgot about me—and I'd love to think that was what happened—or my old enemy Roiling Pusbucket figured out some way to make it look like I intentionally delayed my return. I figure that's what's really going on. He's had it in for me for centuries." Puck shook his head. "I wish I'd thought of snitching on Roiling Pusbucket first. If I'd come up with an idea like that, I'd have made Devil First Class for sure."
Puck's self-pity and conniving vindictiveness appalled Dan, but the devil really did seem unhappy with his life. "Why don't you repent?" he asked. "I've heard that the Hellraised who repent get to go straight to Heaven."
The devil laughed, a harsh braying sound. "What a crock of shit. You think His Infernal Majesty would leave a loophole like that in the terms of our sentences? Please."
"You can't repent?"
"You have to regret what you've done, and mean it, to repent. And what do you think they do first thing when you get to Hell? They suck out all the memories of your sins, that's what. All of them. Schlooooop! One minute you're a sinner and the next minute all you can remember is your wife and kids and your friends and how good things were. Makes being in Hell rough, I tell you. At least until you find a place in the system. But it also makes it pretty damned difficult to repent. How am I supposed to repent what I don't remember?"
Good question, Dan thought. "I don't know." He pulled into his regular parking spot and turned off the ignition. Water splashed at his feet and soaked through his shoes and socks; he felt like he'd been for a swim in his clothing. But he didn't smell like Puck or Fetch, and neither would the Mustang, once they were out of it. "See that glass door? Head for it; I'll be right behind you."
He watched the two Hellraised shuffle to the building. They didn't even try to stay dry. Maybe from their perspective getting wet in a thundershower felt terrific. He locked the doors, rolled up the window, and ran past the devil and the imp into the station, trying to keep the few inches of him that were mostly dry from getting any wetter. Once inside, he looked for Roger; the security guard was nowhere in sight.
Puck and Fetch came cautiously into the lobby. Dan said, "There's coffee over there. Do you drink coffee?"
"Yeah. Thanks. Are we allowed to sit on the chairs and read the magazines?"
"Go ahead. The secretary will be coming in an hour from now, but you'll probably see the security guard before you see her. He's most likely in the restroom. He's an old guy with gray hair and a little bit of a limp. His name is Roger Petrie; just tell him I brought you in to wait out the storm."
"Okay," Puck said. Fetch had already poured both of them coffee from the coffee maker. He brought the cups over and silently handed one to Puck. The devil took it, thumped the imp on the head with one flicked finger, and told Dan, "See you around maybe, huh?"
Dan nodded and hurried away.
He stepped in front of the control booth's window and tapped on the glass. Sandy waved as he walked in. She held up a finger, indicating she would be with him when she finished, but kept right on talking into the mike. "—the song Bach would have written if he'd had an ounce of talent. Brought tears to my eyes, let me tell you. That was 'Trailer Park Madonna' by Rednecks In Paradise. And these Renaissance men have created a whole album of future masterpieces! The second number on our WKTU Two-fer-Tuesday is 'There's a Deer in My Headlights and a Gun in My Rack, But I Only Have Eyes for You,' coming at you from WKTU—K-Rock Ra-leeeeeigh!" She set the tape and switched off the mike. "Hiya, champ," she said. "How's it hanging?"
He grinned and flopped into a nearby seat. "Rednecks In Paradise?" He chuckled. "I thought Bernie nixed experimental Southern country crossover rock on the playlist."
"Fuck Bernie."
"Uh-oh. What happened this time?"
Sandy handed him a memo. "Word just came from his majesty's office. The A. M. and P. M. drives have to split the midday slot for now."
"What! Why?"
"Bernie fired Steve." Steve Gromman was the afternoon guy, and about the kindest, most easygoing human being Dan had ever known. "We have to cover his shift till they find a replacement. If they do."
"What do you mean, if?"
"Rumor has it that the owners are screaming for more cutbacks. Not only that, but I hear the sponsors are pissed off about the new rates. Doesn't help that our share has been going down for three months." She picked at a rip in her chair's vinyl upholstery. "To top everything else off, Darlene told me we lost the Chevrolet dealership to WRCK."
Darlene sold advertising for the radio, and she was efficient, funny, personable . . . and currently struggling to find something salable about WKTU. Dan frowned "Wonderful. At this rate, Steve's going to have company at the unemployment office." He shook his head, frustrated. "Why'd Bernie fire him?"
"Don't know for sure. The old bastard caught him sneaking in late and told him to step into his office. Next thing I know, Steve's clearing his stuff out."
Dan leaned back. "I covered for him once last week. He said Winnie caught the flu the baby had, and he stayed up all night taking care of them. I called him Monday about my eight-tracks and Winnie answered the phone. She still sounds terrible." Dan drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Ever since Ted retired and Bernie took over, things have been going to shit around here."
"That isn't all the bad news."
Dan groaned. "What else?"
"You don't have a guest for your morning show."
"The Daltech rep canceled? Why?"
"Take a look." Sandy handed him a copy of the Raleigh News and Observer. "Front page, too."
Dan stared at the headline. *DALTECH ANNOUNCES LAYOFFS*. He skimmed the article beneath. The layoffs would begin in two weeks, and would eliminate thousands of jobs. He handed the paper back to Sandy, stunned. "No wonder he canceled. The sonuvabitch . . . I'd like to strangle him myself. Especially after that press release of his that guaranteed no downsizing this year."
Sandy dropped the newspaper to the floor. "Think your stepdad will get the ax, too?"
"He's not my stepfather, he's my mother's second husband." Dan sighed. "I have no idea. Maybe. He's been really tense lately, maybe he knew this was coming."
"So what are you going to do about your show?"
"Oh, Christ, I don't know. Cancel it, I guess. Just play the playlist."
"Too bad. That's right during peak driving time, too. Probably lose a bunch of listeners on their way to work."
"I know. Damn." Dan smiled. "Wait a minute! I've got an idea."
"Don't set any dangerous precedents."
"Thanks, smartass. I've got a guest waiting in the lounge. Hell, I've got two of them. No, wait, the imp can't talk."
Sandy stared at him. "What on Earth are you babbling about?"
"I ran into two Hellraised on the way to work this morning."
Sandy whistled. "Anybody get your license number?"
"No. I mean . . ." He laughed. "No. Look, just hang loose. I'll be back in a minute."
Dan strode down the hallway into the lounge and saw the security guard waving a makeshift cross at the two Hellspawn. "Go on, get!" Roger said to the Hellspawn.
"Rog, no! Wait a minute!" Dan yelled.
"It's all right, Mr. Cooley. I'm getting rid of them. They don't scare me!"
"I don't want you to get rid of them," he said. "Puck is my guest for the morning show."
"Huh?" The devil's eyes widened. "I'm what?"
"You're coming with me," Dan said as he took the devil's arm. "The control booth is this way. Where's the imp?"
Puck snapped his fingers and the imp darted to his side; it had been hiding in the plastic rubber plant. "He's right beside me."
"Good deal. Keep him there and hurry up."
The devil grinned. "There any money in this for me?"
"Money?" Dan looked at Puck's filthy clothes. "Yeah. We'll take up a collection after the show and scare up enough money for you to buy yourself some clean clothes. If you give me a good interview." He led the two Hellraised into the control room. Sandy's eyes widened. Then they widened further. Then she held her nose and started coughing.
"Sandy, this is Puck. Puck, this is Sandy." He pointed at the imp, who clung to the devil's leg. "And that's Fetch. Right?"
Puck nodded. "Right."
Sandy seemed to have gotten past the initial shock of their stink and their presence. She still didn't seem pleased to meet them, though. Her smile was tight, her eyes glassy. "So you're a devil?"
The devil looked down the front of her loose blouse and leered. "That's right."
"Really? Well, I'm a lesbian. Pleased to meet you. Hang on a sec." Sandy turned back to the control panel and flipped her mike back on. "Guess what, folks—I am outta here. Gunga Dan's up next to take you to work with the interview from Hell. But before I go, I'm gonna leave you with an oldie from my own personal goddess, Melissa Etheridge. Remember—rock 'n' roll and cheap sex are the only things that separate us from the animals. This is the Iron Maiden of WKTU, K-Rock Raleigh, rockin' you into the day!"
"Sex separates us from the animals?" Dan said. "You don't hang out much on the Internet, do you?"
"Computers are an abomination. I'm from a family of Luddites; we still regard movable type with suspicion." Sandy got up and Dan found himself staring at the shift of her full breasts beneath her nubby raw-silk blouse. He sighed and focused on her face, which was beautiful even without makeup; serene and intelligent and always half-amused when she looked at him, as if she knew what he was thinking and didn't give a shit. She said, "Hey, want to drop by this Sunday? Julie and I are going to grill some dead animal flesh. Since it's a holy day, we'll tell the neighbors it's a burnt offering."
"Sounds promising," Dan replied as he slipped into place behind the control board. "I'll let you know. Mind if I bring a guest?"
Sandy raised an eyebrow. "You mean Meg?"
Dan put on the headset. "That a problem?"
"Meg's okay, I guess. I just don't feel like hearing about corporate depredations on the rain forest for two hours, or how bitterly treated we poor lesbians are, and how we need legislation to guarantee us especially equal equal treatment. She means well, but I can stand on my own two feet, thanks. I can make my way in the real world without needing somebody to shield me from the rough spots. I don't need the condescension."
"She doesn't mean to be condescending. Her uncle's gay, and I guess the world isn't especially warm and fuzzy toward gay Republican bankers—she feels a real burning desire to do something that will help."
"Great. She needs to find a cause besides mine. Anyway, Oprah was right. Excellence is its own defense against prejudice. If you're good enough, the world will make room."
Dan nodded and aimed the conversation back to the weekend. "So no Meg. I could bring Janna." He grinned at her. "But then could I trust you?"
"Me? Prefer a tall gorgeous blonde over a short plump brunette? What do you take me for?" She laughed "Sure. Bring Janna. Maybe if you're lucky she'll be able to keep her hands off me. Later." She winked at him and sauntered out of the booth, her hips swinging in a gesture of flagrant seduction. She knew Dan thought she was attractive—that he would have been interested in her had she been available—and sometimes she couldn't resist a little taunting.
"Nice piece of ass," Puck remarked.
"Oh, yeah. Ass, tits, face . . ." Dan set up his CDs. "Nice piece of brain, too. Song's about through. I have to do the six A. M. news and an hour's worth of music and chat. We do the interview at seven. Just sit back and relax. Oh. When I finally get to the interview, remember, we have an eight-second delay, but even so, I don't want to have to use the bleeper after every third word, so no obscenities. Understand?"
Puck nodded. Dan could have sworn the devil looked a little nervous, but he decided it was probably a trick of the light. "All right. Here I go."
He switched on the mike as Melissa finished off the last notes of "Talking to My Angel." His voice metamorphosed into its deeper, fuller announcer mode. "Turn off those alarms, put out the cat and the mistress, and let's go! You're rockin' with Gunga Dan and WKTU—K-Rock Raleigh; the howling hordes of ninety-six point three are on their way to your house; and IIIIITTT'S MORRRRRNNNNNIINNG!
"This just in. The North Carolina State Legislature passed a bill yesterday declaring toy poodles to be an endangered species. Since the Unchaining, these cuddly canines' numbers have decreased as the Hellraised attempt to resolve that age-old controversy: 'Tastes Great!' or 'Less Filling!' The bill was later amended to include Pomeranians, Yorkies and Corgis. A proposal to extend endangered status to the Mexican Chihuahua was overwhelmingly defeated, however. Said one senator, 'We had to draw the line somewhere.'" He punched up the klaxon, let it sound for a second, then moved into his next bit.
"News flash! A small riot erupted last night in the parking lot of the Church of Jesus Christ American. According to witnesses, the weekly burning of rock albums and classic novels was disrupted when a demon leaped out of the bonfire and cried 'More Fabio!'"
Dan played the "mob screaming" sound effect, the one that ended with a Bronx cheer. He did a few more stories, mostly centered around the Hellraised, played a few songs, ran the advertisements, did his top-ten list of things to do in Raleigh, joked on the air with Marilyn, the DJ who did the real news, played some more music.
While Marilyn did the seven A. M. news, he turned to Puck. "You're up next. You don't have to be funny. If you are funny, that's great, but if you aren't funny, I can be funny for both of us. All you have to do is answer my questions. You ready?"
Puck nodded.
Dan cut from the ads to the set piece he and Sandy had worked up to open the interviews, Fleetwood Mac's "Tell Me lies" with voice-overs of Richard Nixon saying "I am not a crook" and a soundbite from the O. J. Simpson trial and George Bush's infamous "Read my lips" quote and Hillary Clinton saying she did nothing illegal in the Whitewater fiasco. When it finished rolling, Dan hit his intro hard.
"What can I say about my guest this morning? He's here! He's bad! He's the Guest . . . from . . . Hell! Want to know if Aunt Marge took your suggestion and headed South when she punched her ticket? Want to know if your boss really is the Spawn of Satan? Want to know if anyone knows about you and that hot little number in Accounting? Then get on the phones and ask, because this morning you're gonna get answers. Our guest comes to us straight from a tour of the six hundred and sixty-six levels of the Abyss, and boy are his wings tired! I present to you the famous, the IN-famous, Puck!"
Dan grinned at the devil. "So tell me, Puck—according to you, you're one hot dude from Hell. You been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. So . . . what gives with reruns?"
The devil blinked at Dan in confusion. "Reruns?"
"Oh, come on. Don't play coy with me! Ever since the Unchaining I've got Full House on my TV set five times a week, and twice on Saturdays! You don't expect me to believe it's because people are actually watching it, do you? And what about infomercials? Wheel of Fortune? What about The Montel Williams Show? Do you expect me to believe it's all a coincidence?"
Puck shifted in his seat. "Well, no, but . . ."
"Yeah, yeah, we've heard it all before. 'Herr Judge, ve ver just following orders!' Speaking of which, how's Hitler doing?"
"Who?"
"Hitler? Adolph? You know, the short dumpy dark-haired guy who believed in the racial superiority of tall muscular blondes?"
The devil blinked in confusion. "Sorry, I didn't work in Personnel."
"Here we go again! Oh well, forget Hitler. Give us the inside scoop on the Big Man himself, okay?"
"The big man?"
"The Prince of Darkness! Lord of the Hoary Nether-worlds! Satan!"
Puck shivered. "What about Him?"
"Well, just between you, me, and the wall, is he really the epitome and sum of evil itself? Or is it all just a front?"
"A front?"
"Hey, you can tell me! All public figures have at least two personalities; one to trot out for the troops and the real McCoy. So what's he actually like? Is he the ultimate badass like they say? Or is he secretly a shy kind of guy? You know, listens to Michael Bolton and cries when the hunters shoot Bambi's mother? Fuzzy slippers and warm milk at bedtime?"
The devil stared at Dan as though he were insane. "I—don't think so."
"I guess you're right. Probably feels like he's got to live up to the rep. So enough about Satan. What about you? You're unemployed at the moment, is that right?"
"Well, yes. Unfortunately."
"Hey—maybe we can help you find a job! Best to go with what you know, right? So tell me Puck, what'd you do in Hell?"
"Do?"
"Your occupation in Hell. What was it? Chief torturer? Convenience store manager? Wastewater treatment plant operator?"
The devil wiped a hand across his forehead. Dan pantomimed taking a deep breath and letting it out. Puck imitated him. "Nah, nothing glamorous like that. I changed jobs a lot, mostly within the bureaucracy. Last position I had was Employee Relations and Morale Clerk. I translated company directives from up above into unintelligible corporate-speak for the floor workers."
"What happened?"
Puck looked like he was relaxing a little. "I'm not sure. Upper management said they were engaging in a reevaluation of my long-term prospects for maximizing opportunity situations, and that they had unilaterally reprioritized my infrastructural imperatives pending lateral corporate placement by transfer to a positive-image-minimized employment situation with a sum-negative advancement track and a corporately advantageous payment structure."
Startled, Dan laughed. "They said that?"
"They said that."
"Oooooo—sounds like Hell."
"Yeah, well." The devil raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "We have to expect things like that. A lot of middle management flows our way."
Dan laughed again. "You know, I always suspected that. Even radio stations have middle managers." The devil was turning out to be a decent guest after all. He stank, but he didn't stink. At least their share wouldn't drop because of him. In the back of Dan's mind, an idea began to form.
"So tell me, where do you see yourself in five years, Puck?"
He only half-listened to the answer. His plan took shape. It was outrageous. Implausible. Incorrigible. Audacious. It would make that bastard Bernie yank out what was left of his hair.
It was perfect.
The devil stopped to catch his breath, and Dan waved him to silence. "Puck," he said, "repeat after me. 'The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. '" He did it with a faux-British accent.
"The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain." The devil mimicked his delivery and his accent, then asked, "Why did you want to me to say that?"
Dan leaned forward. "Ever heard of George Bernard Shaw? Pygmalion? My Fair Lady?"
"No."
"You will." Dan focused on his microphone. "Listen up, Raleigh. Puck's an unemployed devil—a social leech with no job and no place to live, and he hasn't had a bath since Noah floated out of the Flood. In fact, he reminds me of an uncle on my mother's side. I say we turn him into an upstanding North Carolinian. We'll scrub him down, dress him up, and make a new man of him. If we can shape him up, we can shape any of them up. We'll call it the Great Devil Makeover. Grab a phone and let me know what you think! Call me now!"
Dan cued up "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones and flipped off his mike.
Puck watched him, those yellow eyes disconcertingly excited.
"You like it?" Dan asked.
"I like it," Puck said. "If there's a steady paycheck in it, I'll believe anything you say."
"Ghostbusters, right?" Dan said, catching the line. He didn't let the devil's sudden enthusiasm bother him. He smiled. "I'm going to put this station back in the black, my fine fiend. And you're going to help me."