BENT DIMENSIONS

Cyn Ley

Tales of demons, ghosts, agents of chaos, aliens, and assorted bodies filled by odd people.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.

All the stories contained herein were previously published between 2014-Spring 2019.

BENT DIMENSIONS

Cyn Ley

ISBN 978-1-7333859-1-6

OTHERLAND PRESS

Copyright 2019

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

To he who calls me

the gum in his hair

The Order of the Stories

Plot Twist

‘Randa’s Wrath

The Logo Men

Kumbaya

The Tin Foil Hat Society

She Who Commands

Prey

Rinse, Repeat

Bump

Sweet Dreams

Calling You Out

It’s All About Location

Stilts

Remains

Charlotte Plays God

Plot Twist

Humans are boring, Jerry Craven declared, clicking his thumb and index finger claws together.  In the dim light, a spark glinted brightly on the nails’ edge, quivering. He watched it flicker for a moment, then blew it out.

Because everyone’s fingernails catch fire, right?

Neat trick, the guy on the bar stool next to him said. How’d you do it?

Jerry looked him up and down, taking in his dyed blonde hair, Thor costume and duct taped war hammer. He looked like an advertisement for anabolic steroids, but Jerry strongly suspected all of that padding under his costume was fake. Well, see, he said. That’s just what I mean. You always want to know how things are done. Predictable behavior. Let’s call it a special effect.

The Thor facsimile guffawed, taking a swallow and clunking his beer glass on the bar. Good one! he laughed. I’ll bet you have fire steel in those fingernails of yours. You work in movies?

Something like that, Jerry said, smiling broadly and showing his perfectly pointed teeth.

Thor took a swig of beer, noticing them. Damn. Whoever did your makeup is a genius.

***

Back in his room, lounging naked in the hot tub, he sighed with pleasure. The water was set at simmer, bringing out the healthy charred glow of his skin.

He pondered his instructions once again. Arrive at the Out Of This World Sci-Fi Convention. Meet weirdos. Scare the bejeebers out of weirdos. Convert them all. Raise Hell.

Thanks for being so specific, he thought sarcastically, and tossed the observation back with a shot of warm brandy.

On Friday, he’d made his appearance in the lobby promptly at 8pm so he’d have plenty of time to observe the participants. He’d toned down his look a bit, made his skin a little smokier in hue than usual, put on his favorite slate grey onesie uniform. The garment was form fitting and showed off a powerful but sleek upper body and his other impressive masculine virtues.

He’d tied his long silky black hair into a ponytail. Wearing his hair back sharpened the angle of his temples and steepened his cheekbones, revealing ears which were entirely apropos. Be yourself, he thought. In this crowd, you shouldn’t have any problems.

Checking himself out in the full-length mirror, he was satisfied with his appearance. You sure are one handsome devil. He checked his teeth to make sure that no bits of the rare steak he’d ordered from room service were still impaled on them.

Picking up a small bottle, he spritzed himself with clove oil to dispel his natural bouquet.

When he stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, he turned a few heads, all right. There were numerous gasps, some finger pointing. The next thing he knew, he was surrounded with people in funny clothes admiring his costume and telling him how great he looked. They even liked his glowing red eyes.

I’ve been trying to find contacts like that forever, a young woman burbled at him. Her form fitting costume left no one in doubt as to her assets.

Just lucky, I guess, he said.

That was a mistake. He’d let them hear his real voice, and the next thing he knew, he was making up a story about a throat injury incurred when he was a kid (he’d never been a kid), something about being smacked in the larynx with a hockey stick (he’d never played, but had the utmost respect for a game where fighting dirty was encouraged).

At least he was doing one thing right. He was lying through his teeth. And they were lapping it up like parched dogs.

***

Saturday night was the fashion show, and the huge exhibit hall was swarming with lookers and wanna-be-looked-ats. Everyone was there, often appearing in duplicate or triplicate, although Jerry lost count of all the Dr. Who’s with their choice of companion depending on the season and the Harry Potters with their Hermiones. Trekkers of many generations were out in abundance, in many species.

Of them all, Jerry thought the modern Klingons were the most attractive–they resembled certain fiends Down Below. Dutybound and assertive. Lop their heads off with a bat’leth, ask questions later. Had nasty dispositions but understood discipline. Perfect candidates for the place he called home.

On the other end of the spectrum were the Star Wars fans and that damn twitchy alarmist C-3PO. Reminded him of Titivillus. He jerked, thinking about 3PO’s spinning little flunky/therapist.

I’m no one’s flunky, he thought, straightening.

Meanwhile, he had acquired a mass of groupies. Hey Jer, one of them yelled, demonstrating amazing individual incentive for a Borg, you should go onstage!

JER-RY! JER-RY! JER-RY! his fans chanted, but he calmed them by raising a hand.

Can’t, guys, he said, with a smile. I’m under contract.

The word spread like wildfire. SEL-FIE! SEL-FIE! SEL-FIE! And one by one, drunk and hyper as they were, the crowd around him took selfies with the dude in the amazing make-up.

Smile, Jerry! they called.

He did, even sticking out his long, forked tongue.

Every woman within sight of him swooned.

Too bad he didn’t show up on digital media. Or any recording media, for that matter.  Transdimensional beings left images which were fleeting, at best. The image lasted about a minute and then vanished. Every time someone took a picture of him, he removed their memory of doing it, so he had nothing to worry about.

He did, however, have a mission to accomplish. If he could ever get away long enough.

They had to sleep sometime, didn’t they?

***

Sunday morning, three am. The Con had promised a we-never-close bar, and to Jerry’s relief, they’d meant it. He staggered in through the doorway, and all but collapsed onto a bar stool. The place was deserted save for a guy snoozing at a back table and Captain Janeway and Bilbo Baggins getting it on in a corner banquette.

Geez, dude, the bartender said. What happened to you?

Jerry lifted his head and looked at the mirror behind the bar. He looked like hell. His smoky red skin was blotchy from the strain of being civil. Worse: affable. I give up, he said. Can’t do it. I’m done. The Master’s gonna throw me into the deepest, darkest black hole he can find and just let everything crush me into something the size of a quark.  He dropped his head in his arms, his shoulders shaking. Muffled whimpers escaped from the vicinity of his elbows.

The bartender, eyebrow raised, poured him three fingers of whiskey and planted it in front of him. Here. On the house.

Jerry looked up, saw the glass directly in his line of sight, straightened. Thanks, man, he said, tossing it back. Neat. He approved. The fiery beverage did nothing to quell the chill inside him, but the shock did help bring him back to himself a bit. He wiped his wet eyes with a sleeve.

The bartender noted something unusual. His makeup didn’t smear. He decided to change the subject. So, who are you in real life, Jerry? What do you do?

My name’s not Jerry. He held out the glass, and planted a twenty on the bar.

Joe blinked. He’s a magician too? Where did that bill come from? Recovering himself, he said in an easy conversational tone of voice, I figured. Nobody’s name is what they say it is at these things.  He laughed. "Here, everyone calls me Joe. I guess because of all those bartenders in film noir movies. It’ll do."

Jerry had to laugh, and showed his teeth. Nice to meet you, Joe.

You too, Jerry. He swiped the bar clean, tossed the crumbs in the trash. So, what do you do?

Jerry decided to tell the truth. He could always blame the whiskey, especially if he made a show of acting intoxicated later.

I am an agent of Satan. His voice was utterly deadpan.

Interesting profession, Joe said, without batting an eye. Why would he? He dealt with nuts and kooks all day long.

Jerry shook his head. "Naaa. It used to be. Nowadays everyone expects us to show up, you know? Some even ask us to. Spirit boards. Summonings. Annoying.  Two hundred years ago, people knew we existed but no one never expected to actually see us."

Huh, Joe said. So…what does an agent of Satan do all day?

Get under people’s skin. Melt their souls and drink them like champagne. Only now, most people are cheap beer. Rotgut. They don’t get it, don’t want to. Think it’s some hoaxer thing gone viral. People got too clever for their owned damned good. If you’re lucky. 

He thought of the last soul he’d tried to consume. Squeaky clean kid straight out of seminary school, full of guilt and self-doubt. Perfect for his kind of party. That should have been a coup in itself, stealing one from the Opposition. It wasn’t. The kid had recognized him and got him evicted by a local exorcist. Jerry’d spent the next while of eternity paying for that slip-up by being forced to binge watch Guiding Light, General Hospital, and All My Children from their first to last seasons because the Boss thought he’d benefit from a crash course in human vices.

After that bit of erudition had played out, a fussy little demon with ink on his fingers named Titivillus dragged him into an all-night library and introduced him to the perversions and opportunities afforded by the modern internet.

The next thing he knew, he was standing, completely flummoxed, in the Master’s office.

AND THIS TIME, GET IT RIGHT! a voice more horrible than a thousand fingernails running down a thousand chalkboards boomed. A swift kick to the butt, and he found himself here, at this typical U.S. major city hotel, surrounded by fictional badass wannabes and flakes. Very funny, he thought.

Like the work? Joe asked, polishing a glass.

It’s a pain in the ass, Jerry said, looking glumly at his whiskey. That kick hurt, he thought, the impact still fresh on his skin.

Joe laughed. So, like, what do you do–scare people?

Jerry turned on the barstool, stood up. Just watch.

Suddenly, he grew very dark, dark as the deepest shadow, dark as a pit in a cave. In the dimly lit bar, he looked like nothing more than a shadow among shadows, except that when he moved, he took the light with him.

Joe was impressed. Talk about black holes, he thought.

The shadow that was Jerry reached the occupied banquette and slid up the wall behind Captain Janeway, looming over her. She was lying on her back, her hands busy with Bilbo’s belt. I looooove furry feet, she purred.

He was clearly in the moment, eager, his hands exploring her generous cleavage through her uniform. Oh baby, let me transport you, he murmured back.

"Psssst," Jerry hissed.

Her eyes flew open, saw his outline above her. She shoved Bilbo onto the floor with a startled Hey! and clambered to sit on the table, one hand on her phaser. Who are you? she demanded.

I am an agent of Satan, Jerry rasped, the timbre of his voice sending a few errant pantry mice skittering into their holes.

Sure you are, she snorted. You’re interrupting, you rude little perv.

Bilbo was on his feet now, and in no mood for conversation. Pushing Janeway aside, he staked out his territory. He aimed to cock Jerry in the eye but hit the wall instead, spraining his hand. He yelped.

The shadow retracted in an instant, and there Jerry was, sitting at the bar looking like he’d never left, nursing his drink and ignoring the hobbit’s invective.

Pity I don’t get points for people swearing, he thought.

Fuck this, Bilbo said. Nursing his hand, he collected his play date and they left for parts unknown.

Joe just watched from behind the bar, amazed. This was all Hollywood, first class special effects. No wonder the guy had a following!

That’s what I mean, Jerry said. "No one takes us seriously anymore. Back in the day, they’d have been screaming in terror, begging for the Other Guy’s mercy, burning someone none of them liked just to bait us into grabbing them instead so we would go away and leave the so-called good townspeople alone.

This century they do at least one of three things: call a priest, call you dirty names, or try to give you a shiner.

There’s one more thing, Joe said thoughtfully. Holy water.

Jerry shuddered.

It works?

I suck, Jerry said morosely, deflecting the question.

Joe nodded sympathetically and poured him another shot.

***

Later, the bartender looked at the bill Jerry’d given him. Instead of having Epluribus Unum on it, it read Ave Satanus. The words even smoked a little. Taking a twenty from his wallet, he traded bills and stashed it in his jeans pocket.

***

Some agent of Satan, Jerry thought, standing on the roof of the hotel. He looked at the night sky and wondered which one of the black holes up there had his name on it.

He wondered if he’d mellowed. Being the bad guy for fifty thousand years, give or take, could certainly take it out of you. Then he dismissed the thought entirely.

He might have come into the Infernal fully formed, but there was still a learning curve.

Even though the Con crowd was