Demon Apathy

tw: suicide, gore

“I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of feeding my kids disgusting vizkus for every meal,” said the TV mother. The first thing I noticed was the black fungi sprouting on top of her head through her hair. “I miss the good ol’ days when we could eat bacon, turkey, and yams. But now, all we got is vizkus. Worse of all, our children can’t get enough of the stuff.” She turned away from the camera. “Oh, Timmy! Shelby! Breakfast is ready.” She set two plates of plain vizkus on the kitchen table. A little boy and his sister rushed to their seats and started to shovel the dark goop greedily into their mouths. It stained their shirts and splashed onto their cheeks and dripped from their chins as they gobbled up the stuff. 

“Nothing breaks my heart more than the thought of my precious children willingly intaking this…this poison, so that they grow giant black fungi on their bodies for the Demons to eat,” she continued. “Well, what if I told you that we don’t have to take it anymore? What If I told you that all we have to do is band together and we can change everything?” She reached into the chest part of her retro cocktail dress and fished out a revolver. Right behind her unsuspecting kids, for goodness’ sake. “Dammit, I’m not gonna take it anymore, and neither should you. So call 1-800-I REVOLT right now and join the Soldiers of Humanity. That’s 1-800-473-8658. Kill the Demon oppressors. Save our children.”

The display TV went to static for a moment before it replayed the commercial.

“She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” asked a sales associate in the department store I was wasting time in, a tall, pudgy man with his collared shirt tucked in. I didn’t even see him approach me.

“I mean, not really,” I said. “Too much fungi growing out of her scalp. That’s still a turn off for me."

“What? No! I’m talking about the TV.” The associate smacked the display television on which I just watched the gun-toting mother of two. “55 inches. 4K resolution. Best way to watch old ads. It’s on sale for $1200, or four installments of $300 plus tax. You won’t find a better deal anywhere else.”

I looked back at the TV screen, how defiant the ad woman’s eyes looked as she waved around her gun. “Sorry, but no. The ad caught my eye. That’s all.”

“Wait, really?” said the associate. “You do realize the Demons control what’s on TV, right? I seriously doubt they care if we start hunting them down with shotguns and pistols. You see, the way to survive nowadays is to keep your skin as clean as possible.”

“So, like, don’t eat vizkus? It’s all there is to eat anymore.” As I spoke, I noticed how clear the associate’s skin looks, save for only one little black fungus growing from his cheek. Meanwhile, I got fungi running down the right side of my jaw and neck. “Did you get yours removed?”

Instead of answering me, he took out a napkin from his pocket and scribbled on it with a pen. As he wrote, he looked around suspiciously, as if he was doing something taboo. He then forced a handshake on me to transfer the napkin to my hand. He leaned close to my ear and whispered “Go at night. Don’t let Demons know. This will save your life,” before saying out loud “Thank you for your business, sir. You are gonna LOVE watching reruns on your brand-new television.”

“What? Man, I’m just here for some batteries,” I said while slipping the napkin into my back pocket.

“Aw, c’mon, guy.” The sales associate seemed genuinely disappointed. A new TV would be nice, but after the battery purchase, I only hand enough money for bus fare and a couple of vizkus burgers. 

On the bus ride home, a hippy woman kept preaching about salvation and how there’s a better world waiting for all of us. Most everyone else begged her to shut up. I thought about the sales associate’s words, how all the executive and CEO jobs are taken up by Demons, how they took so much control from us, how they would laugh their asses off if we tried to rebel. 

281 Grove St. made me a bit optimistic, though.

**

At my work desk the next morning, I drummed its surface with fingers from one hand while my other hand plays with the tiny black fungus growing on the top of my right helix. My computer mocked me with a blank white document. I was tasked with writing a Jersey Times article to promote the new vizkus cheesecake that will be available for purchase in markets and restaurants across the nation, and I had to make it seem like the dessert won’t taste like every other variation of vizkus ever made. The Times was supposed to be unbiased, but ever since a Demons took over the editor-in-chief role, Times have changed. 

“Hey, James.” Ernie, the managing editor, leaned against my cubicle wall, sucking on a vizkus milkshake through a straw. He was a short, stalky, and bald, with an annoying, nasally voice. He looked grotesque with all the fungi covering his face, the worst I’ve ever seen on a single person. “How’s the article coming along?”

“Great, Ernie. The words just flow out of me.” I didn’t try to hide my sarcasm.

He sipped his milkshake long enough for it to be awkward. Meanwhile, I stared at his nose, which at that point morphed into a large fungus, and wondered if that was the cause of his nasally voice. I also noticed how the milkshake vizkus, which is just a colder, liquid version of normal vizkus, stained his lips after that prolonged sip. “You know, the best way to find inspiration is the try a sample for yourself,” he said. “There’s a few slices of cheesecake still in the breakroom fridge.”

“You realize that all food tastes the same, right?”

His sipped his milkshake again. “I think the cheesecake tastes sweeter than my birthday cake, actually. And I’ve loved birthday cake ever since I was little. Well anyway, I’ll need that article written by 3 p.m.”

For some reason, I felt a touch of admiration for Ernie where disgust usually resided. He was so positive, so easy-going, so content; he’s older than me but has accepted how things worked as though he were ten years old. Would I find that same level of peace if I stopped worrying about what I couldn’t change and go through life ignoring the deplorable conditions thrusted upon humanity? 

There were two fridges in the breakroom, and one of them chilled ten paper plates of individual slices of vizkus cheesecake, each one preserved in cling plastic wrap. I took one for myself, as well as a plastic fork from one of the drawers by the sink. I had to admit, the Demons were clever. The cheesecake crust isn’t made of smooshed graham crackers, just like vizkus burgers buns aren’t actually bread, nor is there actual whipped cream in vizkus milkshakes. The things we consume aren’t vizkus-flavored things. It’s all just…vizkus. They only take the shape of classic foods—otherwise everyone would’ve just eaten the non-vizkus parts from the start.

Armed with this knowledge, I still, naively, expected the cheesecake to taste as sweet as Ernie said (as sweet as I faintly remember sweet to be). Such misguided thinking made the first bite of cheesecake even more disappointing; it tasted literally like everything else. I threw the rest of the dessert in the trash. I could not give in like Ernie did.  In fact, I was ashamed of Ernie, just as I was with the Times.

I marched back to my desk, to the blank white document, and revolted, not with a gun but with words. I wrote the truth in my article, then emailed Ernie the document, essentially a resignation letter.

**

I made up my mind that night to visit 281 Grove St. It felt like a leap of faith, like if this place didn’t hold some sort of miracle then all hope would be lost. Walking along Mercer St., I passed by potholes and broken streetlamps and fungi-riddled rat carcasses and homeless tents and other signs that no money was being invested into the city anymore. One bearded guy sat on the concrete in front of his tent. Without a word he kept his eyes on me. His head shook the whole time, the fungi on his forehead that resembled antennas wiggling independently. I wasn’t sure if he had Parkinson’s or if he was trying to warn me of something.

I noticed a couple of figures in the distance, outlines in the dark that became more prominent the closer I got. We were going to reach the Grove St. intersection at the same time, so there was no avoiding them. I could have stopped, or hid somewhere, or quickly turned the corner (I should’ve known better, given how dangerous it is to wander the streets alone this time of night), but curiosity compelled me to stay the course. One outline seemed slim and composed like a model, the other a hulking presence looming behind. We converged under a working streetlamp, and the first one into the light was a girl in a pink bikini. Well, I assumed it’s a girl and I’m assuming she’s young purely based on the curve of her body, but her skin was so severely covered in black fungi that I couldn’t even name her ethnicity. I stood frozen at her grotesque appearance. I could tell by her pleading eyes that she’d rather my reaction be more of concern, or even heroism. 

Stumbling behind her, a giant. No, worse: a Demon. A one-eyed, fangy, anthropomorphic-pig-looking thing with skin as dark as shadow, as wide as the side of a car, as dense as a boulder, and as tall as…well, it was freaking huge. It wore a light purple double-breasted suit with the buttons undone and the yellow tie loosened—I wasn’t impressed by its tailor’s craftmanship only because I thought I was going to crap myself at that moment. I’ve only ever seen Demons on the internet. 

It stopped as I did, which was how I could tell it looked woozy. Intoxicated, in fact. The girl stopped as well only because the Demon had her on a diamond-studded leash around her neck.

“I know where you’re goiiing,” it said, it’s voice surprisingly very humanlike. “Busteeeed!”

I took a step back. “Please don’t hurt me,” was all the words I found. It waved me off.

“Dumbass, I’m drunk,” it said. “Besides, we wait till you die from, like, car accidents or disease or shit. THEN we eat you. I mean, like, ha-ha, you all just hide if we hunt ya. Who want’s to fuckin’ hhhhunt, bro?”

“…What?”

“Whatever, hu-maaaan, do your research, or som’. Ya want $10K?” It pulled from its blazer pocket a stack of $500 bills. “You’ll need it where you’re goiiiiiiiiiing.” 

“I…I don’t understand. Why are you offering me money?”

“No more questions. Dance. Daaaaaaance for me. Daaaaaance for money.”

I didn’t seem to have much of a choice here, nor was I’m sure how it wanted me to dance given that there was no music, so I did this leg wiggle jig I used to do at parties in college long ago. I did this for several minutes, meanwhile the girl it had on a leash recorded me with a cellphone I didn’t know she had. 

“Okay, stop, stop, stooooop,” cried the Demon. I leaned against my bent knees, tired and out of shape. “You sssssssuck at dancing. Fuck out of my face.” It through the stack of cash at me, the band holding them together breaking in the process, so the bills fell around me like rain. “Byyyyyyyyye.” 

I grabbed the $500 bills off the ground as fast as I could before running home. As I did so, I heard the Demon laughing at me as it and its pet walked away.

**

Still heated from my embarrassment the previous night, I called 1-800-I REVOLT first thing in the morning. Luckly, the lady who answered said they were on their way to the Heights where the Demons live, but were more than happy to turn around to pick me up. I didn’t even need my own gun—they had extras. 

The banner along the beat-up white van that pulled up at my apartment read Champions of Salvation as opposed to Soldiers of Humanity, which I assumed was a remarketing campaign. Inside the van sat fourteen armed men and women, with me making number fifteen.  But they all seemed more cheerful than expected. A hippy lady gave me a big hug before I climbed aboard. A middle-aged man who sat next to me handed me a Glock with the most gleeful grin, before he, too, gave me a tender embrace. 

Here I was, stewing in my own anger and anxiety, my heart racing over the brutal fight to come, while everyone else held hands and sang gospel songs like they were attend a black church. I could’ve only concluded that they were ready for death, and that they knew their actions today would serve the ultimate goal of human liberation. It was admirable, honestly. 

The Heights has become a gated community of mansions, office buildings, restaurants, and parks that only the Demons had access to. Instead of busting through the gate like a badass, the van’s driver waited for the gate to open the path for us. Something wasn’t right.

We parked in the middle of a quiet, gorgeous neighborhood on Columbia Ave. I played along with the group as we exited the van and formed a circle with our backs to each other.

“Demons!” shouted the hippy lady. My heart skipped a beat as Demon women and children watched us on their third-story balconies. “You have taken everything from us. But today we will show you that death is still on our own terms.” Everyone pointed their pistols, their shotguns, their rifles, at their own heads. “We bid you all adieu!”

I guess suicide…is an option. The food is bland and messy and makes us sick. Financial freedom is an impossibility. Black fungi make us unattractive. No one knows how to deal with the Demons who control our suffering. And, apparently, revolution efforts have proven ineffective a long time ago. Still, as guns went off and the Demon community cheered and blood spattered all around me, I  dropped my gun and screamed hysterically for a while until one of the Demon aids (a human) offered to drive me home because the neighborhood grew bored of my traumatic outburst ten minutes ago. Other aids collected the bodies around me.

**

281 Grove St. My last hope. Two days have past since the incident at the Heights, but I was still shaking. I needed something. I didn’t want to accept the world as it was, but I didn’t want to die, and I certainly had no more fight in me. 

I remembered the sales associate from before telling me to go at night. I was deathly afraid of running into that Demon from before, but I didn’t this time. Whatever this place is about, Demons already know it, and they didn’t care. 

At 281 Grove St. stood a rundown building where a heavy base could be heard from outside, flashing green and blue lights shining through the dirty windows. Inside, I discovered humanity’s real last stand: tequila, vodka, weed, cocaine, and Michael Jackson. The place was packed with partier, all stylish and gorgeous and 90’s. I thought I’d stick out because of my traumatized face, but really, it’s because of the fungi. I had so much of it, and everyone else had hardly any. I couldn’t believe it. There was a cure!

I squeezed my way through the crowd until I found a door at the back with a sign that read “The Stuff.” When I knocked on the door, it was answered by two large bodyguards.

“Um, do you have, uh, the stuff?” I asked, not sure what I was asking for.

“$5K,” one of them barked. It was a good thing kept that money the Demon threw at me. The bodyguards locked the door behind us and guided me down a staircase to a basement. The lighting down there was the only normal thing I saw that night. At the bottom, a hunched-over old man in a lab coat stood in front of a portable panel room divider. 

“Ah, I see this is your first time!” the scientist man said in a German accent. “Yes, your fungi will shrink and will hardly grow back, but it only lasts for six months. You will have to come back regularly.” He pulled back the room divider to reveal three people resting on gurneys with IV’s sticking out of their arms. Each of their skin was fungus-free, but their eyes looked a bit glazed. Moreover, clumps of flesh have been removed from each of their arms, revealing redness and bone.

“Now, the real question,” said the scientist. “Would you prefer white meat, dark meat, or yellow meat?”

“You should get you some dark meat, honey,” one of the gurney-bound said, an African American woman. “We got a bet going.”

I said nothing, I only watched as the scientist took a hunting knife and started carving the flesh from the woman’s forearm. “Tee-hee, that tickles,” she cried. Blood poured onto the ground. The scientist slapped the flesh on a paper plate and threw it in a microwave that sat on a stool discreetly along the wall.

Microwaved human flesh. That was the cure. And all those partiers upstairs already had some.

I puked.

All hope is lost.

I should’ve used that $5K to buy a TV.