A Handicap of the Devil? (6 page)

"You want me to report on progress from time to time?"

"That, yes, and I shall also send for you when I want to give you instructions. Whenever you need to see me, call for your broomstick.... What was the word you use to summons it again?"

"Err."

"You fool.” The Devil kneed Jones P. viciously in the groin. He then inserted two fingers into Jones P.'s nostrils, forcing the cringing boy onto tiptoes. “I told you to memorise it. I will tell you once more, and you will not forget it—on pain of being vaporised. You got that?"

Jones P. collapsed into a ball as the Devil released him. He tried desperately to breathe. The Devil's wrath was hot indeed—once invoked—he quickly learned the lesson that you did what you were told and didn't mess up.

"Skitsmoorb. Say it with me.... Skitsmoorb.... Now by yourself.” Satan mouthed the word as Jones P. painfully articulated it.

Jones P. gagged as the Devil pressed his face right against his. The smell of Satan's breath was like that from an open sewer.

The Devil smiled one of those smiles that turned atheists into Christians. “There's an easy way to remember it, and I'm sure it will come to you if you try hard."

The Devil's sarcasm was lost on Jones P., and he never did work out the easy way to remember the word. It was painfully imprinted on his memory in any case, and he never forgot it again.

"Now go back to your spermy bed. I have other fish to fry down below. Remember, don't come to see me unless you have something important to communicate, or unless I send for you."

"Couldn't I come down now and have a look around?"

"You'll see quite enough of it in the future, don't worry.... And now adieu, I am going to hell."

The Devil stepped on the escalator and disappeared downwards at a great rate.

Jones P. put one foot on the moving steps. A painful electric shock coursed through his body, throwing him high into the air and several yards away from the escalator. He could hear the Devil's hollow booming laugh from somewhere deep down below, and his faint voice reached up. “That'll teach you. Do as you're told."

Jones P. mounted his broomstick and flew painfully home. He did not enjoy the trip back nearly as much as the trip there, as various parts of him ached too much for him to appreciate the scenery.

He was not disheartened, however. The Devil might play rough, but Jones P. was destined to sit on his left hand for eternity.

What could be better than that?

The underground convention centre was capable of holding up to thirty thousand people at any time. It was rarely used. No one except for certain members of the legal fraternity knew of its existence. It was not well maintained, but none of the members particularly cared—apart from one or two of the older and more conservative members.

Paint peeled from the walls. The original dun colour had become much darker, both from the smoke that spewed from flaming torches placed in holders around the walls and from the cheap cigars many of the members favoured. Further increasing the eye-stinging smoke, each of the people present held a candle, and the smell of hot wax hung in the air. Shadows swept across the assemblage whenever the great doors opened to admit more of the fraternity, as the breeze made the torches and candles flicker.

The air was fetid with rarely washed bodies. In some places the smell was worse, where lawyers had removed their shoes to reveal usually rotting socks—worn, in some cases, for more than two years at a stretch. The scene confirmed that everything people thought about lawyers was true, only to a greater extent than anyone could have ever believed.

Each of the male lawyers in the room was similarly dressed in a three-piece dark suit in the latest style. The more stylish of the younger members wore blue, or in some radical cases, striped shirts. The older members tended towards conservative white. No one wore a hat. Most members—apart from the brethren who had been warned off because of their bloated and diseased livers—drank cheap cask wine from paper cups.

The straight men gathered together, talking about their last screw with ‘that beautiful, young chick who was so turned on by them she couldn't resist'. The straight women adjusted their shoulder pads and spoke of their plans to take over as Chief Executive Officers of the companies they worked for. This would happen as soon as they could stab ‘that fat bastard of a boss’ in the back.... ‘And didn't they know some dirt about him they were going to use any day now'. The gay lawyers of both sexes gossiped in little groups about one another—and their straight colleagues.

All of them, of whatever gender or persuasion, dreamed of silk—if they didn't already have it. Of all people, lawyers are the least likely to mature. Most remain in their university personas forever.

Eventually, the hall was filled to overflowing. All eyes were on the door as they waited for their esteemed president to enter. This night was to be one of the biggest nights in history. It would be a time that—in years to come—would be marked down on the calendar for special observance. Most likely, in the not too distant future, it would be declared a public holiday worldwide.

This meeting was to be the first step towards the fulfilment of a promise—the legal profession ruling the world. Indeed, this was the sole purpose for the existence of the club. A large banner on the wall at the back of the hall behind the podium screamed in large black letters....

'The Legal Rulers Society.'

When you looked at it, they didn't really have all that far to go. In the most powerful countries on Earth—and in some of the not so powerful—lawyers were in control. They had risen to positions of power in commerce and in politics. After all, politics in parliamentary democracies was about passing legislation, making laws, was it not? Therefore, who better to be elected to parliament than people with legal training? So the argument went, and the rank and file of political parties went along with it. In Australia, lawyers are very nearly held in as much awe as doctors.

A fanfare of trumpets echoed through the hall. Two law students, especially chosen for the task, swung open the great doors with a crash. A second fanfare sounded and right on the crescendo, in swept Jones P. senior with his entourage of toadies and bodyguards. Everyone present stood as the President of The Legal Rulers Society moved to the dais. Three hearty cheers roared out. All present toasted the president in cask wine, red or white.

The great man himself was handed a paper cup full of his favourite cask red. Jones P. senior held up his hands and quieted the crowd. He raised his own paper cup and proposed a toast....

"To the rulers. To our law. To the legal rulers of the world!"

...The crowd roared back the toast at him, and Jones P. senior drank deep, along with everybody else. It was the best wine anyone present had ever tasted, apart from the odd occasion when they got bottled wine for nothing—and even then most of them couldn't tell the difference.

The legal profession of Australia had gathered here at very short notice. They had made travel arrangements from all points of the compass the moment Jones P. senior's e-mail had arrived. The news it contained had been expected for some time, and a special code word had alerted each one to what was afoot, and what they had to do.

Trials were delayed due to ‘the ill health of the defence counsel’ or some other excuse. Most of those present had been able to justify expenses on the basis of a needed trip to Adelaide to meet with fellow attorneys, witnesses or other notables. These people supposedly had ‘information vital to the case’ the lawyers were working on. The clients wouldn't notice the difference, and if they did, what did it matter? Who were they going to complain to? A lawyer? Legal fees were not controlled by government legislation. Any lawyer worth his or her salt could justify any expenses whatever for any reason. This was an integral part of their training. It is amazing how many lawyers from other states—on expenses from clients—attend test matches, football grand finals and big horse races in Australia's major cities.

So the lawyers of Australia had gathered as ordered by the president of their very secret club, The Legal Rulers Society. International brethren were winging their way hence, as many as could reasonably be released from the onerous task of making piles of money. Further meetings were scheduled over the next week to bring everyone up to speed. They had to understand their assigned tasks when the moment came to seize power.

Jones P. senior finished his refreshing draught of cask red and nodded to one of the students to refill his paper cup. He rapped his gavel on the podium, called for order and began his speech.

"Hajulellah.” Jones P. senior had a thin, piping voice that sat oddly with his large frame. The microphone set into the podium amplified his voice, and it bounced off the walls—penetrating the earwax of the assembled throng.

"Hajulellah.” The mob cried in reply.

"Hajulellah, fellow servants of our dark master. The time is at hand. I bear tidings to you that our day is come."

"Hajulellah! Hajulellah!” The lawyers roared in response.

"The Devil himself has spoken. Plan A is in operation. A messenger from God has been appointed to tell all the goody two-shoes on Earth to reform."

A lawyer with a wart on his nose leapt to his feet. “Who is this messenger? We'll tear him apart."

"Hajulellah!” The mob roared.

"Let us at him!"
A fat, blond, female solicitor punched the man next to her in excitement.

"Blood. There will be blood,” shouted the law clerk with gravy on his tie.

"We'll cruthify the bathdard.” The lisping lawyer was beside himself.

The meeting was in uproar.

Jones P. raised his arms to quiet the frenzied pack of lawyers, some of who were frothing at the mouth. “Peace.... Peace, brothers and sisters. This man is not a threat. He is a meek and mild wimp named Jonathan Goodfellow ... God must be losing it. This man is an ineffectual being who could not organize two people to row in a boat at the same time.” He paused, hoping for a laugh. It didn't come. He tried again. “If brains were dynamite, he wouldn't have enough to blow his hat off.” He paused and again nothing happened. Most lawyers lack a sense of humour about anything apart from their clients. “He works for my firm and as such, is under my direct control. I alone will subvert this message-carrier, and we will then enforce the will of Satan."

A female lawyer with long, blonde, untidy hair called out. “Let us help, Mr. President. Let us help. We can devise some really foul torture for this man."

"Let's make an example of him,” slurred the plump C.E.O. of an international law firm.

"Boil him slowly in oil.” The weasel-faced clerk was orgasmic.

"Slow strangulation.” Two gay lawyers embraced warmly.

"Flay him alive,” cried a swarthy, pockmarked Q.C. with a bad toupee.

"Keelhaul him.” This last was from a maritime lawyer—a Naval Reserve officer who had always wanted to keelhaul someone.

Once again, Jones P. senior raised his arms. “These are all worthy ideas. Let me assure you that once the final victory is mine ... ours, you will have this man and many other people to do with as you wish."

"Hallelujah,” called a junior law clerk by mistake.

His boss smacked him in the ear for saying the word the right way around. “What are you? Some sort of Christian?"

The mob began growling and snarling.

The lawyer with the wart on his nose stood once more. “Plan A calls for lawyers all over the world to rise up and seize control. How will we know when to do that?"

Jones P. senior took another draught of his cask wine to lubricate his vocal chords. “The Devil has deputized me as his chief lieutenant on Earth. He has done me this honour and decreed that I take charge of the coming battle.” Jones P. senior knew this was a lie, and he knew the penalties that were in place for misrepresenting Satan.
But what the hell?
The Devil will never find out.

A disembodied, clammy, furry hand gripped his testicles and began to squeeze. The pain was excruciating. The Devil's voice hissed in his ear, “Don't lie about me, you fat arsehole."

With his lower half hidden by the podium, Jones P. senior was desperately trying to loosen the ever-tightening grip on his private parts—while appearing to The Legal Rulers Society members as if he were completely in control. He continued, but his voice was two octaves higher, and that was very high indeed. “It is written that there will be one final confrontation on Earth between the forces of good and the forces of evil."

"Hajulellah!” The mob roared.

"The difference between what is written and what will happen is that the forces of darkness will prevail.” The grip began to loosen.

"Hajulellah!” The mob screamed again.

"Armageddon is coming, and coming soon. We will be the victors.” Jones P. pumped his fists in the air, partly in anticipation of the coming victory, partly because the Devil's grip had relaxed. He was animated, but not as much as he'd have been if the hand were not still there—ready to resume the squeeze if Jones P. senior transgressed again.

The mob was almost out of control. Lawyers danced in the aisles—alone and with other lawyers. ‘Hajulellahs’ echoed throughout the vast hall. A chant of
Bring on Armageddon
started up.

Jones P. senior drained his cup and refilled it.

The Devil released his grasp, pleased with the outcome. “You've done well.” The voice was loud and audible this time. No one noticed it in the frenzied excitement that existed in the Convention Centre.

Jones P. senior came down from the stage and joined the dancing throng in the aisles.

The only person in the room not overly excited by the events was the lawyer with the wart on his nose. He was a very conservative and careful man who had decided to go with The Legal Rulers Society as long as it seemed likely to win.
Armageddon? If we lose, arm a geddon outa here.

The meeting was at an end, and it degenerated into the predictable orgy that followed every meeting of The Legal Rulers Society. All present got drunk on cask wine and—after an exhausting night of revelry and debauchery—returned to their expense account supported five star hotels.