No deal for the dealer

The news on Wall Street had only gotten worse. Gerald Daniels could only sit at his desk and watch the updates appear on the website. It was all still pretty chaotic, but he could already imagine the horrific outcome of today’s news. September 18, 2008 would be remembered for generations to come. Like Black Tuesday before it, this could very well be a day that shattered the nation’s economy.

Another click of the mouse. Another update on the webpage. More bad news. Daniels let out a loud cuss and closed his laptop. The expensive leatherbound chair swiveled beneath him.

The vast cluster of steel and glass filled the view outside the window. The jungle that was New York City, in all its corporate splendor. But Daniels was a little disappointed by the current sight. Every story about the Crash of ’29 had included desperate and destroyed men leaping from tall windows to their demise below. But there was no great spectacle outside. No bodies falling to their gory death. Just the same shining skyline.

I’m not even getting a good show out of all this, Daniels thought glumly. He sighed, knowing full well glancing at the laptop again would only make him feel worse.

In growing frustration, the would-be millionaire leapt out of the chair and wandered to the bookcase on the far wall of his office. For many of his fellow financial geniuses, the shelf had been the cause of confusion and the occasional joke. A full bookcase was common in the office of a lawyer, but on Wall Street, it was a rather odd sight.

Of course, Daniels’ shelf wasn’t full of law books. A few were there, but the collection was mostly texts he simply found interesting. Biographies, histories, and several pieces of fiction. Most were first or rare printings.

Among the collection were several publications Daniels felt real pride in owning, hence why they were kept here where they could be seen by every visitor. There was a first edition copy of ‘Atlas Shrugged,’ several 19th Century-published collections of Fredrick Neichze, and a pre-war copy of ‘Mein Kampf’ in the original German that Daniels had never read –like he would bother to learn German?– but loved to draw people’s attention to.

There was another book, a real favorite, nestled between the volumes. It was a much older book, with a worn-out cover and a cracked leather spine. He’d read it many times, but despite its promise, he never followed the instructions it held. Once again, he pulled out the book and studied it.

‘The Lesser Key of Solomon’ was printed on the cover in faded ink.

Daniels chuckled to himself and ran a finger over the title. Among those familiar with the Occult, the book had another name, an older name: ‘Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis.’ It was known in those dark and depraved social circles as the great Grimoire book, wherein was listed, in detail, every single member of the Ars Goetia – the Nobility of Hell.

It sat on the shelf for the same reason Hitler’s book sat there: it was a great conversation starter.

But in the years since acquiring the book, Daniels had found himself genuinely drawn to the text and its macabre subject matter. He’d never been one for religion, despite his parents’ best efforts, and he never bothered to worry about God or the like. But the demons in this book, on the other hand…

Not just demons. Demon Lords, Daniels reminded himself. These were the Nobility. The Aristocracy. Greater than all others, much like the rich and powerful here in the living world. Like Gerald Daniels himself.

It was all fascinating mythology, to be sure, but as he thumbed through the pages, Daniels found his attention inevitably pulled back to the laptop. It seemed to be mocking him. Try as he might to resist, eventually the desire to know everything won out.

With a sigh, Daniels returned the book to its spot. He sat down in the expensive chair with a thud and opened his laptop once more.

As he already knew, the day before had been a true disaster. A total of $144 billon had been withdrawn by panicked American investors. It was such a large amount of money withdrawn that to try to stop the growing chaos, lending markets froze. That led to corporations suddenly losing the ability to rollover their short-term debt. Once that happened…

Crap hit the fan, and then some… Daniels groaned and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

Another click of the mouse, another refreshed webpage.

After the previous hour of repeated old articles, a new story appeared on the screen. Daniels quickly began reading it, but the lead alone caused a heart-stopping terror to grip him. He reread the opening paragraph, then read it a third time to make sure he’d understood it correctly.

The line stabbed like a knife. “In a dramatic meeting, U.S. Secretary of the Treasury Henry Paulson and Chair of the Federal Reserve Ben Bernanke spoke with leaders in Congress and warned them how close credit markets were to a complete meltdown.”

Daniels opened the lowest drawer of his desk and pulled out a small pint of rye whiskey hidden under several folders. Without hesitation, he opened the bottle and took a long swig.

When the burning drink didn’t help, he decided to suck it up and power through the rest of the article.

“Bernanke requested a $700 billion fund to acquire toxic mortgages. He reportedly followed the request by stating ‘If we don’t do this, we may not have an economy on Monday.’”

“Well fuck…” Daniels said. A second, even longer pull on the whiskey bottle still didn’t help.

There was a loud knock at the office door. At first, Daniels didn’t want to answer. There was no one he wanted to talk to right now. No one was worth bothering him. When the second series of knocks came, even louder than the first, he could only rub his temple. After the third round of loud knocks, he admitted defeat.

“Come in.” He didn’t even try to hide the irritation. With a sigh, he screwed the lid back on the whiskey, but kept it in his lap, ready to go the moment the visitor left.

The visitor was Jeff Coulson, face as red as a tomato. In a growing fury, the customer stormed into the office.

“What the hell happened?” the man cried out.

Daniels could already see where this was going, and wasn’t looking forward to it one bit. Jeff’s name really should be on a list for the security guards. He made a mental note to do that as soon as possible.

“The market took a turn for the worst, I’m afraid,” Daniels answered. “Nothing we can do about it now. Just have to weather the storm and make it to the other side. Things like this happen.”

“No, they don’t! Not like this,” Coulson said. “I lost $370,000 because of you! You told me –hell, you swore to me!– that the market was still strong! That the Housing Bubble would recover quickly, and the market would grow in earnest again. But instead, everything is… is gone.” The man was on the verge of tears.

“That’s how it goes when you play the game,” Daniels said with a shrug. “It’s a jungle out there. You knew the risks.”

“No, I didn’t!” Coulson cried. “That’s what I was paying you for! I gave you a fortune for your insight. You’re the expert on all this who was supposed to see it coming and warn me about it. But instead, you just took my money… took my life…”

“What do you want me to say?” Daniels asked. “Shit happens. I’m suffering from all this too, so unless you have a solution to the predicament we both find ourselves in, get the fuck out of my office.”

“Don’t you dare kick me out! You owe me. You owe me… at least an explanation.”

“I don’t owe you shit, Jeff.” Without hesitation, Daniels grabbed his phone and held it ready to dial. “Now, you will get out, or I’ll call security to come and throw you out.” His voice was study, and he did his best to project strength. “I’m serious, Jeff. Get out now.”

Jeff Coulson didn’t move. Instead, he nearly collapsed on the spot. The tears he’d been holding back finally started to flow.

“I lost… everything,” the man began to moan. “You promised me we were good. That this wouldn’t happen. You promised.” He sniffled as his nose began to run. “I… I…”

“You have one minute to leave my office before I call security and throw your ass out,” Daniels said. “Like I said, shit happens. It wasn’t my fault. So, you can just suffer with the rest of us. Now get out!” He held up the phone, ready to make the call downstairs.

The warning finally seemed to get through to the sobbing grown man. The wailing quieted. Jeff wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. He tried to stare Daniels down.

“You’re an inhuman piece of shit,” he said, voice shaking. “The worst kind of scum. I hope you realize that someday.”

“I’m sure I will,” Daniels said in an indifferent tone. “One last chance to get out of here with whatever dignity you got left.” He shook his thumb above the Call Button.

Jeff Coulson shook his head in utter loss and disbelief. “You can rot in Hell,” he managed to say before storming out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

“Finally. Thank God,” Daniels sighed again. He wondered what he’d done to deserve such harassment.

By the time the sun began to set, anyone with half a brain in the United States of America knew they were entering a new economic depression. A few smartasses were already using the term “Great Recession” for the coming epoch. Daniels hoped the stupid nickname wouldn’t catch on.

Much to his disappointment, there was still no mass jumping of bodies out of the Highrise windows along Wall Street. Instead, a group of young executives, many likely to be out of a job in the coming days, stopped by the office. They were already half drunk and asked him to join them at the bar.

“The world’s ending,” an asshole Daniels only knew as Roberts declared. “At least the parts of it that matter most… So, lets drink till none of it matters anymore!”

“I’m good, thanks,” Daniels said, shaking his half empty bottle of rye.

The men laughed and left to drink their sorrows.

Daniels was relieved to see them leave. He couldn’t stand any of them –suck-ups and wannabe losers, all of them – but he had to admit Roberts did have a good point. The only part of the world that actually mattered was what truly suffered today.

He wondered with dread what the cash in his wallet would be worth tomorrow.

It was shocking, sitting all alone in the now silent office, just how quickly the whiskey bottle emptied. At least Daniels thought so. He tossed it into the garbage can and laid his head down on the cool desk.

A terrible idea crossed his mind. One he’d been actively ignoring for hours. What if I'm one of those losers soon to be out of a job? The Firm was certainly bound to take drastic steps in the coming days and weeks, just to survive. Many would be on the chopping block. Daniels was good at his job, very good, but he suddenly feared that wouldn’t be enough.

“Goddamn it all,” he muttered.

Daniels turned his head to let the other side lay on the desk, and now faced the bookshelf. His gaze fell upon the cracked spine of the old Grimoire.

His head shot up. Daniels’ body moved automatically out of the chair. The weathered old book seemed to be watching him as he approached.

“I wonder…” Daniels whispered, pulling out the old text. Yellowed pages flicked through his fingers. It was laughable that anything in this old superstitious rag could genuinely help, but after a day as bad as today, anything that might help was worth exploring.

That’s the true virtue of Capitalism if ever I heard it, Daniels considered.

A phrase caught his eye. Something about understanding things ‘yet to come.’ Daniels quickly doubled back through the last few pages and found what he was searching for.

Like most entries in the Lesser Key, the page described a demon lord. But this damned fellow seemed particularly interesting to Daniels.

The figure described was named Aamon, titled as a Grand Marquis of Hell and the 7th Spirit of the Ars Goetia. A fearsome being “great in power, and most stern” who, it was said, understood all things past and yet to come. One who could share that knowledge, if only one had the strength to ask him.

Below the description, his sigil was printed on the page, for anyone to reproduce in their attempts to summon the great Fallen Angel, along with the words needed for such an exercise. Below that was a strong warning to leave such power alone.

Daniels rolled his eyes.

“If it was that easy…” he grumbled, a little buzzed from the rye, “then everyone would do it. Literally everyone.” That had to be the truth of it. Right?

The sigil was complex, but nothing impossible for someone to draw on a piece of paper. Despite how ridiculous he felt, Daniels grabbed a piece of stationery and began to copy the image from the book.

“Anyone could fucking do this…” he repeated. “Nothing’s going to happen. And you’ll feel like an idiot.”

In his slightly intoxicated state, Daniels messed up the illustration immediately. He swore and crumbled the paper into a ball. With a fresh sheet of paper, he began again. This time, the pen moved slower and with more focused purpose. When the sigil was finished, Daniels laid it on the floor in the middle of the office.

Nothing will happen, he told himself. Nothing will appear. Superstitious crap doesn’t help anyone, especially when it comes to money or fortune.

The old leatherbound book felt heavy in his hand. But then again, what if something does answer? Daniels pondered the question he’d half-jokingly asked himself many times since first acquiring the book.

Could being someone of power and wealth make a difference? I have been a man of focus, a man of dedication my entire life. A great, successful man with money and connections. If any of this demon stuff was real, then surely I’d be someone they would actually answer when called.

The sigil lay on the floor.

“I’ll try it,” Daniels said. “If this demon lord is real –if any of this shit is real– there’s no way he could ignore the likes of me.”

The instructions in his old copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon were detailed and precise. Following them was surprisingly easy, and Daniels began to speak the old Latin spell. A few times, he worried about mispronouncing the words –would that affect the summoning?– but at this point, he would have bet it probably didn’t matter. Either he had the demon’s attention, or he didn’t. The desperate man soldiered on and continued reciting the words as best he could.

Nothing happened.

Daniels recited the words a second time. Still nothing happened. He sighed, surprised by the genuine disappointment. “Goddamn it.” For the briefest of moments, he’d honestly felt like something might happen.

He was about to close the book, when the urge to try it again –just one more attempt– overcame him.

Even after snickering at his own pathetic effort, Daniels began to speak the words to summon the great Hell Lord Aamon.

When the words were spoken a third and final time, a sudden, heavy silence fell upon the office space. It was a severe quiet that immediately unnerved the young businessman. It seemed to spread out of the room to the building beyond. A great New York skyscraper encased in all-encompassing quiet.

That very silence ended when the room began to vibrate. It was slight at first, barely perceivable, but it rapidly grew in strength until Daniels’ entire office was shaking violently.

“No fucking way…” he watched as all the other books on his shelf fell to the ground.

The sigil drawn on the stationery began to glow with a harsh light, like a bright fire consuming something beloved and sacred that should never be burned.

Daniels could only watch, speechless, as a hand with long, spidery fingers clawed its way out of the piece of paper. A second hand followed it, and both dug into the floor to pull out whatever those awful limbs were attached to.

“I don’t…” Daniels struggled to speak. His voice stopped when the thing finally emerged.

A large, shapeless mass of bloody flesh lifted itself into the office, splashing blood and rotting puss across the expensive furniture.

There was no face. But the mass seemed to notice Daniels’ presence, and the great rattling pile of rotting flesh stopped moving.

An intense heat rushed outward. Daniels had to cover his face. When he managed to look again, the horrific mass had changed into a strange, new creature. It now seemed to resemble a wolf without ears, with a scaley, reptilian tail. A tail like a snake…

Another blast of awful heat spread out. The creature now resembled a man. It appeared young, with black hair and pale skin. After stretching its newly formed limbs, the being opened two black holes where eyes should have been. This strange man opened his mouth, and flames burst forth. He immediately stopped and blinked, like he was trying to calm himself. The black sockets opened again. It now had a calm expression. Its attire now came into focus, and Daniels immediately recognized the cut of an expensive Italian suit.

“Who are you to summon me?” the horrific stranger asked.

“My name is Gerald Daniels,” the mortal man answered after a moment of disbelief. He tried to say more, but his throat went dry. The demon glared at him.

It’s all real. Daniels shivered. All of it. That means… well, that means a lot. But it also means that the gifts this demon was promised to give are also real. Just ask it what you want.

“I… I want…” I don’t think you can just ask him, Daniels realized. Win him over a bit. “Oh, great Aamon, Grand Marquis of Hell, Spirit of the Ars Goetia, I beg you to hear my desire and make it true,” he said in the most serious tone he could muster.

The demon raised an eyebrow.

Daniels felt foolish speaking in such grandiose ways, but when he looked at the unsettling man standing before him, he figured it was the best approach.

“It’s said you understand all things past and present,” Daniels proclaimed. “I want you to use that great power now for my benefit. Use that power to tell me what I need to know to succeed and to overcome the financial hardships facing the world today. Let me find great success and fortune in the coming years in my investments.”

The demon rubbed its chin and considered the proposal.

“You’re a bold man. Yes, I can certainly see us coming to an understanding,” the demon said, looking around the wrecked office. Even in this bad condition, the money could be seen in the furniture, the scattered books, and Daniel’s own expensive suit. “Yes, we can. If the price is already understood, then I will give you what you wish.” The being held out its hand.

After the slightest hesitation, Daniels reached out and shook the outreached hand.

“Yes,” Daniels said. “Yes, absolutely I agree to your price.”

The demon smiled, its lips wrinkling upward into an unnaturally wide grin across its face, far larger than any smile should be. “Good,” it said.

In a flash, Aamon rolled up Daniels’ sleeve and held its palm against the Wall Street man’s wrist. A searing pain burned at the spot –the price of the overwhelming success undoubtably coming to him, he was sure– but it suddenly all stopped.

“Oh,” the demonic being said. “Oh…” It sounded surprised, and then disappointed. “Hmm. Too bad.”

Without another word, Aamon turned on his heel and stepped toward the office door.

“Wait, what happened?” Daniels asked. “Was my wish granted? I need to know what happens in the future. I need to win! Against everyone. I need to win!”

The demon opened the office door but stopped in its tracks. “No, your wish wasn’t granted.”

“Why not?” Daniels demanded to know. “I offered you the price. I didn’t think it needed to be said, but I’ll spell it out now. You get my soul, and I get the knowledge to succeed in the Wall Street game to an uncanny, damn near-supernatural level.”

“Oh, I understood the deal you were offering,” the Hell Lord replied.

“Did you grant my wish then?” Daniels asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

The demon stepped out of the office, but stopped and faced the mortal who’d summoned him.

“It’s not my place to say,” it said. “Just know I’ve refused the offer.”

Daniels laughed in disbelief. “No…” he said. “That’s not good enough for me, you son of a bitch. I’m a rich, powerful person who has done what was needed to succeed and make it big in life. I’ve destroyed people, lied to people, done what I needed to do to get where I am. To have everything I have. I’m a great man and you should be drooling at the prospect of getting my soul.”

Aamon silently looked Daniels up and down. For the first time since his appearance in the room, the demon laughed. It was an awful, painful sound.

“Oh, my poor mortal child,” it said. “You misunderstand the situation. I’m not rejecting you for lack of greatness. I’m not rejecting you at all.”

“Then why did you say no to my proposal?” the man asked.

The demon’s face was something out of a nightmare. But the words it spoke truly frightened Daniels.

“My beloved Gerald Daniels,” Aamon said. “Like any self-respecting demon, I don’t bother to make deals with individuals whose souls are already coming down to us. We’ll own it, sooner or later. Seems like a waste of time and energy, doesn’t it?”

Still laughing in that awful tone, the creature stepped out of the office and slammed the door shut behind it. Daniels was once again alone.

“What…?” he asked. “What the fuck?”

Daniels started screaming incoherently. He threw the old spell book to the floor, and tore down everything else he could, including the bookshelf, the contents of his desk, and the paintings hanging on the walls. All of it was ripped down and thrown into a pile.

“That lying asshole!” Daniels screamed at the top of his lungs. This can’t be true. It… it couldn’t possibly be real.

But somewhere in his mind, some small part of him –an awful, true Capitalist part of himself– knew what the demon said made sense. The horrific being had come into his office and left without making a deal, because there was no profit to be made in the deal.

“Fuck…” Daniels said, quieter this time.

In a growing frenzy, he grabbed the Lesser Key of Solomon and searched through the pages for any sort of solution or escape. Of course, there was none. Not for his financial collapse, nor the terrible implications of the demon’s words.

There has to be a way out of this! He knew there had to be.

Daniels noticed the large windows of the office. With rushing, maddening thoughts, he tried to open them. I need to get away from everything. I need to get away. When that proved impossible, he grabbed one of the expensive office chairs and threw it out the window, causing a loud howl of wind to rip through the room.

I need to get out. He climbed through the window frame onto the ledge outside. At the last possible second, reason returned to him, overcoming the insane panic. Daniels stopped and wondered if this was wrong. Maybe there was another way out, another way to escape his fate.

“There’s always another way for me to win,” he whispered. “I always do.”

He attempted to step back into the office, but in the rush, his foot slipped out from under him. Gerald Daniels fell out of the 29th floor window of the building. As the wind rushed by, a strange realization occurred to him. I guess someone will get a good show today, after all.

He didn’t feel the impact on the concrete.