24. WHAT THE HELL-CAT.
The ArchDemon Berk grumbled as he headed back down to his place (a great little place just by the shores of Lake Cocytus; he got the place for a song, and the views were great, the only downside was that it was if you’ll pardon the expression cold as hell.) He couldn’t wait to get in and see his pets again. But first, he had a job to do.
Contrary to popular belief, hounds were not the only creatures given the infernal initiation. Over time, hell had experimented with many different types of demonic creatures. Starting With imp 1.6.6.6 budgie. (Their constant chirping had proven popular with the torments department, particularly as they usually started at approximately two am, just in that awkward moment when you were just well enough rested to not want to wake up. But before you were rested enough to actually feel any real benefits. They also kept going until their unfortunate victims were too tired to sleep. Nobody knew where they gained this uncanny ability. But in this case, it was definitely a handy feature.) They’d even briefly dabbled in gerbils. But after 50 escapes, they gave that up as a bad job.
These attempts had, of course, been met with varying degrees of success, but not all people are created dog people (in Berks opinion, that just goes to show that some people, demonic or otherwise, will always be wrong.) So hell had attempted their most ambitious project to date. Project Hell-cat.
From the outside, cats seemed like the ideal candidate for infernalisation. Claws, teeth, a mean streak a mile wide, they even made their meows sound like wailing babies, on purpose for Beelzebub’s sake. They produced built-in sulphurous stench (in theory confined to a litter tray, but we all know that stench never stays put where it’s laid down.). There was only one small snag in this particular dastardly design. No matter how much you taught the hell into them, cats would remain CATS.
The first problem was with the food, any attempt to feed them was like playing darts, blindfolded, against a spinning target, while drunk. The finest gourmet souls would be thrown back as if they were dregs, yet they would chow down on the houseplants as soon as you turned your back, then the next day the food they tossed aside as inedible would be devoured, and the expensive alternative treated with disdain.
They took even the most powerful mind-controlling command as a mere suggestion; threats would be met with the full force of the claw. Bribery only worked if you could somehow, by some miracle, make them not sucker you into surrendering the tasty morsel you used as bait just by looking at you and saying “Merrow?” in a confused tone. All in all, they were impossible to command, and training them was like, well..... herding cats.
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But far too much cost had been sunk into this project to just give it up, and so they somehow made their way onto the premium services list as a high-class option, in a desperate attempt to recoup some of research and development's quite substantial losses.
Since then, they had mostly been taken by eccentric devils with more souls than sense, and it seemed quite a lot of the losses had been recouped because despite them being terrible demons, they actually made quite good pets. Still, Berk had never been able to shift the last one.
“They can’t say oi didn’t warn them,” he grumbled, “not moi fault they didn’t listen, they even brought in the lawyers. Lawyers against a demon there ought to be a law” He carefully unlocked the box labelled Rascal. Watching his fingers for the inevitable swiping claws. Then hesitantly took a big stick and, from a safe distance, levered the carrier door open.
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Rascal was bored, and if there is one thing worse than a bored cat, it’s a bored demon cat. They had just opened the box and expected him to step out just because they demanded it? Well, that wasn’t happening. They had fought for two days to get him in there and was he hell going out just because they suddenly changed their mind.
After half an hour and some grumbling from the outside, they had the nerve to try to lift him out.
Rascal was having none of that and swiped out, looking smug at the cursing coming from Berk. They wanted him out? Then they could make with the treats; in the meantime, he was staying put.
Berk tried again; after three attempts, he gave up and piled a dozen treats on the floor.
Rascal eyed the paltry offerings with disdain; more were added, until eventually Berk gave up and just emptied the entire tub of nightmaries on the floor just outside the cage door.
Seeing this Rascal eventually, after washing his paws once more, just so it was clear who was in charge, sauntered out. Letting Berk triumphantly slam the cage behind him, like it was some great victory, and claimed his prize. An entire tub for ten minutes work seemed like fair compensation to him, but apparently, they now had a job for him to do?
Well, sod that, what did they think he was a dog? He didn’t take commands like one of those pups, no dogs, no masters. He was his own cat.
“Listen up, you little bugger,” Berk said. “Oi know you understand what oi’m saying as well as the dogs do, so oi’m going to make this noice and simple alroight. You don’t loike me, oi don’t loike you, but you ‘ave a job to do. You want out? Fair enough, oi don’t blame yer for that. So oi’m going to let you out, and you are going to troi to kill that princess, do a good job, and oi’ll find a way to make sure you always get the food you want from now on. Even if it comes straight out of moi own pocket? ‘Ow’s that for a deal?”
Rascal looked up nonchalantly from his fastidious grooming. He wasn’t taking orders, but if Berk was going to let him out, then so be it. He wasn’t going to oppose that particular outcome. And he supposed that if he happened to be out that way and came across a Princess, he may inadvertently do the job, purely because killing random things was fun, and if they just happened to be the target, then that was no skin off his tail. Of course, only in his own time, there was no rush.