Gary The Incubus The Case Of Sad Zach

Being summoned to the material plane in proper diabolic fashion is about two things: forethought and presentation.

You don't want some dime-a-dozen cult leader with delusions of grandeur and a long-lost grimoire poofing you into existence in the middle of a dinner party to shock his unsuspecting guests. That kind of cluster-fuck leaves you all fang-toothed with ripping claws and a cloven hoof upending the gravy boat.

Not only does that scare all the squishy humans, but you end up looking like a complete jackass.

Nope. No, thank you.

Like I said before, forethought and presentation.

So when I was unceremoniously yanked from my cramped office cubicle in the second circle of hell and flung toward the mortal realms for the first time in centuries without so much as a by-your-leave, I simply shook off the rust and got my game face on.

I appeared in the summoning circle with a tasteful flash of glowing embers and only the slightest whiff of brimstone--no need to stink up the place with the smell of rotten eggs. I was trying to impress my first client in two hundred years, after all, and this job relies entirely on word-of-mouth referrals.

My fiendish mind was already clocking in the overtime while I made my interplanar approach. Psychically absorbing modern fashions and social moorings. Sampling the political and moral landscape. Soaking up the latest trends and technological advancements.

Yikes, but you humans have got up to some seriously freaky shit since I was last up here. That internet thingy in particular... so much porn!

I wholeheartedly approve.

"Holy cow! Oh my god... it actually worked?"

I should probably take a brief pause in the narrative here to explain what and who I am to dispel any confusion and shine the infernal light of clarity on the circumstances.

Hello, my name is Gary, and I am an incubus.

For those of you not in the know, that basically means I am a devil-horned fuck-boy from the depths of damnation.

It's not as bad as you might think. I'm not some villain up to no good. I'm actually a pretty chill dude--albeit one with a severe holy water allergy--who's

totally

uninterested in feasting on souls.

Nefarious? Never. I can't even spell it!

I'm simply a friendly fellow looking to lend a hand to any down-on-their-luck mortal with enough magical moxy to summon me, which, to be fair, doesn't take much. Anyone can do it with the right magic circle and a simple incantation. I'm not about to complain about being dragged away from riding a boring-ass desk to take a jaunt on the material plane.

This is like spring break in Cacun for my kind, even if it does technically count as a working holiday.

Anyway, back to the current events.

I seemed to have apparated (that's a fancy way of saying teleported) into the low-rent apartment of a college-aged youth with a shock of greasy brown hair and a skin condition. A quick mental probe into his panicking thoughts told me all I needed to know to best handle this rare opportunity. Hold the applause; reading thoughts and desires is the least of my talents.

It's a lust devil thing, and I was still getting warmed up.

Zach--that was the guy stomping out stray embers on the cheap linoleum floor and trying not to hyperventilate--was twenty pounds of proverbial crap in a ten-pound sack. Jesus Christ, his life was a trainwreck, only a few bad choices from coming completely off the rails.

...and yes, we infernals can take the Big-Man-Upstairs' name in vain. Do it all the time. Blasphemy is loads of fun. It's like flipping your high school principal the bird.

He was a dropout at twenty years of age. Gaining despondent weight since a torn rotator cuff ended both his dreams of becoming a major league pitcher and his sports scholarship fourteen months ago. Now he was barely breaking even as a short-order cook at a chintzy all-night diner down on the interstate.

Let me tell you, flipping burgers and huffing the fryer fat has done wonders for this kid's ego. It's practically non-existent! He's been brought so low by life's hardships that attempting a satanic ritual found in his grand pappy's old journal was his final, desperate Hail Mary.

Not that she's got off her saintly butt to help anyone in over two millennia, so screw that bitch. Some of us have to work for a living.

Immaculate Conception, my ass.

You might be wondering what I have been doing while Zach was working himself into an existential tizzy. The answer is... nothing.

The human psyche is a fragile thing, and my unexpected appearance raises a lot of questions for an intelligent observer.

"Since devils clearly exist, does that mean God does too?"

"If hell is a real place, then what about heaven?"

"What the fuck have I actually done?!"

So on and so forth, until they eventually get a grip and turn to face the elephant in the room. That would be me, though the comparison is hardly flattering (I watch my waistline), but have found it is best to project an outwardly calm exterior and not make any sudden movements until they are ready to chat.

"Are you really a demon? You don't look like a demon." Zach asked, squinting piggishly at me, and I recognized the denial phase of supernatural discovery immediately. "This is all some sort of messed up joke, right?"

Remember how I mentioned the art of presentation? Well, this was when that really came into play.

I find it's best to go in for the

mostly

human look. A sparing bipedal build. Two arms, two legs, ten fingers and toes. No outright devilish features except for a pair of small obsidian horns poking out of my dark hair, clothed in a rather smart, gray three-piece suit sans the necktie.

Professional. Formal yet relaxed. Nothing threatening here.

Most unpracticed folks expect Dante's Inferno when calling upon mystical forces beyond mortal ken. Don't get me wrong, ol' Alighieri got a lot of it right for a fourteenth-century Italian with a drinking problem--shameless name dropper though he was--but that doesn't mean we can't change with the times.

"What did you expect me to look like, Zachary?" I kept my tone gentle and polite. No need to scare off the mark straight away. "Animal features, maybe? The whole human with goat legs and a bull's head look went out of vogue centuries ago. Oh, and I am a devil, not a demon. There's a big difference."

"Wha--what?"

That sent him reeling again, and I used that time to drink in my surroundings.

Zach's home was a real shit-hole, and that's coming from someone who resides in a literal hellscape. While it might not be the forest of suicides where harpies break the limbs of trees that housed the souls of the damned, it wasn't far off in my estimation.

Yellowing wallpaper peeled off the drywall in curling strips, and the carpet was worn threadbare in winding tracks through donated furniture that was long overdue for retirement in a junkyard. It might have been listed as an open-plan studio apartment when my latest client moved in, but that translated into a lack of any interior privacy walls anywhere except the squalid bathroom, and the ceiling was sagging in one corner from untreated water damage.

Dirty dishes moldered in the kitchen sink. Drifts of unwashed laundry gathered beside an unmade bed. Flies buzzed around bags of garbage stacked beside the entry door.

This poor schlub had really given up all hope. Perfect. That's where I stepped in.

"What is it your heart's desire, Zachary?" I asked, watching him stiffen at the repeated use of his birth name. "You summoned me here. There must be something you want to call upon one such as me."

That broke him out of his pacing, hair-tugging anxiety. Zach gave me a long, questioning stare, evaluating me like a teenager about to buy their first baggy of pot from a stranger. I returned a toothy grin with just a hint of elongated incisor.

"You're it? The real deal, I mean. No smoke and mirrors?" He sounded desperate. Hopeful. My shriveled black heart went out to him, I swear. "You are an actual devil from hell bound by magic to serve my bidding?"

I commended myself for not looking down to check the runes in the amateurish circle Zach had clumsily inked onto the carpet with a marker. I could feel how weak they were. I could have cracked his petty spellwork apart like eggshells, but that was no way to kick off a budding business relationship.

I was there to do a job, and if nothing else, I'm a goddamn professional.

"Certainly," I said, bowing deeply and adding a touch of servility to my words. "I live to serve. Tell me what you yearn for most, and we will embark on a journey together with your deepest desire as our destination."

"Holy crap, just like that?" Color began to return to his pimply cheeks. "Anything I want. At the cost of... what, my soul?"

Ugh, would you listen to this chump... five minutes earlier, he was a staunch atheist, and now, he's suddenly fretting about the dirty dishrag that is his eternal spirit.

"Contrary to popular belief, I cannot steal, eat, or bargain for your soul," I assuaged in a placating tone. "I'm not that type of devil. Think of me as more of a good-time kind of guy. My job satisfaction is derived from making you as happy as possible."

That wasn't entirely true. In actuality, I was very interested in his soul but couldn't tamper with it directly, as I stated. However, there were other ways to get Zachyboy's name out of the good books and onto Satan's naughty list. And some of those ways were a whole bunch of fun.

Okay, yeah. I lied. I'm a motherfucking devil. Sue me, I dare you. Litigation is a favorite pastime in Hell, and our legal teams star some literal bloodsuckers.

"Happy," Zach said the word as though savoring it for the first time. "You're a demon that feeds on happiness? I'm not buying it."

"Devil, not a demon." I corrected again, holding up a notably clawless finger. I was mired deep in the swamp of his psyche and recognized the first flickers of hope. "An incubus, to be precise. An avatar of lust and hedonism that feeds off your pleasure."

"As in... sex?" The recently arrived color drained away again as his piggy eyes widened in horror. "You want me to pay you with sex?"

"That card is definitely on the table, Zachary."

I was prodding, having a little fun. I knew from the outset he was straight as an arrow and flexible as a cinderblock, even if I personally wasn't averse to the occasional sausage fest.

Hey, don't judge. You can't eat fish tacos for millennia without wanting to sample the chorizo from time to time.

Ever heard of a devil's threeway?

"However, I sense you don't swing that way. Have no fear. I can reap my rewards in a more... vicarious fashion." I broke the building tension with a shit-eating smile. Zach resumed breathing again. "So long as you are having the best time possible, I can sustain myself on the overflow of... let's call it; pleasurable emotions. Why don't we start with you telling me what it will take to make that possible?"

"Money!" He blurted, pudgy hands clenching into fists. "Can you get me a pile of cash, or gold bullion, or whatever? I wanna be loaded. Filthy, stinking rich."

Huh. That was hardly a surprise. It's among the three most common human fantasies, but here comes the rub...

I'm no fairy godmother, genie, or wizard. I cannot create something from nothing. So fuck those buttholes. Literally. With a pineapple. My talents lay in a defter touch. I can...

nudge

certain things. Improve upon what is already there using elements of the surrounding environment.

Not like turning lead into gold, exactly. Nothing so ambitious. But chicken shit into chicken salad?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

For instance, the acne that pocked Zach's sweaty mug? One small nudge of my incubus power to his sebaceous glands, and it was already clearing up. With another nudge to speed his rate of healing, those cheeks would be smoother than a cherub's keister by lunchtime.

"Riches, hmm... What are we talking about here? Bank heist, jewelry theft, some other act of grand larceny? One of my colleagues down below won't stop bragging about robbing a mail train near Buckinghamshire back in 1963 with a gang of British goons. I'm always down for some criminal mischief."

It was too much to hope for. I could already hear the alarm bells ringing in his head. Poor Zachyboy had as much spine as an earthworm... for now. Something else for me to work on.

"What? No! Can't you just..." He waved a hand in a fluttering motion. "Um, magic me rich?"

Ah, this is what the educated set would call 'a teachable moment.'

"The money has to come from somewhere, Zachary," I informed him, waving a hand instructively. "Must I remind you that I'm an embodiment of lust, not greed? I suppose we could find some old, wrinkly heiress to glamor into your sugar mommy, but that would saddle you with an amorous centenarian until she finally died and left you her fortune. Do you have a GILF fetish?"

He didn't, and I wasn't about to bring up the many young, pretty heiress' available. You know the sort--the high-maintenance princesses from overprotective families with deep pockets and armies of private investigators on call.

Zach struggled to maintain affable relations with the few blue-collar friends he retained after the injury. That Bozo would stand out among the cream of polite society like a turd in the punchbowl.

"Nuh-uh. That's a big no from me." He shook his head, "Okay, let's come back to the money issue later. You keep telling me that you're an incubus. It's been a while, but can you at least get me laid?"

The first genuine smile of the day graced my devilish lips.

Attaboy!

"Yes, Zachary. We can definitely arrange something like that, and you may call me... Gary."

________________

"Gary, seriously? I summoned a creature from hell, and your name is Gary?"

We were jammed into Zach's beat-up Toyota Carolla as he pulled up before the diner. The car was a rusty piece of junk with torn vinyl upholstery, a sprung radiator, and a crack growing in the engine block that was going to be the final nail in the automotive coffin in a matter of weeks.

At least it would have if I hadn't given it a few of my patented nudges. Now, the rust was slowly fading, the motor was purring, and the odometer was winding backward with each passing mile. In a few days, he'd be driving a restored classic instead of an old shitbox.

Get how this works yet?

"Gary is more of a nickname." I wasn't about to reveal the nature of true names to that arcane dunce, "Suffice to say my full name begins with a

Ga

and ends with a

ry

with a lot of harsh consonants in between that results in most mortals begging for a soothing cup of herbal tea and a throat lozenge."

"Ah, okay. Gary, it is then." Zach put the car into park and killed the engine, looking around nervously. "So how do we do this? The getting me laid part.."

"What do you mean, Zachary?" I loved playing the clueless innocent. "Did your parents not tell you about the birds and bees?"

That act doesn't fly in Hell, let me tell you. Not at all. So, it's nice to indulge in a touch of melodrama when I can. Plus, I've found it's great to leave the ball of culpability firmly in the client's court. That way, they can't start whining on the day of judgment, crying to Saint Peter about a certain hellspawn who "made them do it" or other similar nonsense.

Sorry, not sorry. If you went to the trouble of dragging one of my kind from the infernal reaches, any incubi or succubi worth their salt is going to make you say, on the official record, exactly what it is you want us to do on your behalf.

"I'm not a virgin. I've had sex. Several times." He hissed, knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. "But that was before, and this is now. I'm very aware that I'm not a hotshot college league pitcher anymore and... may have let myself go a little."

"Congratulations on taking the first step on the path to a better you. Honesty and self-awareness is a virtue." I gave him an encouraging golf clap and nudged his muscle tone and metabolism up a few gears as a reward for personal progress. "There is hope for you after all, and the answer to your earlier question is simple.

"We enter your place of employment. Assess the best candidates for some, shall we say, hanky panky. Then you point out your favorites for me to beguile, glamor, or ensorcell into having crazy, life-changing sex with you as soon as it is convenient to do so."

"What about, you know..." Zach whispered, leaning in closer. "I wouldn't want the girl to say I forced myself on them."

Geez, what a swell dude. He was worried about enthusiastic consent in the event his reputation might take a blow. Check out Kohlberg's levels of morality sometime because Zachy could be the poster boy for stage two: self-interest.

I barely restrained myself from breaking into a villainous cackle on the spot.

"Don't worry, Champ," I told him, winking conspiratorially and raising my hand in a three-fingered salute. "You won't have any doubts when they are begging for a ride on your cock. Scouts honor."

"Wait, there are Boy Scouts in Hell?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

________________

"So there's Stella. She's one of the waitresses. Super hot, but doesn't know I exist." Zach said, staring out into the dining room as he flipped sizzling burger patties. "I call out orders all day, and she doesn't even make eye contact with me."

"Stella, gotcha. The young, skinny blonde."

I was keeping to the sidelines, sequestered in an out-of-the-way corner of the kitchen, only half-listening as I checked emails on my smartphone.

And before you ask--yes, Hell has a corporate plan with a major telco provider, but no, I couldn't tell you which company it is with. NDAs are a big-time headache, even for us infernals. Simpler to say if I told you which one it was... you wouldn't be surprised.

The diner was called Daisy's, and it wasn't exactly seventies-themed, so much as the place hadn't seen a change in decor since the summer of love. The once-bright colors had faded with the passage of time, the booths and bartops had seen better decades, and the checker-tiled floor was chipped.

But at least the obligatory Wurlitzer jukebox still worked. It was playing "Hotel California" on repeat, thanks to yours truly.

Daisy's was a twenty-four-hour eatery located on the highway at the edge of town, serving burgers and fries to truckers and interstate pilgrims alike. Even during the late shift that Zach habitually worked, the diner was fairly bustling with weary-eyed travelers looking to fill their tired bodies with salt-laden calories before continuing their overnight journeys.

My fiendish mind was occupied with cataloging the various mortals present and weedling my way into their fatigued thoughts to rifle through their darkest desires and plant a few sinful seeds of my own.

For instance, there was a quartet of lovely college coeds whose openness to experimentation I was swinging wider than a barn door, and a particularly lonely housewife was eyeing up the pimply busboy with extreme interest after a few of my special nudges.

"Hey, are even you listening to me?"

Zach was waving his spatula and shooting me a scowl. With an internal sigh, I pocketed my phone and straightened my posture.

"I've heard every word you've said and was preoccupied, contemplating our next move." Another lie, but as I pointed out earlier, I'm already deep in his head. By comparison, normal speech is slow and inefficient. "You want to bang the blonde waitress. That much is clear. Believe it or not, I've actually been busy laying the groundwork for precisely that."