MAGES FOR HIRE. I. GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE. 002. PATREON.
When Maggie opened the door, the first thing the Mages noticed were her bruises and busted lip. Even with all of the mayhem taking place in her house, the color suggested that didn’t happen tonight. Mousy brown hair framed her bright green bloodshot eyes. Crying a year’s worth of tears in a single evening should break everyone. But there was Magic(k) in the air when she opened the door and heard-
“Mages for Hire,” declared by Fiona. “Beating bizarre bastards since 2022,” chimed Art with a finger gun. “You need some help?”
Maggie looked confused. Did they always say that jingle? Yes, they did. And they made it sound like the beginning of an infomercial on purpose. It distracts everyone from the vermillion energy slowly etching itself into the door.
If you had seen the things Art and Fiona did, you would notice the hieroglyph glowing from across the street. But for 90% of the human race? Even at full perception, they would only see a door. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Now invested, hands of fate? Your vast Vermillion creates Ankh Space.
“Thank God,” she exhaled slowly. “There’s…” Maggie pondered her next words. Another ocean of tears swelled in her eyes. “There’s something wrong with my daughter!”
Every framed picture on the wall crashed to the floor—more laughter, sounding even less human than what The Mages heard on the street.
Fiona, just for a second, flinched. It was hard for Art not to notice. On a previous job, he once ate hotdog off the Hollywood and Highland sidewalk. No reaction then. Just silence and an immediate purchase of anti-diarrhea medication for the mess later in the apartment. But flinching? On the clock?
Art straightened his jacket and said, “Show us.”
The home is truly an expression of what one prioritizes. It is a shelter from a cruel world, hunters of the night, and spectators waiting for something to explode.
The Angle household felt more like a museum than a home. Between the Romantic era originals, dust covered books of philosophy, and old Hollywood history kept in mint condition, a closer look revealed that family photos were outnumbered 12 to none. White leather couches, a dining table reserved for the holidays, and wooden floors that probably slaughtered a forest for maximum quality assurance were only there to make you feel bad about your tax bracket.
Jonathan was pacing back and forth. He tried his best not to pull what little hair he had out from his scalp. Slouching, mumbling to himself, he tried his best to rationalize what was happening.
If mental gymnastics were an Olympic event, he would take home the gold trying to find a way to blame this on anyone but himself. A gold medal for a man who is cracked polystyrene at best happens more than you think. And Jonathan was determined to win.
He snarled. “No! You didn’t!” Finally, on the top of the stairs, Art and Fiona approached the bedroom. A dry erase board read “AVIVA’S ROOM. INVITE ONLY.”
“You fucking...” Jonathan bit his lip until it bled. “What? David Copperfield on his way?”
“That depends,” Art answered. “You got the Statue of Liberty in there?”
Right on cue, supervillain laughter from behind the door.
“You fucking listen to me,” growled Jonathan. “I don’t know what kind of voodoo horseshit you’re selling, but my wife is retarded if she thinks you can fix this.”
Maggie's eyes shot to the floor. “What?” asked Jonathan, pointing a finger at Art’s face. “You get lost on your way to that faggot mansion on Normandie? Get the-“
A sucker punch landed against Jonathan’s nose, knocking him to the ground.
Art, his knuckles now bruised from the impact, turned to the door. He kicked it in. “Fuck that! Let the professionals handle this.”
Certain milestones in a person’s life are truly unforgettable. Their first kiss. Their first real heartbreak. The last time they were somewhere that felt like home.
A milestone that doesn’t get mentioned enough is the first time you see something truly horrific. Not in a horror movie or any sort of media. It’s the moment you see it with your own eyes, smell it as it conquers the room and your dreams. It’s that sad realization you can never go back to when existence was not defined by monsters and agony.
If you reached that milestone, you deserve better. And if you don’t have it yet? My condolences in advance.
What I’m trying to say, is that you never forget your first bifurcated teenaged girl. Her limp mangled body devoured by gold and blackened tar? Knowing that particular combo was the violent sludge of decay? Its a paradigm shift you could never return from.
“Nothing we haven’t done before?” Asked Art, covering his nose. “I thought you couldn’t lie.”
“Yeah,” said Fiona, surveying the room. “I can still get shit wrong. Never said I was infallible.”
One look inside was all it took for Maggie to scream and nearly faint. It only took a fraction of that for Jonathan to shit his pants.
Aviva, or her body at least, was stretched so thin her muscles ripped and became exposed. Her organs, particularly those kept within her rib cage, leaked bile, pus, and dark blood onto the hardwood floors. Jagged black spikes emerged from dozens of points on her body. Her eyes glowed yellow. Her jaw unhinged like the broken skull of a snake mid Cronenberg fellatio. The gnashing of the hundred ivory daggers that were her teeth caused fresh blood to cascade everywhere she turned.
And yet, somehow, despite everything, Fiona knew this kid was still lucky.
Art held his hand out as Fiona opened the briefcase. Once the combination locks clicked open, golden light shined from within. Inside was a flask made completely of brass with a worn sigil engraving on the front.
Other than that? A crucifix with a Jesus modeled after Steve Buscemi, cosmic hero and the sexiest man alive. Most of the effort went into the abs that can function as a cheese grater if needed.
Fiona closed the case and locked it.
The flask was first. A swig from Art confirmed this was a work flask and not a fun flask. The lack of flavor stinging his tongue meant the liquid inside was safe to toss upon the demon.
The sludge-infested body recoiled when the holy water contacted the visible rib cage. For a brief moment, paired with a scream loud enough to shake mountains, the sludge pulled away, revealing an exhausted teenager not being ripped to shreds.
Underneath unnecessary body horror showed a pink pajama shirt with a rabbit chewing on a comically large carrot. Under her breath, Fiona whispered, “An illusion.”
Art shot her a look. “What’s the play?”
Without skipping a beat, Fiona answered. “Marcellus.”
That was all he needed to hear.
“DEMON!!!” Screamed Art in his best southern preacher voice. “I, ARTEMIS SHEPARD, CHALLENGE THY CLAIM TO THIS LAND, THIS GIRL, AND THIS METAPHYSICAL PLANE OF EXISTENCE !!!”
The screaming snapped Maggie to attention.
Sludge began to warp into a face with 100 horns and 47 golden eyes.
“ WHO SHALL I CONDEMN BACK TO HELL?!” Art continued. “SPEAK THY NAME OR CONCEDE TO BE BANISHED!!!”
“My name?” It spoke with a thousand whispers. “Daemon.”
Silence. The kind of silence everyone in a room notices at the same time. Daemon looked at the Mages, trying to gauge their reaction
Art and Fiona looked at each other. They looked back to Daemon.
That’s when the laughter started.
“Holy shit, dude!” Art laughed, dropping the act. “Are you fucking serious?”
“... What?” Asked Daemon.
“You’re a demon...” said Fiona, trying to catch her breath.
“Yeah?”
“Named ‘Damon?’” Art finished Fiona’s sentence.
“AND?!”
“Nothing,” said The Magician hurled over. “I’m just a big fan. Good Will Hunting is an all-time favorite of mine.”
That made The Witch laugh even harder.“For me, it’s going to be Dogma. What’s Alan Rickman like?”
Daemon turned the sludge head to Maggie.
“... It... it’s a little on the nose.” She said. “Um. But still scary,” she lied.
Here’s everyone’s favorite game: Two truths, and a lie. Daemon was, indeed, a demon. He was very much a danger to the host he was possessing. And every single mortal standing before him trembled with fear from his extremely underwhelming, self
assigned, name.
The sound of 1000 whispers that came from the sludge face vanished. There was just one left. Nasally, frustrated, and for lack of a better term, folk-punk. That was the voice he chose to say- “Look. Can I level with you guys?”
Art and Fiona glanced at each other.
“Go on,” said The Witch.
“This is kind of my first day on the job,” said Daemon, “and I’m not really supposed to be here. I’m trying to impress upper management by showing initiative.”
Again, Art and Fiona shared a glance. Unspoken confusion shot across their faces. “Uh. Okay?” Asked Art. “And?”
Daemon threw Aviva’s nearly detached arms in the air. “And?! Dude, if I fuck this up, Im unemployed… Could you...” Daemon turned to Maggie. “And I’m saying this as respectfully as possible. I just want to possess this girl for like six more hours. Maybe cut her arm off. But like, I’d settle for a few fingers, maybe. A toe. I’ll take the least useful toe?”
Maggie stood in silence. She looked over to the Mages, then realized everyone who wasn’t a sludge monster from Hell was as confused as her. “You hurt my daughter, and I will go down to Hell and kill every single one of you.”
