Everything in Hell is governed and
bound by Stupid Laws;
And Faust is no exception.
In times when the bureaucracy wants
him to do useless stuff,
When the actions of the princes make
his life a chore,
Faust grumbles, moans, and finally
does what he’s told because he’s,
The Contractor…
ACT XXX – The Artificer
“I hate that guy so much.”
A dark space between places, or a light place between spaces. Either way you looked at it a man stood there, his crimson trench coat hanging forlornly in the windless place. A cigar burnt between his fingers – perhaps he was about to take another drag.
But an awful, high-pitched voice came from pretty much nowhere and interrupted him. “Faust! Faust! Faust Faust!” it screeched, getting louder as it came fully into the space.
The crimson clad man span around with enough speed to make his cigar glow, a trail of brightly glowing ashes spiralling out from the tip. The effect was absolutely fabulous.
“It’s you,” the man – Faust – said. Intense displeasure and dislike coloured his voice; a strong contrast to the fanciful turn he had just made.
“It’s you too!” replied the voice. Faust couldn’t see the air demon (it had forgotten to deactivate its invisibility) but he knew what it looked like. It was the smell – a mix of rotten eggs and the regret of failure – that identified the creature. Each was as thin as a rake, as tall as a human, and possessed short, stubby arms as well as a mouth that had far, far too many pointy teeth.
“What do you want?” asked Faust, squeezing the words out around clenched teeth. Fucking administration demons, Faust thought to himself. No other demon would dare bother him during his alone-time.
“Call me Izdgael! Actually call me Iz! The wizard of Iz! I is the wizard of Iz!” babbled the demon, so fast that even Faust had a hard time understanding the nonsense it spewed.
It managed to continue before Faust had a chance to reply, its voice somehow speaking at two different ear-piercing pitches. It said, “New mission! You need to speak to the guy who does the special stuff guy person! That human-like demon-guy man person thing! The guy who URK-“
Faust grabbed the demon by the throat, and lifted it up. “You want me to go talk to the artificer?” he said, anger, malice, and pure, unrefined grumpiness in his voice.
The demon flickered into sight, its head and body starting to swell up. Oh shit, thought Faust. He quickly released his grip and jammed his fingers into his ears.
He was just in time to block out the incredibly loud, eardrum shredding screech the creature let out – not only from its mouth, but also its nose, ears, ass, and even tear ducts. Forced to listen, Faust vaguely made out that it was saying yes.
Giving the demon a swift kick to the belly (finally shutting it up with a squawk), Faust turned back around with a dramatic flair of his trench coat and wandered off into the darkness (or perhaps, the light). Glittering ashes swirled behind him in a cloud; like fairy dust.
A few minutes later he stood outside the building the artificer called home. The artificer was one of Hell’s best craftsdemons, and also one of Faust’s least favourite beings in existence.
“Oi! Oi Faust! Good ta see ya mate!” came the artificer’s voice, drifting out from an open window. It sounded jolly and amused – as always. The artificer was relentlessly upbeat and friendly despite being a demon – something that pissed Faust off to no end. A being almost his complete opposite. It was a pretty natural hatred.
Faust glared at the house in reply as the artificer bustled noisily through the rooms within. It took the artificer just a little more time than Faust had patience to reach the front door – as it did every single time Faust was forced to meet him. As much as he wished their paths never had to cross, the artificer was responsible for maintenance of many tools used by the agents of Hell (and occasionally tasked with the creation of new ones). Faust had been forced to visit many times – at least once a decade.
Right on time, the front door slammed open. The artificer was a burly, overweight demon with short legs, three pairs of arms (of over-, normal, and under-sized proportions) and a surprisingly human face that was almost always grinning broadly. He filled the doorway completely, despite his below average stature – another pet peeve of Faust’s was having to bend over while inside.
“Excellent, excellent, punctual as usual, just had that order chain go off a few minutes ago! Come in, come in!” said the artificer, beckoning Faust inside.
“Why have I been summoned here?” asked Faust, the artificer’s cheer only irritating him.
“I need to check something in your watch,” the artificer replied with a needless grin. “I think I might’ve broken something last time I was doing maintenance, and we can’t have it breaking when you’re on duty! That’d just be AWFUL!”
The artificer chuckled and turned around, forcing Faust to follow. The watch was a masterpiece, created by someone far more skilled than the artificer – yet those in charge of Hell saw fit to let the relative amateur tinker and fiddle with it every ten years. Yet if the artificer thought he might have broken it, he probably had. Faust followed him inside, remembering to duck his head and grinding his teeth to keep himself calm.
“You need a stress-ball, Faust! I can hear your teeth grinding from here, mate!” the artificer bubbled happily. Faust only ground his teeth harder at the false admonition.
Faust was led through several rooms and corridors (again, taking just slightly more time than Faust had patience) before they emerged into the only room Faust recognised – the artificer’s fine workshop. The rest of the building was, as with many structures in the not-entirely-physical Hell, capable of reshaping itself just right to irritate visitors optimally; and also to ensure anyone not familiar with the structure became hopelessly lost. Faust hated Hell about as much as he hated the artificer.
“Take a seat, buddy, and gimme the watch,” the artificer said, extending a normal-sized hand to Faust.
Faust pulled the watch from his pockets and deposited it in the artificer’s hand, but remained standing. “I’m not sitting on your fucking spiked chairs,” he spat. Most of the chairs in the room bore obvious spikes or other ‘additions’ that made them uncomfortable to sit on – if not outright painful. Faust had sat on one before and had thoroughly detested the experience (and resulting scars).
“Got ya covered, mate,” said the artificer, looking up from his tools. As he set up a magnification tool, he added, “That chair there’s for you, special made and everything. I’m a gracious host, you know.”
A tall wooden dining chair sat opposite the fine crafts work bench. Compared to the rest of the chairs present, it was positively inviting. After staring at it for a few moments (as his irritating host fiddled with the pocket watch, whistled a tune, and managed to make irritating squeaking noises with his tools) Faust stalked over to the chair and sat down.
But as soon as his bottom came to rest on the seat, a pair of metal spikes shot up and impaled his backside.
“ARRRGH!” Faust yelled, leaping to his feet. The top half of the chair easily snapped off as he straightened – which left him standing with half a chair attached to his backside. He wound up dropping his cigar as he stood and it span off gracefully through the air. It managed to create enchanting circles of light and smoke as it flew; but no-one noticed.
The artificer turned around with the biggest grin Faust had ever seen him with, laughing madly. “Got ya mate!” he said, in between bouts of laughter, his grin getting disturbingly wide (not that Faust noticed with two spikes in his butt).
With a pained groan, Faust ripped the chair from his arse and tossed it off into the workshop (causing one hell of a racket before it stopped moving). Having removed the offending penetration, Faust started to straighten up, his face a mass of pure rage, only to slam his head into the roof with a loud thud.
The artificer completely lost it at Faust’s slapstick, and fell over giggling. Head carefully bent over, Faust thundered across the room, each step shaking the house to its foundations. He picked the artificer up and glared at him fiercely. Held tightly, the artificer quickly stopped giggling and looked at Faust’s furious face. “H-Hey mate, it was just a j-“ he stammered.
“FUCK YOU!” screamed Faust, hurling the demon at – and right through – the nearest wall.
Faust picked up his watch (which was completely untouched) and pocketed it, his rage calming a little each time he heard the annoying shit smash through another wall of the (literally) damned building. Eventually the noises stopped, and Faust followed the newly made route outside.
“Summoning me for a fucking practical joke,” Faust muttered as he stalked off, softly fading back into the darkness/light. “I’ll fucking kill him next time.”
And so ends the tale of the Artificer… and the Contractor. For a few years, anyway.
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