Contributing Author: Zeusified

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Somewhere in the Shoulder of New City…

It was a nice day, the kind of day where the sky was blue and fluffy clouds drifted along like they were painted on a canvas of air, the kind where ATMs malfunctioned and spat money onto the streets, where promises were made and kept and broken, where simple plans were put into motion.

“Hang in there!” a yoga instructor cried out. Her voice wavered into the microphone clipped onto her slim athletic top, cutting into the meditative ensemble of Buddhist chants, birdsong, and babbling brooks.

Beetlebub grinned, full of eagerness and anticipation. My, how he loved yoga. Especially here, so close to the Nexus of New City, where people stagnated on the precipice of success, only to flounder as they forgot the reason behind their drive.

He shifted his disguised body–a balding dadbod of a man in neon-green short-shorts–into a relaxed downward dog. The studio’s heat had malfunctioned, unsurprisingly, and he reveled in the warmth, in the slight terror that was building in the room.

There was something perfectly beautiful about how people’s passions faded over time, slipping out of their grasps before they even realized. Every man and woman living in New City’s Shoulder carried their own unique combination of depression and loneliness. They were like fine blends of wine aging in an enclosed space.

The demonic beetleman sighed and wiped the drool off his unshaven chin. The rank stench of desperation and the look that filled the eyes of the yoga practitioners, all full of hopes and dreams gutted with rusty knives, was intoxicating.

“You’ve got this!” the instructor called out to the class. Her voice was soft and fragile and failing, but her microphone still picked it up. She sounded as if she was about to cry, as if she was about to break into a thousand little pieces. Sweat fell from her frayed bangs. It ran down her arms and leapt from her bare shoulders like soldiers diving behind bunkers on a broken battlefield.

“This is the last one,” she whispered, “You can do it.”

With a tendril of Hunger, Beetlebub reached out to sample his newest creation. A vile smile slithered onto his face as he shifted from downward dog into plank.

Beetlebub licked his lips. The right flavors were there: fear, panic, doubt, desperation, and the barest hint of perseverance. The good type of perseverance. The one that was fickle and thin and meek, snappable and crunchy and bite-sized.

Nodding to himself, Beetlebub made a minor adjustment. Calling out to his Bond, he ratcheted up the pressure on the room and yanked on the emotions of his classmates. He forced each one of the athletes and influencers wielding washboard abs and fake smiles to feel, forced them to relive their worst memories, marinate in their insecurities, and drown in the dreams they’d failed to achieve. He watched with glee as they moved from plank to Chaturanga, as their arms and legs trembled like sickly newborn foals.

It was, Beetlebub considered, important to understand that Hunger was a flexible concept. It was dependent on perspective. New City’s Armpit was a fantastic place, a damn decent buffet stuffed with addiction and a nigh-corporeal drive to escape to something better. Its people tasted like a burger, shake, and fry combo meal and its dark alleys and musty bars were comfortable, familiar beats.

With the arrival of Mother Plant, Beetlebub had needed to think. He needed to reshape his plan and account for the wild unpredictability of Her underlings. That’s why he was here. New City’s Shoulder, unlike its Armpit, was a prim cafe that served light sandwiches paired with fruited pastries. It was invigoratingly different, a delightful dichotomy. It was the perfect place to plan out the next steps in his scheme.

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“Almost t-there,” the instructor said. She winced in pain, barely able to lift herself out of Chaturanga and into cobra.

Thud.

Beetlebub chuckled. The shirtless yogi on his righthand side collapsed and was heaving, hopelessly trying to suck in air, hopelessly trying to pull himself together. He just flailed there on his yoga mat, writhing in agony like a headless snake, and no one paid him any attention.

They were too busy dealing with their own demons.

Thud. Thud.

The twins to Beetlebub’s left dropped. They fell onto their braided blonde hair and mumbled to each other as they succumbed to a crooked blend of fiendish nightmares.

The meditative playlist continued in the background. Monks chanted. Birds sang. Water flowed.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rest of the class fell to their mats and contorted in pain, their bones vibrating and cracking beneath their flesh.

The yoga instructor was the only one left, the only one that hadn’t fallen prey to Beetlebub’s oppressive aura. She was clinging to her cobra pose. Her arms were locked at the elbows and shaking, as if each and every one of the muscle fibers in her forearms were unraveling, thread by thread, striation by striation.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, to call for help, but no sound came out. She desperately reached out for someone, for something, and met Beetlebub’s eyes.

That was a mistake.

Like a sheep face-to-face with a snarling, violent wolf, she recoiled in horror. The last of her strength left her. Her elbows buckled, then her chin slammed into her yoga mat.

Beetlebub cackled as her teeth clacked together and her wide amber eyes rolled back into her head.

It really was difficult to cook a meal like this. Dichotomies–especially those of pain and peace–did not pair nicely. But when it was done right, when heat and pressure and pain mixed together in the proper way, the flavor… phew. Beetlebub shivered in delight. The flavor was magnificent.

The demonic beetleman shed his disguise. The flesh of his dadbod dropped to either side of his yoga mat with a squelch, one half landing on the shirtless yogi, the other landing on one of the blonde-haired twins. He flicked his wings and clicked his mandibles in excitement. Then, he fed.

Beetlebub opened his mouth and inhaled. Torment turned tangible and the villain drew it in. He drew it all in. The yoga mats, the still-breathing yogis, the unconscious yoga instructor, their feelings and fears and dead hopes and dreams, their suppressed Hunger for something more. He ate it all, ate the walls, the windows, the air–even the pair of pigeons flying past outside. He ate each and every smell and sound, ate their sweat, ate their stagnation, ate their souls.

And, in the wake of it all, the demonic beetleman left a void. He left nothing–not even a spare speck of a molecule.

Then, there was silence. Blissful, empty, silence.

The ecstasy of the meal was hard to shake off. When Beetlebub recovered, he heard sirens in the distance and the creaking of the multi-story building as it strained against its damaged foundation. He got the sense that soon it would collapse onto the street, ruining more and more lives.

That sense alone was a fitting dessert.

Beetlebub belched out a cloud of acrid smoke and pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. It was different from the last, of course, but no more durable. Acid dripped from his fingertips, burning into the phone’s exterior as he dialed his secretary.

“Lucy, baby,” he said. “I’m going to need a cleaning crew near the market in the Shoulder. You got some boys up for the task?”

“Of course, my Godly Gastrogod,” the succubug replied in her husky, trumpet of a voice, proboscis thrumming. “But we’ve also got a small problem here in the Armpit.”

“They’re already making their move?”

“Yes, my Darkest Devouring Night. We’ve spotted them near the strip clubs on South North South Street.”

“Excellent,” Beetlebub said, steepling his hands together and clicking his mandibles. The million mouths in his stomach yawned in delight, dreaming of another taste of space aphid. It had been a long time since he'd eaten one.

“Unleash the Frugal Five. Remove their chains, let ‘em run loose, and give them access to that weird combo stone of theirs–the one that lets them transform together into a giant sewage monstrosity. Let’s sit back for now and see what kind of mayhem they create. I need to see how Her minions react, but after today’s meal, I’ve got a few plans in mind.”

“Of course, Voracious Void. I am certain they will be eager to follow your commands.”

“They know what happens if they don’t.”