DevilMan

How could a simple book change the world? Pascal had expected his work to congregate a small following of loyal admirers or passionate critics, but not furious rebellion across the globe. Pascal had always believed in the power of the pen, that ideas sparked in noble minds could resuscitate deflated hearts and ignite soulful minds.

But not while he was living.

Down a hallway, Pascal clung to the white wall. The roar of the stadium penetrated the thick slabs of concrete that lay between him and the awaiting mass of his admirers. He curled his toes inside his leather shoes and slowed his breathing with deep breaths.

He pulled out a scrunched piece of paper and played the words in his mind. To my loyal and rebellious hearts, listening across the world, I speak to you.

He scrunched the speech and thrust it deep into his pocket.

Stupid. Ugly. Unnatural. He thought. They would see right through him. The fake. Speaking lies that felt like acid buildup, now he had to say them to an adoring crowd. His organs twisted, he felt like his abdomen was betraying his kidneys.

Pascal was pacing back and forth in a hallway marked with empty gatorade bottles, a dolphins jersey marred with red stains, a broken speaker dangling from a black cord and a line of secret agents dressed in black, carrying concealed weapons. What a change of scenery these past months had been. From writing a simple book inside his sister's spare room with a terribly creaky ceiling, to now a luxurious hotel with secret security tailing his every move and mouthful.

‘Pascal. You seem anxious.’ A petite woman dressed in a grey dress suit, scribbled across a clipboard. Pascal named her the ‘Hound’. Her real name was Monica.

‘Yes,’ Pascal said. ‘You could say I am anxious. Or nervous, or scared, terrified, horrified. Take your pick.’

She eyed him with that hound stare.

‘Don’t be anxious, this will be over soon. All deadlines come to an end eventually Pascal.’

Don’t be anxious? He thought, scrunching his fists. You try giving a speech to millions of people, telling them to forget everything you’ve ever believed and make it convincing. Pascal wanted to curl inside himself, or become a part of the scenery, like that battered dolphins jersey.

Monica walked off, Pascal hated when she did that. She expected him to follow, and of course he did, he caressed the wall as he followed.

‘You’re meeting with Madam President in two minutes.’ Monica said, her heels clicking against the concrete with each step.

The mention of the president sent shivers through Pascal's curls, he bit the insides of his cheeks. He slipped a peak over his shoulder, the agents trailing behind them with their black sunglasses, black suits and black hearts.

Pascal scurried up beside Monica.

‘The Madam President, yes.’ Pascal said. ‘How is she? Well, good I hope. I don’t mean to assume, I just mean I hope she’s well. Although I’m sure she has a lot on her plate at the moment. So she’s probably been better, or maybe she’s fine. I don’t mean to make assumptions. I can understand if she’s angry with me, since I am mostly to blame for the state of things in the world, I suppose.’ Pascal took a breath and swallowed.

Monica kept her ice walk.

‘You should ask her when you see her.’ She said coldly. ‘She will be much happier after you give the speech our specialists prepared for you.’

They stopped before a metal door with the title card ‘Coach’ written across it. Monica jarred a hand across Pascal's chest.

‘Art can’t be trusted Pascal.’ She said, with a glint in her eye. ‘And I don’t trust you. But Madam President does for a reason I can’t stab my finger on. She has faith in you, that you’ll do the right thing.’ Monica leaned closer, Pascal held his breath.

‘But I know you Pascal. I know what you’ll do, and I’ll be there when you do it. Watching. Waiting.’ She recovered herself and brushed her blazer straight.

Pascal's hands felt like sloppy fish. Monica opened the door and pressed inside with Pascal tied around her arm.

The door thud behind them, an agent in black stood ready with a glare aimed at Pascal.

The room was mostly dark except for a limp lamp that shone a yellow light against a single woman in a chair. Dusty trophies littered crooked shelves.

‘Pascal, take a seat.’ The President said. Pascal clenched the leather chair and sat down awkwardly. Monica took a seat in the shadows, were more agents circled like sharks.

The President wore a purple scarf and knitted beanie, she had her glasses tilted down as she read from a slender book in her hand, the title read ‘DevilMan’. She cleared her throat.

‘Nelvious pulled against the strings of civilisation.’ She read, ‘Nelvious, once a demon escaped from Hell, had come forth to man and brought to man Freedom, and the pursuit of revolution. To Live to live.’ She placed the book down on the marble table, beside the antique lamp. She turned her tremendous blue eyes towards Pascal, he shrunk in his seat.

‘That's my favourite part Pascal.’ She said, taking a sip from her water. ‘You are a talented writer, you capture the essence of the struggling class. It speaks to all. My mother was a waitress and worked for scraps when my father left, she taught me the essence of struggle. And the essence of hard work.’

Pascal gave sloppy nods that he hoped was reassuring.

‘What you’ve written.’ The president said, pointing towards the book that Pascal bled over, cried over, sacrificed his life to write.

‘Its beautiful. A man taken apart by society, by life, with an enduring attitude he makes it seem like anything is possible. And I believe that too, Pascal. I want you to know that.’

‘Thank you, Madam President.’ Pascal croaked. ‘I worked hard on it, taking lessons that my father taught me. My philosophy college teacher, Mr Clayton, told me to listen to the heart and let the mind cipher through the rubbish. He was a strange man Mr Clayton, although I cherished our time together greatly, he admired two men above all. Freidrich Neitzsche and Jesus Christ, one proclaimed God was dead and the other claimed to be God.’ Pascal’s cheeks turned red, he was rambling again. The President's smile proved he must look to be amusing.

‘I’m sorry.’ He said abashedly. ‘I meant to ask how you are doing?’ Not smooth in the lightest.

‘If I am being honest, Pascal.’ The President said. ‘I have been better. I am worried. Worried for America, worried for the world. Currently France riots against the capital, Germany refuses to work. China is at war with itself based on what little information has leaked, they have banned your book and made it a criminal offence to own it. I'd rather not mention the Arab countries currently. America -‘ She bowed her head when she mentioned America.

‘America is dividing more and more each day.’ The words struggled to pass through her tight jaw. ‘They play against each other, claiming the other is crooked or unAmerican. People are dying. Thousands of people across the world are dying. Everyday the violence grows, the hate.’ The President shook her head, a tear touched at her cheek.

‘They are confused, Pascal. Your book, it was about hope, unity, a prosperous future. Not this, surely you see it.’

She was right, but also she was wrong.

She brushed her tears away.

‘That's why you must give this speech. To set things right, the way they were intended to be. Pascal. This isn’t a matter of debating philosophy or politics, it's a matter of saving lives, thousands of lives. War tears across the world, perhaps it is too late to stop it. But we can reduce the casualties, save lives Pascal. That's all I want. Think about the Children, they are dying, Pascal.’

The words rang inside Pascal's heart. So many people across the world were fighting for a cause they believed in. That was what he had preached his whole life, but now it was real, and people were dying.

Why couldn’t I die and let the future deal with it like the greats. Pascal beat a soft palm against his forehead. 

Monica stood up. ‘Madam President.’ Monica said, with that stone tone. ‘We should get you to your seat.’ The President gave her a nod.

‘I will be close to the front Pascal.’ She said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ve heard your oratory skills are almost as good as mine.’ She said chuckling. She rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know you’ll do the right thing.’

And she was gone, Monica following suit.

Pascal's mind was a raging fire fighting a torrential rain. Throw away his ideals to save lives?

He slunk towards the door, his speech would be in ten minutes now. He dreaded every second like he was bed ridden with the plague. He reached for the door knob when a vice grip took him by the shoulder. He arched in pain.

An agent with a gold ring had a vice grip on his shoulder, the agent squeezed.

‘Author.’ He spat. ‘Devil man. Live to live, a good motto.’ He drew back his black jacket, revealing a pistol.

‘Read the piece of paper, word for word.’ He spat. Pascal felt like his arm was to fall off from this man's steel hold.

‘I won’t let go till you give me an answer Devil man. Will you read the speech?’  Of course they would threaten him, when lives were on the line they would do anything. His arm was about to fall off, Pascal gave him a nod with gritted teeth. He released his grip. Pascal rubbed at his shoulder, the imprints like teeth shrapnel.

The agent covered the pistol. He held a finger to his lips.

Pascal darted from the room and jetted down the hallway, taking an immediate left. He kept his head down and shielded his face, he didn’t want anyone to see him. He kicked open the door to the locker room and slouched in his seat.

Sweat rolled down his cheeks, he scrunched at his curly hair and took deep breaths. His chest cramped up and his legs were locking up.

He shook his arms out and paced up and down a row of lockers.

‘What's the matter with you Crayon?’ A familiar voice said. Amber, Pascal's sister, stood leaning on one leg, chewing gum.

‘My hearts about to rip out from my chest.’ Pascal shouted. He felt his temperature, it was cold and hot at the same time. Surely that meant he was diseased.

Amber took him by the hands.

‘Hey Crayon. Everything’s gonna be ok.’ Amber said, taking deep breaths. Pascal focused on the breaths, trying to time it with her. He was off cue, and unsteady, but eventually he was on beat and half calm again. She always brought him down from insanity.

‘Thank you.’ Pascal said, slumping in his seat with arms dangling.

‘Talk to me Crayon. What’s the problem?’ Amber flipped a chair around and crossed her arms on the back of it.

‘I'm about to ruin my life.’ Pascal said, deflated. ‘They want me to give this speech. Basically going against everything I wrote in that stupid book.’

‘Hey!’ Amber cried. ‘That was no stupid book. You worked on that forever. And it meant something to so many people and it meant something to you. I don't wanna hear you talk bad about it.’

‘Well it doesn’t matter.’ Pascal leaned over in his chair, his hair drenched with sweat. ‘This is beyond me now Amber. I'm just one man, I just wanted to write some words on some paper and see if it did anything. I didn’t want this, any of this.’ Pascal cradled his arms. ‘If I could take it back and never write the damn thing, I would.’

A cold sting rang across Pascal's face. Amber slapped him so hard, it jump started his brain.

‘Pascal what’s wrong with you?’ Amber said, her eyes tearing. ‘What would father say? If he saw you like this, he would call you -‘

‘A lost chicken head.’ Pascal finished. He touched his red cheek.

‘What you wrote Pascal, was beautiful. And all those people out there, think so too.’ Amber took Pascal into a tight hug.

‘I’m good for nothing Pascal. But you, you changed the world. Dad would’ve been so proud of you. Now I don’t want to hear you talking bad about your work again, you hear me?’

Pascal nodded. Tears tugged at his eyes, he brushed them away quickly.

‘Just promise you won’t slap me again Amber.’

‘I’m sorry Crayon.’

A tall agent stepped into the locker room.

‘You’re on Pascal. Time to go.’ He said, checking his watch.

Pascal swallowed whatever ounce of saliva still remained in his mouth. Amber took him by the arm before he left.

‘Crayon. Dad used to say this thing about you, he never told you. He said it would make your chicken head too heavy for your body.’ She giggled at that, that refreshing laugh.

‘He said Crayon talks too much.’

‘Well that's nice Amber but I should -‘

‘Listen Crayon.’ She said, cutting him off. ‘He said you talk too much, when you talk too much you ruin the words, those kind words you wrote Pascal. Let the words speak for themselves.’

Pascal was towed away by the agent.

‘We don’t have time for this.’ The agent said.

Father said that? Pascal thought, Let the words speak for themselves.

Amber waved him goodbye.

He could hear the pounding thrum of the approaching crowd. Technicians darted around the stage like flies, lifting cables and talking into headsets. A woman had three clipboards balanced on her arms with four pens writing away. Pascal peered through the slit of the red curtain. A seismic wave of people crowded the stadium like it was the super bowl.

He clung to his pockets and slowly wobbled away from the stage. He thudded against a wall. No, it wasn’t a wall but the agent with the gold ring. He gave Pascal a blank nod and tapped at his jacket, where the gun lay hidden.

Pascal retreated as cooly as possible. 

A plump, blonde woman danced up beside him.

‘Mr Pascal you’re on.’

Pascal met her eyes. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ He asked. Was that English?

‘You’re on Mr Pascal.’

‘On? On where?’

She pointed through the curtains.

‘On stage silly.’

‘Oh.’

His face creased inwards and his bowels churned.

Pascal outstretched his arms and dove through the curtains, he stormed the podium, staring only at his feet. He tore his eyes up and into a blinding white light that slowly adjusted, revealing a line of cameras.

The crowd erupted and exploded with cheers.

‘Live to live!’ They roared in unison. 

Pascal searched the crowd. Mothers raised little boys wearing puffy jackets and beanies, used to fight the winter bite. Brothers and sisters took each other arm and arm chanting the famous line from the book. ‘Live to live.’

Live to live. Those words used to mean something, Pascal couldn’t remember. The story was about a character named Nelvious who escaped Hell and learned Hell was here.

Live to live. What did that mean again?

Close to the front, Madam President stood idly. Agents whispered in her ear.

Pascal unfolded the crumpled speech and cleared his throat. The roaring crowd died to a murmur.

Pascal's tongue swelled in his throat, but he forced the words out.

‘To my loyal and rebellious hearts, listening across the world, I speak to you.’ The words came out as rehearsed.

’Times change. The world spins on its axis and - and - the world spins on its axis and…’ The words clogged in his throat. He searched the adoring crowd who hung on every syllable.

They believed in him, but they were endangering themselves. He never wanted that, he never wanted people to die. But what did he expect? He wrote of revolution, of change. People died, this wasn’t a fairy tale, this was the real world. You built Rome on the graves of thousands. But a life surely meant more than an idea? More than a mere possibility?

The agent stood to the side of Pascal, in the shadows, hidden behind a curtain. He scowled at Pascal, resting a hand on his gun. 

Pascal had been silent, how long had he been just standing there? If he told them his truth, he would die. If he lied to them, they could live.

He searched the speech as if it had answers. There were none. Even in his own mind he spoke too much, father was right, he always was. Pascal did talk too much. He should just let his wo-

Pascal flashed with energy, his spirit felt a renewed strength and his legs a new spring. He held up the speech and tore it to shreds, the crowd gasped.

‘History.’ Pascal continued, his voice clear as glass. ‘History is the benchmark for all. History is the lesson to learn by, the truth to remember and the guide to the future. I don’t know what the future holds for me, for this country, for the world or for any of us. I am just a man made of flesh and bone with pleasure, wants and desires.’

In the crowd Amber stood, clutching her chest. Pascal gave her a wide smile.

‘The greatest man I ever knew once said, I talk too much. That I should let the words on the page speak for me. And so I will. I wrote a book called ‘DevilMan’. How will the world take it? That's not up to me, that's for History to decide.’