What does it take to awaken a demon? This spine-tingling flash tells the story of Djall, a fiery demon much forgotten. The story touches on adult themes, so please read at your own discretion, and as always thank you for reading my fledgling Sunday fictions. Any and all feedback is most welcome.
Djall was patient. He had spent three centuries petrified, mounted on the balustrade of the Mesi Bridge, watching as the Cem River shriveled up and died; its slowing stream satisfied his restless mind.
True, he suffered the stench of humans as they passed, the odor of their insecurities, the sour smell of fear intensifying with each decade. Occasionally, a sweet whiff of sadness snaked into his bowtie nostrils. Bodies broken by grief would pass by his prison, trailing behind the most delicious aroma of misery, an untastable feast.
Ah, yes, occasionally these discarded shells would read his plaque:
Herein lies Djall, the fiery fiend that lured mortals from good living and security to devour their souls. Forevermore may he be cast in stone.
They would pause to admire his far-fetched façade, sculpted based on the legends. Stretched out pointed ears flanking a canine snout. Abnormally bulging eyes above a wide-open grin that consumed his entire face. His scaly body reposed uncomfortably for centuries, but Djall never truly worried. His talons remained sharp; his anticipation grew with each stray caress. It was only a matter of time before some gullible buffoon gave him what he needed.
And indeed, his instincts were correct, for it was in his three-hundred-and-thirtieth year of imprisonment a scraggly gang took notice, went so far as to nickname him, ‘Ja-Ja.’
At first, they would rub their privates on his head, turn and fart to the amusement of their peers. After long hours of drinking, the youths would take turns pissing on his face. Djall hated to admit it, but the scent of their virginal urine invigorated him.
“Best outta three! Best outta three to ring Ja-Ja’s ding!” The eldest idiot, Arman, shouted at the regular gang assembled on the rocky banks right at sundown.
Oh, this was good sport. The boys had played this one before. Djall’s serpentine-shaped member would serve as ‘the ringer’ as the boys tried to land their beer tabs on its broad tip. Stimulating.
“What’s the winner get?” Cherub blonde curls that could never fully be contained by a baseball cap, sprouted above a voice crackling from the change. Djall liked this pipsqueak. Hjack, as they called him, was always looking for a payout. His presence made the demon tingle.
“Plain and simple.” Arman said. “A Double Dare. Anything to anyone. No cop-outs. No cheats. Agreed?”
The feral boys chimed in one by one. Most itched for this sort of action; Friday night restlessness, the pack was ready for whatever dim-witted challenge Arman spat at them.“Whoever lands their tab on Ja-Ja’s junk wins.”
Laughter as the boys cracked the first round of beers, pooled their tabs on the handrail ready to toss.
The demon approved of these games. The sheer torture inflected on the loser. The fights that broke out when the boys had one too many drinks. Djall enjoyed his part in it, too, convinced somehow that he was the match to their flame.
Within a few chugs, metal tabs started flying. A couple caught Djall in the eye. Some landed wide, others missed him entirely. After a few minutes, though, he felt it. A tiny prick of metal balanced on his bald post. Oh yes, somebody had a ringer.
The winner dared the chubbiest pack member to chug a beer, then be hung upside down from the side of the bridge for seven minutes. Arman and Hjak took one leg each, and dangled the burly boy over the side, retrieving him only after he’d puked through his mouth and nostrils in just under three. Oh, what good fun!
After the thrill of the opening act wore off, the boys were ready for round two. More beers cracked against Djall’s flanks. More shrapnel, and then an itching sensation.
Arman was hoisted into the air. Victory for their noble leader. Finally, the evening was escalating. “Now to claim your prize, Ja-Ja. You’ve earned it.” Arman took his tab, patting the demon before continuing. “Hjak, how ‘bout you give Ja-Ja here a real treat? That big open mouth needs something, don’t you think?”
Sniggers from the gang. Hjak’s face fell.
“Come, don’t be shy, Hjak.” Amran pushed the boy towards the statue. “Give him something to do.”
This was it. Djall’s stretched his grin wide as Hjak goaded by his school-aged buddies unzipped his pants and began the request.
As soon as Hjak’s loins connected with Djall’s stony lips, his prison warmed. Several minutes later when Hjak exploded, hummocky lava poured from the statue, scalding the boy’s pubescent member.
Djall enjoyed the howls, an ancient toad shedding his skin after more than a century enslaved. The marble plaque cracked, and as the stone split, a pyroclastic flow of dark, radiant energy covered the bridge.
Badly burned, but too stunned to flee, Hjak fell to the scalding floor. Too bad the gang would miss his grand re-entry. If only they could see ol’ Ja-Ja now, but what a beautiful sacrifice left for him to gobble up.
Hjak smelled delicious, terrified. Djall’s first meal in several centuries, he sucked the sweetness from each spaghetti strand curl. After consuming the lad, he became aware of other eyes upon him. The stench of sweat and fear.
Arman clung to a girder. His pants splashed wet with terror, but the lad had stayed to watch.
In a blink, Djall stood at his side. “Do not fear, boy. You are, after all, my rescuer. Here, take my hand.” He pressed against the boy’s palm. “It will only scorch a moment. Come, let us stroll this city together. For I am thirsty, oh so thirsty.”
Djall’s arms and legs wobbled in reborn infancy. He did the only prudent thing and inhabited the youth, splashed his fear onto his own face to conceal his tell-tale grin, careful to maintain the boy’s mannerisms.
This time around, he vowed to be more discreet. After all, don’t all great demons deserve a second chance?
© 2022 | K.Hartless