How to Save the World and Other Illegal Shenanigans

Sing Us A Song, Mr. Demon Man

The best stories never start with the weather. However, in this case, it's fairly important to mention that it had been raining blood for the past two hours.

It's had varying effects on the people of earth. Some cry out to the Heavens and offer their soul to the clouds (and sometimes, the people in the clouds get bored and take it against their better judgement, which is damned near infallible). Other types are much more stable in their faith, crossing themselves and lying down in their beds for a nice long nap.

These were among the greater percentage of normal reactions. The crimson tide happened to bring about many of the insufferable monsters that had been in hiding. Naturally they all saw this as a sign, and felt it safe to be out and about in these most trying times.

The vampires came and stood on the corners, mouths open wide to the sky.
The demons all strolled through the streets, burning smokey paths down the asphalt.
The immortals all panicked-- what the hell were they supposed to do? Die? They've always just shrugged their shoulders and napped for a century (oftentimes used as a defense mechanism; it's particularly useful after saying "You too!" when the waitress hopes they enjoy their food). Today was not a shoulder shrugging day, though.

Inexplicably, one man sat unbothered in a bar, finger twirling around his fifth empty shot glass. He looked boredly at the news feed on the wall, sighing when a priest stepped on and declared that the world was ending. The bartender-- a cavalier old man who couldn't care less if today was his last-- paused in his pointless glass cleaning.

"Not impressed?" He asked.

The man just shrugged, then leaned back in the barstool and stretched with a chuckle. "If I see something new," he says, "I'll throw a dollar at it."

No dollars were thrown. The bartender shook his head and returned to cleaning. The man orders another round.

With a dismissive gesture, he waves off the news feed. The priest was on his third spiel about the devil and all of his works. In all honesty, the man-- who went by Jack, and nothing more-- didn't find the devil all that bad. At one point the man had been Jack's boss, back when he went by a different name, something a little longer and more ancient. Now they don't talk so much as gesture vaguely towards each other in the grand scheme of the universe.

Tossing back his last shot, Jack felt the effects of the alcohol finally kicking in. It normally took around thirteen drinks to even feel a buzz, but the universe was feeling lenient and let Jack off with seven. He propped his head up on one arm and began talking to the bartender.

"Do you really think it's the end of the world?" Jack asked. "Are we there yet? Seems a bit early."

"Beats me," said the bartender. "Any day could be the apocalypse, but I work so much I wouldn't even know what the weather is."

Jack points out the window. "Today's looking a little bloody."

The bartender shrugged. He didn't say anything. What is there to say? Obviously there's something going on, and Jack knows exactly why. He's trying to drown out any common sense and logic he has with the seven shots before him. Damned metabolism won't let him black out to forget about it, though. Last time he did that was some time in the middle ages. The Powers That Be made a rule just after it.

He swipes the bottle of liquor out from behind the tabletop, flicks the top and tosses it back, chasing down the other shots. Faintly he recognizes a look of shock on the bartender's face, just before he feels two sudden bursts of heat at each of his elbows.

"Zacaaaaaarioth," the demon on his left hisses, drawing out the name. The word is gross and doesn't sound right to Jack's ears, reminding him just why he chose to go by Jack and Nothing Else. 'Zacarioth' was too long and ugly to possibly be the name of something so beautiful. The second demon on his right picks up the rest of the sentence. "You've been summoned."

"If my day wasn't already shot to hell, you two just really did it all on your own," Jack mumbles.

He places the bottle down and sighs. There were only two people he could wish right out of existence, and it would be these two assholes here. Rahir and Sahir were the royal pains-in-the-ass of Lucifer, always running errands between Below and the real world. Over time Jack has collected plenty of blackmail for each individually, but he could never tell which was which, thus foiling his plan. Someday, he would just go for it. Today was not that day.

"Save it," left-demon hisses. He really does sound like a snake. Jack wonders if that's what he looks like today. The two always take on some sort of terrifying appearance to scare the humans. It's petty and annoying, not scary and intimidating. Right-demon continues, "Lucifer wishes to discuss the imminent arrival of the Apocalypse."

"Open your eyes, dipshit. It's pouring blood. I think your calendars are a little behind."

"The Powers That Be are never wrong," the two hiss in almost complete unison, not quite entirely together. They're not there yet.

Jack snorts. That's what everyone thinks. Walk into any church with a question, and you'll get the same answer: "It's all in your plan. There is nothing wrong with that." Jack could come up with several reasons as to why it was wrong to cut down the rain forests, but hey, if The Powers That Be mandate it, then everything is jolly and good. Go make daisy chains and sing about it.

"You have to help him prevent it," right-demon hisses. Jack's eyes narrow.

"I thought Lucifer loved the Apocalypse. Hasn't it been on his scheming calendar since day one?" Lucifer was a startlingly organized guy. He kept calendars for everything, because there were plenty of different agendas all rolling at the same time. The humans have unraveled a few of them, most notably being the gay agenda. Lucifer particularly enjoyed that one because it royally pissed off all of the churches, despite being a notable force of good. Lucifer also enjoyed subverting stereotypes.

Quite separate from the gay agenda was the scheming calendar. He put all of his evil plans on there, including-- but not limited to-- the apple in the garden, pineapple on pizza, and now, the apocalypse.

"Someone else is doing this," hisses right-demon. "Lucifer does not approve."

"Does he ever?" Jack mutters. Against his better judgement, he holds a hand out to left-demon. He doesn't want to touch either of them. How else is he supposed to get down there? Die? Jack flinches only slightly when left-demon grips his wrist and sends them spiraling down to Hell.

He can feel his tan getting better already.