Flynn’s Storage Unit

Chalk pentagrams scrawled along-the-walls…

Flynn has a salt bag, circling trails ‘round himself.

Irwin’s… concerned.

“See… When you said…” Finger-quotes. “‘Deal-with-the-Devil’... I hoped it was metaphorical. Like the Optimal Path is a metaphor for the Hero’s Journey.”

“Ridiculous. Next thing you’ll say is ‘A Clown Woman bit my dick off’ is metaphorical for my incapacity to meaningfully connect with anyone around me…”

“...What?”

“POINT BEING: This is real.” Flynn references instructions on how to contract with the devil. (Printed because he’s 44 and Flynn still prints out MapQuest directions.)

“...Isn’t summoning the devil… Magic.”

…

The Magic-Hater sucks air, as he straightens the salt circle’s curve with his foot.

“Noooooooo. It’s… ‘contract negotiation’.”

“...Contracting with an ancient, evil being?”

“Sure.” Flynn retorts. “Like negotiating with your landlord for discounted rent.”

“...If your landlord was THE DEVIL.”

“If you think landlords aren’t the devil, you’ve never rented an apartment in Battle Creek…” Flynn winks, lifting the instructions to his eyes.

“Salt circle?”

“Check.”

“Satanic artifacts?”

Irwin places into the circle… One D&D Monster Manual… Iron Maiden’s ‘Powerslave’ on vinyl… And a ‘Science Rulez!’ poster, featuring a girl holding a beaker… To her ear, for some reason.

“Check.”

“Fantastic.” Flynn checks the penultimate box…

“Last step… The Devil’s vessel must enter the pentagram’s center.” Flynn taps the chalk on the ground. “Here.”

“Okay! So… Where’s the vess-”

FWIP! With a well-placed foot, Flynn trips Irwin into the pentagram’s center.

Irwin looks up.

“...Wh-wh-what?”

Flynn’s already holding a match to a candle.

“Sorry, Irwin. The vessel must trust the contracting party… So that they might be betrayed for the summoning.”

“...B-b-but?!? I was your ONE REAL FAN.”

“Yep. And I’m winning this match. For you.”

…

“Okay, mostly me.” Flynn strikes the match.

FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

BLINDING LIGHT!

Irwin’s bones… shift! Flynn’s Lead Simp howls in pain as his body metamorphisizes… Hosting the Lord of All Evil!

“WHO DARES SUMMON ME? WHAT FEEBLE MORTAL BECKONS ME TO THIS MORTAL PLANE?!?”

…White darkness yanks Flynn toward it. A vortex of PURE EVIL…

…

“Comrade Lucifer!”

“Uh… Yessir?” The previously-booming voice mews.

“Recall, we’ve changed policy on greeting customers. Begin anew!”

…

“*cough*...Hello. Thanks for calling Hell. I’m Lucifer. How may I help you today?”

“Ah-ah! The wording must be EXACT! ‘How may I be of SERVICE’, Comrade Lucifer. We’re not *helping* the customer. We’re SERVING the customer.”

“Oh… I guess, I…don’t get the difference?”

“Exactly why you are entry-level and I am MANAGEMENT. Here, witness me.”

MOOOOOOOOOWHF! The light fizzles.

…

Standing before Flynn.

In military fatigues.

That nefarous ne’er-do-well. That revolting rogue! That scumbug, slimy, slippery, swindling sunovabitch…

North Korean War Criminal.

“Annyeonghaseyo!” NK bows.

“NK?!?” Flynn’s aghast!

…NK’s tilts upward… Smiling!

“Ah! Mark Flynn!” He strides forward confidently. “I never expected YOU to contact Hell.”

NK grins, like the cat nibbling on the canary... “How have you beeeeeeeen? Betrayed any allies lately?”

“...SHUDDUP.” …Flynn blushes awkwardly. “...Yes. About forty seconds ago.”

NK chuckles, shaking his head. “My-oh-my… You have the Universal Title… Yet, you’re still the same snake-in-the-grass.”

“...NK, why the HELL (pardon-the-pun) are you here? I summoned the DEVIL!!!”

NK’s head tilts, perplexed. Then, recognition! “Oh, Comrade Lucifer?” NK smiles fondly. “A bright one. *Some* potential. However, I took over his business, when I captured his nation, annexing it for True Korea!”

“...Wait… Hell? You DIED and Annexed HELL?!?”

NK scoffs.

“Pish-posh, Mark Flynn. You know I believe in no afterlife. I never DIED. Some time, after you hurled me into that electrical box, I woke up face-to-face with a tall red being. Then, I took his territory.”

“...He’s just… Okay with that?”

“He had little recourse after I bested him in a fiddle contest.”

“...You BEAT the DEVIL?!?”

“With his kingdom’s governance as the wager.” NK nods smugly. “As easy as defeating Bobby Bourbon.”

…Eureka!

“THAT’S RIGHT! NK, you’ve beaten Bobb-o four or five times!”

“Seven times.” NK corrects. “Two WarGames, two Heavymetalweight defenses, three tag matches.”\

“OKAY!” Flynn points seriously. “You! (Doing-business-as-the-)DEVIL. Want my soul? GIVE ME the SECRET to BEATING BOURBON!!!”

…

“And… why would I want *your* soul?”

…

“Uh.” Flynn squints at NK, perplexed. “…Isn’t that how this goes? For what I want, I offer my soul?”

NK giggles. “Mark Flynn. I am all-too-familiar with your soul’s quality. And, on Hell’s behalf, I must say…. ‘Haaaaaaard Pass.’”

“...Hurtful.” Flynn grimaces.

“Tell me. Is this your first match versus Bobby Bourbon?”

“...Second.”

“Ahhhhhh. I assume, if you’re contacting ‘external help’… It did not go as planned?”

Flynn sneers. “Obviously.”

“May I ask your… gameplan?”

Flynn exhales. “What works 99% of the time, NK! I deep-dove intp his win-loss record! I UNCOVERED his MEDIOCRITY! I ITEMIZED the SHIT-TIER competition Bourbon’s LOST TO an-”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” NK doubles over, howling. Slapping his knees, trying to stop himself from DYING laughing.

…Flynn’s unamused.

“Phew…Mark Flynn.” NK tsk-tsks. “For one who dissects his enemy, you comprehend NOTHING about your opponent!”

“Bobby Bourbon is neither James Raven or Robert Main… The type who parade accumulated successes like vainglorious conquerors!”

“He’s not?!? Then… What is he?!?”

“A CLOWN! A FOOL! An obese American child in a backyard, wearing a blanket around his neck and his mother’s brassiere over his eyes, pretending he’s a superhero!”

“A BUFFOON, Mark Flynn. And you must TREAT him like one.”

“...How so?”

“Call.”

“Him.”

“Fat.”

…Flynn’s whole body contorts in disgust.

“Isn’t that… low-hanging fruit?”

“Bourbon’s favorite kind. Because it’s the kind he can eat laying down.”

Flynn scoffs. “That’s… sleazy.”

“As sleazy as Bourbon feels when he cheats on his local Arby’s with another one two towns over.” NK guffaws.

Flynn still transparently feels dirty. “Shouldn’t I be… engaging Bobby on his points?”

…NK nods. But the nod you’d give a slow child asking if Santa’s real.

“Of coooooooourse. Engage Bourbon on aaaaaaaall his points… And what were his points?”

…Flynn clears his throat. “It’s boring to bring up his terrible record. It’s boring to bring up his title match losses. And it’s boring to point out that he’s a hypocrite.”

“...Wow. Intellectually rigorous. I can see why you’d engage this VERBAL SWASHBUCKLER IN MENTAL WAR.”

NK clutches Flynn by the skull.

“CALL.”

“HIM.”

“FAT.”

“…How’s that better?”

NK grins. “Bourbon lives in an imaginary world. One where he’s a creative genius for ripping off pre-existing movie plots. One where he NEEDS to save a company already generating record profits.”

“RECORD PROFITS™, BAY-BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”

…

“Sorry. Force of Habit.”

“No matter how many reality-based points you argue, Bourbon will refute them by hiding in his fantasy world where he’s always right.”

“But, call him fat…” NK grins insidiously. “He LINE-POLICES! Complaining about how lame fat jokes are!” NK oozes with strength!

“SUDDENLY, HE’S IN THE REAL WORLD! THE POWER IS YOOOOOOOURS!”

“...So?” Flynn purrs. “I should say Bourbsy got into wrestling for the catering… and stayed because leaving would require standing-up?”

NK smiles. “Miiiiiild. EXERT YOURSELF!”

“...Like Bobby Bourbon sweating… when he thinks about stairs!”

“HAHA! Continue! Give Bourbon his just desserts!”

Flynn nods, tapping into a new… but somehow ancient dark power: Punching Down.

“Speaking of desserts, Bourbsy hasn’t touched a vegetable since the fourth grade. Which was also the last time Bourbsy saw his penis without a mirror and a pair of surgical tweezers.”

Blinding lights filles the room as Flynn digs deeper-and-deeper.

“Bobby Bourbon’s the only man on the planet whose BMI is higher than IQ, who eats more meals than he says words, and whose penile-length-in-inches is less than his Diabetes Type: TWOOOOOOOOOO!”

FHWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

…The storage unit… Empty.

Save for Flynn.

And where NK was? A receipt.