Somewhere Far From This Mortal Plane, The Devil Lost His Cheque-book

Dead-end alleys are not often visited, especially when they’ve branched out from a tight path that has itself branched out of a main street. Any sane person would tell you that such a place isn’t sensible for a shop, but the book-smart wizard with a wacky business idea wouldn't have any of it. He’d come up with a range of quirky magical items that even non-magic users could use, and he was determined to make a fortune from it. He had of course been thoroughly mocked by his fellow wizards but he wasn’t phased. Our wizard made his ‘Mysticorner’ at the end of one such street, hired the tidiest applicant, and opened the doors expecting his unique business to explode.

Months later, Haon the tidy applicant is still around, but the same cannot be said about the wizard’s optimism. The operating costs made depressing dips in his savings and it didn’t help that the shop’s door usually opened twice a day.

In case it’s unclear, both times were the shopkeeper, Haon.

He would start each day by dusting every shelf, polishing any metal surface he could find, and spacing the trinkets as pleasingly as possible. While doing so, he’d marvel at some of his favourite items on display, The Proud Duster that wouldn't allow even an atom of dust to sit on it, The Moody Lute that produced random notes regardless of where it was struck, or The Annoying Flask that instantly cooled off warm drinks and heated up cold ones.

Today, having done all of that and more, Haon was busying himself with a small audience.

“Here’s a little riddle for you,” Haon announced. “What do recent home owners and graduates have in common with a pathological gambler?”

His eyes shuffled through the sparse audience, lingering on one of the prettier members of the audience. He made a mental note that her hair colour was far too bright for her porcelain complexion. Next to her was Cynthia in her red circus dress, her face stuck in a permanent grimace.

Knowing that his audience would never shout the answer, he delivered it with the driest tone he could muster: “They’re all in a ton of debt!”

Haon cringed at his own joke, exhibiting the strongest reaction among everyone present. He sighed and reminded himself that it’s easy to feel bad when your audience is made up of dolls from the store you work in. Never again, he thought, well aware that his boredom will eventually surpass his embarrassment.

He straightened Cynthia the Cymbal-Chimp’s circus dress with a strange sense of deja-vu, knowing he'd had this conversation hundreds of times before. The only difference this time were the three welcoming rings from Cerberus, the three-headed bell installed by the door.

Blood rushed to the man’s cheeks and he hurriedly grabbed the dolls, rushing to put them back. He was especially nervous this time because the customers sounded like old ladies, and Haon knew from experience that they weren’t easy to please. The only doll Haon didn’t place on the shelf was Porcelain Portia, whose hollow stares followed whoever stared at her, and so Haon usually placed her near the front of the shop to attract passerbys.

Gracefully navigating the narrow walkways, Haon caught a glimpse of the customers: one had on a white fur coat with a swan head dangling from the side and was contributing to the circulation of stale air in the shop with her hand fan, and the other was fashioning an emerald-coloured tutu. Haon wondered if they dressed because of a bet they’d lost.

He retreated to his desk as quietly as he could. As he was trying to avoid eye contact with the customers, his eyes landed on the magazine on his desk. The cover showed one of the most controversial pictures of the week; Wealthius Fautustas grinning as he watched a pro-wrestler’s ankle turning backwards in a recent tournament. His moustache was also curled upwards in the picture, making it even more sinister.

Haon didn’t exactly love the guy. He had famously amassed twice the wealth of the then-richest person almost overnight, and although plenty of rumors came about, it was still unclear how. And, whether his wealth was inherited or stolen, he wasn’t known to spend.

If Haon had that sort of money, he’d travel and explore the world!

After paying off his student loans, of course.

If only he could talk to Wealthius, convince him to use his money better, to change his attitude… Wealthius would tear up as he realised he’d wasted his life, and as a token of gratitude, he’d give Haon a generous tip…

Rudely interrupting the two ladies’ browsing and Haon’s daydreaming, the Cerberus bell chimed again. The women gasped vigorously and marched to the door. They looked like they had huffed and puffed and were ready to blow up on the new entrant.

Haon braced himself for a show, but much to his surprise, the old ladies suddenly lost all of their puff as they laid eyes on the new customer and headed meekly for the exit. Haon was thoroughly confused. Those two ladies were truly unpredictable.

Or maybe the new entrant was even more disarming than they were?

Haon braced himself again.

The client was hidden behind a shelf exhibiting a large scroll that could never be written on.

Haon resisted the temptation to move from behind his desk to scout.

The scent of the client’s perfume overwhelmed the dingy smell of useless old trinkets. Not in an excessively sweet way, but with exactly the intensity that would make it dominant, yet pleasant.

Haon gasped, he recognized the scent! It was the same earthy aroma that the orange trees would give off in his childhood home. Furthering the client’s impeccable first impression, their heavy boots resonated fully and richly in the small shop. The steps were calm and confident, like those of someone with immeasurable…

“Wealthius Fautustas, at your service,” the man’s perfect teeth shined under his mustache as he fashioned a most charming smile.

“Oh Mr. Fautustas,” the 24 year old clerk stammered, “I recognize you from… from…”

“Of course you recognize me, boy.” Mr. Fautustas said in a profusely rich voice.

“Yes sir... of course,” Haon was scrambling to remember the lines he thought he’d deliver to the richest person in the world for a good tip.

He couldn’t.

“How can I help you today?” He said instead as he needlessly tugged at his ironed shirt.

“It’s quite simple,” Fautustas reached into his coat, producing a small black book from within. “I’m considering selling a mystical trinket. I think it would be very appropriate for your little shop.”

Haon was taken aback. Why would someone with Fautustas’ wealth ever need to sell anything? Besides, their store didn’t even accept second hand items.

“Um.. I’m sorry sir but we don’t-”

“Oh dear boy,” Fautustas interrupted, “Do you think that’s how you progress in life? By being complacent and always following orders and patterns set by others?” Fautustas quickly looked him up and down like a jaguar inspecting a capybara. The glimmer in his black eyes made Haon feel thoroughly exposed, naked with his life’s story written on his skin.

The heavy air of the shop made the long silence feel quieter. Haon was trying and failing to produce a sound. Words of apology or explanation all mixing together in his throat, leaving him mute. Meanwhile, Fautustas studied his desk and produced a sigh. Haon’s heart started beating even faster, he’d disappointed the most powerful man in the world!

But wait… The sigh wasn’t one of disappointment or annoyance, it was more like a sigh of… Relief?

“My boy,” Fautustas said again with a pleasant voice, as if nothing had happened, “you have saved me from an excruciatingly long search and have proven that finding unimaginative and neat weaklings,” Fautustas rubbed his moustache as his mouth twisted in a savage grin, “is not as devilishly difficult as I’d imagined.”

As Haon struggled to make sense of everything, Fautustas placed the book on his organized desk and left without another word. Haon heard the steps getting further away and then he heard the Cerberus bell and eventually the assertive thud of the door closing. It took him a few moments to register all the events of the past minute.

Giving up on understanding what Wealthius had said, he brought his attention to the book. It had a plain cover and was longer and narrower than most books he’d seen. His fingers hesitantly reached for the book, tested it like toes would test a hot bath, and eventually, grabbed it.

Haon couldn't tell what the cover was made of. It had the toughness of leather but it was as cold and smooth as steel. He hesitantly opened the book where a page was dog-eared, and much to his surprise, found it to contain the following template:

Name: __________

Desire: __________

Price: __________

Haon read the filled templates on the previous page, they were written out to Fautustas! The first entry’s Desire was “To have a disarming aroma”, and its Price was written, “The First bite of 13/14/34’s breakfast”.

The second entry was to be able to read people’s thoughts for the price of never again eating Durian, and after that the book was unused. Wealthius had filled the first half and apparently donated the rest to him?

Haon felt his heart beating even faster. Could this be what he thought it was? But of course not! That hyena was messing with him to get a laugh the same way he’d relished the wrestler’s pain!

He threw the book on the floor and thought about setting himself another stage to practice his routine, but the cheque-book refused to abandon his every other thought.

“What do you think about this, Portia?” He asked the porcelain doll in a comedic tone to persuade himself that he was practicing his routine, and not actually considering writing in the stupid book.

The doll locked eyes with him but said nothing. Haon wanted to scream. Why did he keep asking dolls questions? Haon hid his face in his palms, pressuring his burnt out neurons to come up with a solution.

“You know what, Portia?” He reached to grab the cheque-book. “I’ll humor him.”

Haon flipped through the pages to look for the first unused template. At least Wealthius wasn’t so much of a sadist to fill up random pages.

“What should we ask for, Portia? Oh god, I’m asking you questions again.” He smacked his forehead theatrically. “I’ll just ask to pay off my student debt for starters. If it happens then I’ll ask for all sorts of things, I might even ask for you to be able to respond for once!”

Portia the porcelain doll eyed him with her signature disinterest.

Haon grabbed a pen and wrote:

Name: Haon Coorbehogge

Desire: $20,000 in cash

Price: A strand of my hair

Haon closed the book and covered his eyes. Despite the cynicism, a small part of him was childishly excited. He slowly opened his eyes and though he couldn’t tell if the hair strand was gone or not, a fat stack of bank notes had somehow materialized on the desk. Haon high-fived Portia and banged his fists on the table. He was going to be rich!

“It’s real! It actually works!” Haon screamed and grabbed the cash, smelling and touching it, he rubbed it against his face and relished the previously unencountered levels of serotonin in his system.

Fautustas grinned behind the door, he knew what was soon to come.

Haon opened the notebook again to write up another wish, maybe to wish for being funny, maybe for a perfect body…

To his dismay, the remaining empty pages were now filled with more of Fautustas’ wishes…

*

A couple years later, humanity finally managed to destroy the last of its own kind and God allowed the Angels and the Devil to go back on earth in physical form. While celestial bodies were busy sightseeing the remains of God’s most recent attempt at civilization, the Devil searched and searched until he found his long lost cheque-book. He looked through the wishes and his nonexistent blood boiled with rage.

This “Mr. Fautustas” was going to get a personal welcome to hell, the Devil thought, when he stumbled upon a peculiar Desire. It was so fascinating that he didn’t even read the Price, instead he looked at the wish before the one he’d found. He read the poor soul’s wish and slowly his hellfury turned into a rumbling laughter. A little after that he felt a grudging respect for this Mr. Fautustas, a true devil in human form.

Of course he wasn’t ever going to show it; he’d punish him even harder for pulling a trick that made the Devil jealous. He threw the used cheque-book away and it stayed open on the fateful page:

Name: Wealthius Fautustas

Desire: Conceal all entries from here until the book is filled

Price: My entire sentence in hell