Hades

Stepping out into the blue ice chill of the winter morning, cloaked in his midnight-scared black suit and brown-twisted leather boots, he devilishly meandered toward his usual coffee haunt.

“Mocha, please?” he asked the neon blue and girl pink dyed-haired barista.

“Certainly, Sir. Can I get you anything else?” she replied as her eyes checked him from head to toe.

He sighed, before responding, “Have I ever ordered anything other than a Mocha at this time of day?”

She handed him his coffee sharply, noticeably offended by his comment.

The bitter nip of the sunrise air scraped across his hands as he sipped his drink. His eyes glazed toward the dim glow of the city streets with a cast iron devilishness manifesting deep within.

A narrow gaze curated across his face as he spotted the preacher stood, shouting at the passers-by.

“Turn to Jesus or face the fires of Hell, sinners,” screamed the man, red-faced at the half-formed crowd.

A crimson red smile foamed at his mouth as he scavenged through the people toward the noise as his hand tightened its clasp around the coffee in his hands.

“You first, so called man of God,” he snarled, causing the figure to stop his ranting.

“And you are?” he murmured through a nervous voice.

Pausing, he let out a cackle, before taking a sip of his dark and blazing liquid, “It does not matter who I am, does it? I am not the one stood on his high horse judging the world around him, claiming to be Christian. You humans still think God is with you, poor, poor fools,” he raked strictly toward him.

The sky flashed with a roar of lightning and a crack of thunder as two tormented abysses formed in his eyes. “Come judge me, Man of God, preacher, shepherd of the lost,” he added, as his gazed furnaced a fear within him.

“You will burn in the sulphonic coals of Hell if you don’t turn to Jesus,”

“Do you know what Hell truly is?” he rasped, before whispering into his ear and slowly walking away.

Dropping to his knees, his face turned white instantly as his hands trembled. He went to speak, but no words formed, he just remained motionless, caught in the void of nothingness.

Flicking the empty cardboard mug into the bin, he turned, heading toward the junk filled spiritualist shop as a faint mist circulated around his presence.

“Good morning, Sir,” a cheery voice uttered as the clang of the door reverberated around the room.

“What is so good about it, Squire?” he gnarled in return.

Ignoring his repost, the assistant went back to his task at hand, unnerved by the stranger.

“What is it that you actually sell?” he sharply asked.

“All sorts of things. Was there anything you are after, Sir?” tensely murmured a response.

“Souls, do you sell them? This is a spiritual shop is it not?”

Stammering, he anxiously laughed, “They are in aisle two by the crystals.”

“Crystals, do not you mean the polished stones that you sell to people telling them they can heal cancer, and ward off bad energies. I do not know what is worse, the people that sell them or the people that buy them.”

His eyes hawked around the shop, before he continued, “I know you don’t sell souls, they aren’t something you can buy, given away maybe, but not bought.”

The clerk sarcastically retorted, “Obliviously, you have never worked in retail.”

Smiling slightly, “If you really want to change it, change it, or you can stay in the Hell of your own creation. I am done here.”