101 Writing Prompts

#53. Demons

Prompt: The two words, "Demon smirked," and KarateChop's Shadows of Stars.

It would take a little explaining for me to convince you that I'm not a monster. I swear it, I really do, but what's a Ranger's word worth nowadays?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, jokes don't fly here. I get it. 

Back in the cells, though, jokes kept me alive. You get on the good sides of the men who can turn their fists into solid rock and you don't end up with solid rock for brains. Just crack a few jokes and life's a lot easier to you.

Demon? Yeah, I knew her. Didya know she has needles under her nails with poison in 'em? Fix a man up right gray and stiff and all. And by that, I mean kill them. What, has she gone and killed someone else? I know things get kind of rough in the cells, but we never kill without good reason. 

Thirty men, huh? Oh... I, er, I understand, officer.

She and I weren't... Well, you know what I mean. Together or anything. And by together I mean, um, bonding. The works. We were the closest you can get to pals down there - you don't kill me, I don't kill you. We would taunt the new meat from a distance, all talk and no bite. Demon and Jester, her and I, were pretty chill. No blood on our hands or anything of the sort.

Which is why it's absolutely preposterous that she'd go off and kill three dozen! With a name of Demon and such I can see why you old folks would think we're the bloodthirsty sort, but we were clean. Did you get a look at Meatlug, though? That kid strangled another Ranger with his bare hands!

I am staying on topic!

I can't tell you much about her, if that's what you're wanting. You don't talk about the world outside the cells, it's like a law. Makes watching all the killing and the other, um, activities, more bearable. If there's nothing nice to compare nice to, it looks pretty darn nice to me.

Yeah, Demon didn't get a kick out of that philosophy either. That comes with the murder of thirty, I suppose.

Look, we hit parole about the same time. Jokingly made plans about meeting up every once and a while, maybe have a martini while the cops peer over our shoulders. Everyone goes to the cells for a reason, spies and wig-out creeps who can shoot ice from their toenails. We knew we weren't really getting out of there. 

You see blood for long enough, you start seeing it on yourself. And that's all we Rangers were down there - big, bloody targets. Why do you call us Rangers, anyhow? Is that some kind of sick joke, thinking we're going to become soldiers for you? No wonder Demon went cracked and did some killin'. 

I could tell you stories that would make you blood curdle, make the tips of your hair curl up real tight. Have any of you seen a real Ranger before? Or just the bedtime stories about monsters hidden in human skin? I'll tell you, I did nothing wrong to end up with the psychopaths. 

But you don't care about that, do you? You care about rounding up Demon, a figure on a page and a number on your weekly assessment. A girl whose face you've plastered across the Wave. Did you know she cried at night for hours on end? All those names still burn through my head every damn night. I'll never learn of them, who they really are, because Demon'll never tell me. She'll be long gone by the time I've found her, plastered across the newsreels. 

The girl who cried at night will cry once again. Ain't it poetic?

I suppose I've given you enough now. Go ahead, tighten the chains a little, see how it feels. Jokes, man, jokes. They'll keep you alive some day, I swear it.

Just as I swear I'm innocent. Give them hell, Demon. Live up to your name.