Wait. Arthur, you can’t be dazzled just yet, give this all a thought! You’re in the enemy zone now! You blank out one second and a great big 9th circle human is going to storm out and gobble you whole!

…

Humans…

Arthur hadn’t heard alot about Earth back at home, but one thing he knew was that Earth was crawling with humans. So, where were they? Something Fred had said popped up in his mind: Fred was a human. Could it be…?

Arthur quickly grabbed the shoulder of a seductive looking woman wearing a navy suit and high heels, swung her around to face him, and with a grim grimace, he asked “Are you a succubus or a human?...” She looked extremely confused and frightened for a moment before smiling awkwardly. “I admire your courage, but if you don’t release me, I’m afraid I’ll have to summon the authorities,” she said matter-of-factly as she reached for something inside her green leather pouch(certified gucci snakeskin purse).

Arthur looked her up and down before promptly letting her go and running away. The police had never been any good to get involved with. They catch you, you die. At least in hell. But Earth is pretty much Hell lite, right? Right.

The woman was left standing, confused and dazed. She had put up a cold exterior, as she always does about everything, but truth is, people grabbing you out of the blue and asking weird semi-flirty questions will shock just about anyone.

Arthur, on the other hand, was already two dussin meters away, dashing as quick as he could, which really wasn’t that fast. He bumped into just about everyone he met, having no idea how to navigate between people who seemed to be walking in an extremely erratic and unpredictable manner. He kept this pace for a minute or so before finally collapsing into a neon-lit bar on his left.

The bar was the very definition of “dimly lit”, the neon sign outside proudly presenting the “Unfavourable Gin” being almost the only source of light. But to Arthur, even a neon light was some sort of insidious witchcraft. The humans can do magic, huh? The bar was decorated with lots of red leather. Red leather barstools, red leather sofas, red leather everything. To the left of the entrance, there was a counter, behind which rows upon rows of gin, rum, tequila, vodka and “flatliner” stood haphazardly on wooden shelves. There was also a strange man back there, staring begrudgingly at the confused and half-terrified Arthur huffing and puffing right by the entrance. He had a trucker mustache, a baseball cap and looked like a redneck both in his natural environment and in the middle of his most dreaded place - the big city.

“If yer not here to drink, get the fuck outta here,” the redneck said in a monotone, annoyed voice, sounding much like a pissed off badger. Arthur looked around with big eyes, as entranced as he had been by the sky, before finally acknowledging the redneck. “Drink?” Arthur thought aloud, “oh, good Lord, I could do with a drink. What have you?” Arthur sat down on one of the red leather barstools, getting really excited to drown his sorrows in human blood. He liked fizzy blood the most, since it was the most common kind and easily transported. “I got gin, rum, tequila, vodka and flatliner, and any combination ‘o those,” the redneck said, pointing at the rows of bottles with his thumb. Arthur looked them over.

Assuming they must have some interesting variations here, he just picked one at random. “Can you give me a glass of that “vodka” thing” Arthur said curiously. The redneck looked at him suspiciously. A man in business attire comes in, huffing and puffing, asking for a glass of vodka? Yeah, no. “I’ll give you a shot,” he said, grabbing a bottle off of the shelf without looking, pouring it into a tiny glass and sliding it over to Arthur without even batting an eye. Arthur felt a bit insulted, but this was a different kind of world. Maybe they had stronger stuff here? Plus, the liquid was entirely transparent, not reddish in any way. Or even green. Or blue. How strange. Maybe it’s a rare human that’s really expensive?

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Arthur lifted the glass, swirled it around a bit, looked it over, gave it a whiff, and eventually… Just a little sip. Just the faintest taste of vodka, and he could already feel the gates of heaven opening up in his mouth, burning his throat with holy water. He spit it straight out, right in the rednecks face, who looked extremely annoyed. “What the fuck is-, how is that-, did you try to poison me?!?” Arthur cried, clasping his throat in pain. Demons were not meant to eat veggies. Potato is a veggie. Vodka is potato. Russian demons do not exist.

The redneck looked at him with either reproachful confusion of sheer loathing. Arthur couldn’t tell which, but he was five minutes from puking all over the floor. “That’ll be fifteen bucks,” the redneck stated, holding out his scruffy hand. “...What’s a buck?” Arthur asked, propping himself up on the counter with one arm in an attempt to keep himself from vomiting. The redneck gave him a mean glare. “Oh,” Arthur realized, “is that one of those “currency” things they got up in the first couple circles?” The redneck took this as a grizzled redneck bartender should - with no disbelief whatsoever, only a somehow increased hatred for the city folk.

Noticing how the redneck bartender’s eyes got just a bit sharper, Arthur hurriedly said “I don’t have any, uh, “bucks”, is it?” “Don’t got any bucks, you say?...” the redneck growled back, his right hand reaching for the shotgun just beneath the counter. But just as Arthur was about to run straight out of the door, he was suddenly struck with something. Inspiration, perhaps? whatever it was, Arthur knew how to use it.

“Say, are you perchance, a human? Serious question,” Arthur said as seriously as he could, something he seldom did. The grim bartender looked at him and realized he was serious. High motherfucker, he thought. Might as well entertain his delusions. “Yes, I am a human,” he replied. Arthur got a glint in his eye. “Say, how about the two of us rumble?” he said excitedly, smiling ear-to-ear. “...If you give your written consent, then sure,” the redneck said, already readying himself to take out 15 years of city-folk frustrations on one (presumably) extremely high dead-end worker.

Arthur looked semi-confused when the redneck slid a pre-written contract over the counter. The contract looked old and was hand written. Must have been at least 15 years old. Arthur carefully read it. Not to disclose any of the happenings, all injuries would be compensated by me, any possible outcomes including man-slaughter will be my fault and I will be persecuted for it, this contract will only work in the favour of Billy-Bob Hoethrower so don’t even try going to the police, you will win only if Billy-Bob Howthrower is unable to fight, unconscious or has for some reason decided to surrender… yup, sounds good! Arthur dug for a bit in his satchel, pulled out his magic little needle, pricked his thumb, and pressed it to the paper, creating a bloody red fingerprint.

The fingerprint glowed a little, indicating the contract to be a success. Must be all the drugs in his system, Billy-Bob(the redneck bartender) figured. “That’ll do, right?” Arthur asked. “Yeah, sure,” Billy-Bob replied as he stepped over the counter and out in the open. He routinely tied his thin drying around his left hand and took a southpaw position. Arthur tried to replicate his movements, but felt extremely uncomfortable, since he was neither left-handed nor very good at fighting. Actually, this would be his first hand-to-hand fight in, well, forever.

“You a southpaw too, eh?” Billy-Bob noted with a slight hint of recognition and respect. “Southpaw? What’s that?” Arthur replied with a look so stupid Billy-Bob lost every ounce of respect he had gained from the whole “fighting” ordeal. Arthur was just about to comment on Billy-Bobs stunned silence when his face was pummeled by a wave of infuriated fists, all from the left hand. “Hold-, up-, wha-,” Arthur stuttered, but couldn’t even finish his thought before a leg came flying his way, slamming into the left side of his face with enough force to knock him down to the ground. He reached out with his right hand, trying to get back on his feet, but Billy-Bob stopped him by crushing his hand beneath his left foot, the same foot that had just rendered a demon from the very depths of Hell nearly unconscious.

“I-, I give up-,” Arthur tried to say, but instead, he got a mouth-full of oxford. “It’s ain’t done ‘til I’m done,” Billy-Bob growled, staring down at the literal demon with a cold bloodlust rivalering that of even 8th circle demons in the middle of a hunt. What followed was one of the worst hours of Arthur’s life. At first, he was embarrassed from being beat to a pulp by a human, but then again, he had never been able to defeat one, so that was soon replaced by sheer horror and an undying wish to never have to fight a human again.

After this hour of pure sadism on Billy-Bob’s part had passed, Arthur was unceremoniously thrown out the back-door and left by a dumpster to bleed to death. After about a quarter of Arthur just lying there trying to catch his breath, the back-door opened again, and Billy-Bob stepped out, locked the door behind him, walked right over Arthurs near-unconscious body, and went off into the night.

I can’t fight humans, Arthur thought. There has to be an easier way.

…

How about I just…

Make a contract with someone?

Then they could hunt humans?

And I won’t have to do any of the heavy lifting?!

Arthur, in the wake of this “incredible” and “original” idea, let himself lie and recover on the dirty, cold, damp street for a couple more minutes, before finally sneaking off into the night, giggling like some fucking maniac.