Green Fingers

Hell

“I’m bored.  Bored, bored, bored”, Berith the demon yawned, leaning back on his chair.  “I need some fun – maximum mischief, minimum effort.”

“What are you thinking?”  Adramelech asked, “Any fabulous ideas?” Berith cast a baleful eye over Adramelech’s perfect man-bun and pristine goatee, his shaved ram’s legs; and cleared his throat.

“Well, I’ve been ruminating, and what about a wager?  Just above where we’re sitting – on our roof, if you will – there’s a road with three garden centres within half a mile of each other.  Why don’t we choose one each and over, let’s say the next three months, see who can make the most profit from them?  Not turnover, but actual profit, mind you.”

Adramelech raised his eyebrows and gave a little ruffle of his peacock tail.  “You have an oddly specific idea of fun here, but nevertheless, why only two and not three?  I’m certain there’s another demon kicking about somewhere in this, well… hell-hole, who would be interested in coming on board.”

At that precise minute, as though summoned, Baphomet shuffled past, all hirsute body and unreconstructed goat-man.  If there was a Yan to Adramelech’s buff Yin, then Baphomet was it.

“What do you reckon, Baphomet?  Fancy a wager?” said Adramelech.  “Oversee a garden centre each, make as much profit as you can over a short period of time, and the winner wins… well, what do they win?”

“Don’t worry your pretty, little head about that”, said Berith.  “Suffice to say, the reward will be inflicting as much torture and hell’s pains on whosoever they choose for as long as they choose.  Remember that time when you ate all those children?  Well, it’ll thrice as good…”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Ah come on, you big girl’s blouse.  You can moisturise and depilate all you like, but you’re not going to be able to take the hell out of the demon.  You is exactly what you is!”

If the truth be told, Adramelech didn’t really like what he was, so he followed his usual routine in situations like these and turned on someone (was Baphomet even a someone?) else.

“What do you say, Baphomet?  Are you in?  To be fair, you should be bloody grateful we’ve asked you at all.  You can’t even be classed as a demon.  You’re an idol, a symbol even.”

Baphomet faced the rebuke with his usual, hairy silence.  That was his way – hairy silence for most situations.  It was a strong look.

Adramelech was on a roll.  “…and it’s not as though anyone even gets us!  We’re misunderstood – bodies made of air and smoke.  The stench of rot and a bit of profanity and spitting granted, but even so.”

“Shut it!” shouted Berith, snooty nose high in the air.  “We need to choose our garden centres and I’ve heard enough chatter from the both of you.”  In the void of Baphomet’s head, somewhere in the dark chamber where what passed for thought resided, he might have considered that this statement was only fifty percent accurate.

*

Green Beans and Sweet Dreams

The garden centre suited Adramelech down to the ground.  All about the appearance of gardening without any of the nasty reality of getting your hands dirty.  Ornate signs in shabby chic metal reassured, I’m outside watering the flowers. Or, Mindfulness and gardening are two peas in a pod.

You could buy so much garden-alia, without, it seemed to Adramelech, coming across anything as distasteful as an actual plant.  Instead, there were little watering cans in William Morris patterns, china teacups on chains that were actually birdfeeders.  Gardening gloves with fingers that were touch screen sensitive.  “I swear to Satan they exist!” effused Adramelech.

Ah absolutely, Adramelech was in his element in Green Beans and Sweet Dreams.  Switching round the window displays and altering the stock every couple of days.  He’d introduced a mid-season change round, then a mid-season mid-season, then a mid-season mid-season mid-season – you get the picture.  And who knew plants could be in or out of fashion?  Even the cheese plant, old seventies’ monster that it was, was having a moment again. 

In particular, he loved the garden centre’s café – all gingham table cloths, tea with scones, and sweet peas in tiny, glass milk bottles.  He’d invested in more artfully scuffed tables and chairs, more chichi bric-a-brac than the place or his budget could realistically support.  It would be more than fair to say that Adramelech’s understanding of profit and loss was as vague as his clothes were sharp.

Well, what would you expect from the Grand Chancellor of Demons and President of the Devil’s Council? Or more apposite of all, Governor of the Devil’s Wardrobe – a role in which red was so last season, but scarlet was always a la mode.

Yes (or yass queen! as his hero, Jonathan Van Ness would say on Queer Eye – oh how he loved that programme!), this garden centre lark was a whole lotta fun. Adramelech knew he could be accused of being a faddish fucker and he as sure as hell needed to take better care of the pennies, but who in the end could possibly argue with ordering in a selection of wellington boots for the gardening dog?

*

Hell

“Well, that went well.”  Berith said, a smug grin spreading across his fizzog.

“Look”, said Adramelech.  “I enjoyed the ride, and to be perfectly frank, I’m looking forward to seeing you do any better!” 

*

Les Longham’s Nursery and Garden Centre

The sight of two hundred, yellow dahlias in line after perfect line was an impressive thing.  A futile thing, but an impressive thing nevertheless.  Their symmetry and abundance certainly pleased Berith.

He was a big old contradiction of a demon – the devil’s notary with his pernickety attention to detail, as well as being a pile ‘em high, sell ‘em cheap type, whose business plan for Les Longham’s Nursery and Garden Centre was to line up the dahlias.  No choice, no variety, cheap as chips.  This was also pretty much his approach to sinners in hell as the mouldering pile of bodies in his particular sector testified to.

As Adramelech said about Berith on more than one occasion, “That’s the trouble with Berith – posh as houses and as common as muck!”

In contrast to Adramelech, Berith loved the plants, but hated the people he had to sell them to.  They were in most part miserable and old, with no appreciation of his approach to selling.  It was all – I’m not sure I like dahlias, or, haven’t you got them in another colour?  I don’t think that price is very competitive, blah blah blah.  Bastards! 

When it came to it, he didn’t see why he should have to sell any one of them anything.  As his dear old dad used to say, fuck them all.  In retrospect, not the most helpful of attitudes when he discovered that he, like Adramelech, had made nada profit on his garden centre venture.

What bothered Berith more was the future sharing of his failure with Adramelech.  Conversations with that preening idiot only ever went one way.

“I’m Master of Ceremonies and Grand Chancellor, you pen-pushing notary!”

“Well, I’m a Duke and Grand Pontiff in hell.  I preside over twenty six legions of demons.”

“Me? Thirty seven legions.  Thirty seven!  Just saying.  Anyway, you’re an irrelevance, you and your vainglorious titles.”

“Whatever, man-bun.  Pontiff beats Chancellor every time.”

*

Hell

At least Berith and Adramelech could agree on one thing. They could and would smash Baphomet out of the water.  There was no way in hell that Goat-boy was going to make a success of anything he touched with his shaggy, cloven hooves.

*

Geoff’s

Was it in any way factually correct to call Geoff’s a garden centre?  Yes, there was the odd, shrivelled plant or two, but that’s where the similarity ended.  It was the tattiest place of commerce you could imagine.  It had a huge sales floor, but very little to sell.  The ‘display’ consisted of a broken deck chair next to some slimy-green, flower-less flower pots. Plastic bags of compost and manure spewed out their contents from their splitting seams.  The whole place smelt of wet dog and sulphur - and that made Baphomet felt right at home.

Baphomet was old-school to his ancient core.  Having the appearance of being half human and half goat, he went by many names – his personal favourites being Black Goat, or the Goat of Mendes.  He felt both had a certain, dark gravitas.

What most other demons didn’t know was that actually he could speak, but chose not to – in his mind, silence being the only fully appropriate response to the world around him.  Usually, he was fine with this, but sometimes when Adramelech came at him with his bullshit, improving edicts, he did find it hard to bite his tongue.

“Look Baphomet, you need to, you know, smarten up your act.  I only want you to have the chance to be the best version of yourself you can be… which is, er, basically me!”

Old-school does as old-school is and Baphomet decided he was quite prepared to rain down plagues and end-of-days’ weather on the other garden centres in order to win this really rather enjoyable wager lark.

Ultimately, though, he came up with a simpler plan (he had a good business head on him for an ancient demon). Off he went to Les Longham’s and bought a huge amount of the cut price dahlias.  Then in Geoff’s, he moved some rubble in a corner of the yard and lined the dahlias in, if not exactly an attractive way, at least an orderly one.  He made, what can only be described as, a killing – dahlias at quadruple the price of Berith’s pile ‘em high, and barely an overhead in sight.

*

Hell

Who’d ‘a’ thought it?  No, seriously who would have thought it?  Geoff’s!  Baphomet, the winner of the wager! The biggest profit, or more correct to say, the least loss.  When Berith (a peaky looking Adramelech skulking behind him) reluctantly told Baphomet the results, Baphomet let out a fart of delight – in truth, a more eloquent response than any words he could have employed about the matter.

And what was there actually to say?  Baphomet knew what he knew - and that was the devil looks after his own.

*

 (All three garden centres really exist on a road near where I live.  Names of businesses have been changed to protect the devilish.)