Sunday, the Lord's Day
“Did you ever consider converting to another religion? I would ask my colleague; we help ourselves like this sometimes.”
Beads of sweat appeared between the devil’s horns.
“Time sure is bad, am I right?” said Gaspar mockingly, “No, I don’t want to convert.”
“But we made a deal!”
“Of course. However, I am a Christian and you are a Christian demon, we both must abide by the sacrament of the seventh day. It is Sunday today, so you cannot take me with you when you are supposed to rest.”
“Well… you cannot be that strict about every little thing… if you were to come with me by your free will…”
“No, I must be strict. It is a rule after all.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” nodded the demon anxiously and quickly looked around for eventual eavesdroppers. “We don’t talk about it, though,” whispered him.
Gaspar enjoyed this feeling of having power over the devil. Last few years he got quite used to it, particularly thanks to this guy. The devil persevered for a while, then he surrendered.
“Don’t count on my further assistance,” said he and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
Freed Gaspar left the narrow alley, to which he was pulled by the demon, in hopes that he will finally bring him to hell, as was written in a contract from years ago. After a usual discussion over the contents of the paper, which had a footnote Gaspar could use to evade his part of the contract under given conditions. Mostly this footnote meant the only hint of fake hope and satisfaction of the devil´s ego. Not in this case.
Twenty years from the signing of the contract. Exactly, not a day less or more. Their mistake was that they haven’t checked their calendar. Now he was free and rich and satisfied. He had everything.
He reached for the remote to open the door of his car parked on the other side of the road. Audi greeted him with a blink.
Gaspar paid no attention to that voice. He was used to having all the attention himself.
He heard the screeching of brakes.
Time suddenly slowed. Sounds around him were pitched down, things that were moving were now nearly stationary. Gaspar was stuck with one leg on the road, bent forward, with the second leg slowly following the first. Heading right in front of a bumper of shiny Pathfinder.
The car was getting closer and closer. Only about a meter away he felt a stream of air pressure that was pushed in front of the vehicle. If he could move, maybe he could lean back and dodge it… but he couldn’t.
He could only watch.
Nothing nor nobody to save him. Or maybe… suddenly he noticed a man in white clothes walking a small dog. Despite this perversion of laws of physics, he moved freely, with normal speed. He passed by two old ladies, frozen in their discussion, he leaned down for a cigarette-butt and threw it into a garbage can.
Gaspar remembered his face. He met him in the past. Once he had warned him to look out for a con-artist. He had stalled him with some gibberish about charity, thanks to what he had missed the plane that crashed. He even remembered that this man had saved him when he had been drowning when he was a little child.
“Are you my guardian angel?” asked Gaspar hopefully.
“Oh God, help me then!”
The little dog barked; a man scratched him behind the ears.
“You know, I would like to...but it’s Sunday.”
"Things just happen. What the hell."
* Terry Pratchett. Hogfather
Welcome to my world. For the longest time I couldn’t think of right name for this place, so I left it without one. Amongst things you can find here are attempts of science fiction and fantasy stories, my collection of gods, bogeymen and monsters and also articles about things that had me interested, be it for a while or for years. (There is more of this, sadly not in English but in Czech, on www.fext.cz)
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