6. Satanic Scavenger Hunt

“So, let me get this straight, one more time.”

With a long suffering sigh, Richard replied as patiently as he could manage, even as he led his companion once more through the gloomy streets of Hell; “Yeah, go ahead.”

“We are going… shopping.”

“Scavenging.”

“Right, scavenging. Despite the fact that we don’t need food.”

“Yup.”

“Or water.”

“Yup.”

“Or… er… toiletries.”

“Yup.”

“Ah.” After a few moments, John added faintly; “I still haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“That would be because I haven’t explained things,” Richard replied, glancing over at John with a grin; at seeing the other man’s expression (somewhere between frustration and pleading,) he finally relented, rolling his eyes as he began in that same gruff voice; “All righ’, well, lessee how best to explain this… among the changes made to the Realm of Darkness was one that was supposed t’keep the folks here always hopin’ for somethin’ better. It’s a well-known fact that most human beings who show up here will remain hopeful for gumdropped millenia if they think there’s a reason for it. ‘Cause of that, Administration likes to drop some genuine rays of fishtailin’ sunshine.”

“By fishtailing, you mean…”

“You know what I mean, dare it!”

“Right. Um… you were saying?”

Calming down a bit, Richard continued; “We’re lookin’ for these little bits o’ goodwill, basically. Food that tastes decent and won’t make you sick. A pillow that’ll probably hang around for a coupla days before goin’ poof and won’ be full of needles. Stuff like that.”

“And how can you tell between the good and the bad?”

“Eh, eventually you just… know. Human intuition’s a fridge-ing powerful tool, ’specially when you ain’t weighed down by a fleshy human body. ‘Course, you have to keep your eyes open, an’ focus. Most folks get here end up on the wrong foot, and never get off it; they just drift along on pure momentum from one disaster to the next, ’til they curl up in some corner an’ refuse to move. It’s why the place is so deserted, y’know. Most of the folks in Hell are hidin’ somewhere or other, dealin’ with phantom hungers an’ thirsts and coverin’ the walls with feces and vomit.”

“Pleasant.”

“No, it dapper well ain’t.”

“Could you please… stop swearing? It’s not getting across the message you’re obviously trying to get across…”

“Whatever,” Richard grumbled, still scanning the street and alleyways they passed. Occasionally another person would be seen wandering through the area as well, but for the most part they didn’t acknowledge the existence of the pair, nor did Richard acknowledge theirs.

“Why does everyone remain so-?” Richard began to ask, before something in one of the alleyways caught his eye. Coming to a sudden halt, he squinted at it, not entirely certain he wasn’t hallucinating.

But no, there is was, plain as day; a white plastic bag with what seemed to be groceries poking out of the top. Sure, about an inch of the bag’s bottom was buried in some old, crumpled newspapers, (all of which were essentially filled with stories calling whoever happened to read them an idiot,) but there looked to be a loaf of bread and bottle of wine inside the bag, the former of which was wrapped in its own smaller plastic bag.

All of Richard’s reminders that Jonathan didn’t need food went right out the window, replaced instead with the strong desire for a few slices of white, fluffy bread and a good swallow of wine. Hell, maybe two good swallows, considering what had happened.

I’ll just have the entire bottle, Richard can find his own ray of sunshine…

He had moved into the alleyway, and was only a few feet away from the parcel, when Richard’s voice sounded from behind him; “John? What’re ya doin’?”

“Be there in a minute, Richard, just feeling like a little pick-me-up…” came the reply as John all but rubbed his hands together, already tasting the bread.

A heavy sigh sounded behind him as his unconventional guide leaned against one of the worn brick walls; “Y’haven’t been listenin’ to a word all this time, have ya? I’m guaranteein’ you’re gonna regret touchin’ that bag.”

“Nonsense, it is all about mind over matter.” This was spoken with a determined nod, even as John bent down, grabbing the plastic bag and lifting it upwards.

The bag lifted easily enough, but the moment it did, the smell of raw sewage filled the air; the bottom couple of inches were coated in the thick, viscous substance generally formed in the very, very bottom of garbage dumps, and even as John flinched back from the smell, centrifugal forces sent the bottom of the bag swinging right into his leg, leaving a large, smelly stain just below the knee.

“Told ya,” Richard said smugly; “Best you stop tryin’ right now.”

“Nonesence, that wasn’t… so bad…” breathing only through his mouth, John gingerly set the bag down on the cleaner pavement of the alley, snagging the top of the bag of bread and gingerly lifting it out. A careful inspection revealed no apparent stains, and it was with a triumphant grin in Richard’s direction that John turned his attention towards opening the bag.

It seemed to be sealed, not by any sort of tag, but rather one of those knots patrons would sometimes tie the top into when they wanted the contents to remain fresh. Since the bag was plastic, the tight knot was thick enough to itself appear opaque, but without enough coloring to reveal where one twist of the binding ended and the other began. John spent several moments running his nail along the knot, seeking some seam he could use to open the bag properly.

Every time he thought he’d found one, however, it just turned out to be a wrinkle in the plastic, and it wasn’t long before this simple act had John’s face turning a bright beet red, and his breathing all but held, except for the occasional gasp of breath when he tried to tug at a piece of the knot.

Finally deciding that he didn’t give a damn if he ripped the bag, he’d find some other way to keep the rest of the bread fresh. He tried to use his fingers to jab a hole that he could then use his fingers to widen, but although the plastic stretched and distorted under the pressure, it was not breached, no matter how far he pushed it. Before long his frantic tugs and prods had expanded the bag to twice its size, and it looked no closer to opening.

“Really, John, third time ain’t gonna be the charm…”

“Oh, shut up,” John muttered, trying (in vain,) to get it open with his teeth. Somehow he succeeded in biting his own tongue in the process. “Have you got something sharp I could use to…?”

“Oh, yeah, like I’m gonna go within five feet of anythin’ sharp down here…”

Finally tossing the warped bread bag to one side, John seized the bottle of wine, giving it a shake as he glared first at the container, then at Richard; “Let me guess, this won’t open without a cork opener. And somehow if I do find such an opener, I’ll stab myself in the eye with it. Oh, then I’ll burst into flames for no reason at all!”

Gripping the cork, John gave a mighty tug; the cork came out with no effort at all, as if it had been greased prior to being inserted in the bottle, and John’s overcompensation resulted in him striking the alley wall with his elbow, erupting into a painful dance that sloshed wine on his already-stained pants.

It took him several seconds to calm down, and for the ache in his arm to subside, and finally, eyes gleaming with victory, bottle held up like some sort of trophy, John panted, his words barely a gasp; “You see, Richard. With a little dedication, some hard work and, above all, patience, you do indeed get what you desire.”

He took a swig of the wine. Made a positive-sounding grunt. Swished it around in his mouth thoughtfully. Made a negative-sounding grunt. Spat the wine onto the pavement.

Tossing the bottle over one shoulder, he stalked by a thoroughly amused Richard, muttering; “Damn wine’s corked…”