The Ordeal Of Porky Rind (Part Two)

2013 David Jasmin-Green

Mark was flabbergasted. 'This is a tame bird that's escaped from someone's aviary, someone with endless patience who's spent an awful lot of time teaching it to talk,' he told himself. 'But how could it possibly know what the bastards at school call me? I know some birds are clever, but they're not psychic.'

He had read an article about crows a while back in an old Readers' Digest in the dentists' waiting room, and he learned that members of the Corvid family were as talented at mimicking the human voice as any parrot. He had recently watched a video on YouTube about an animal behaviourist studying crows. The bird in the clip was presented with a fat, wriggling worm at the bottom of a deep glass vessel that it couldn't knock over, and from a variety of possible tools it selected a piece of wire that it formed into a hook and deftly used to fish out the treat. Crows were remarkably clever by avian standards, and some biologists reckoned that the cleverest birds were almost equal in intelligence to higher primates.

“How do you know that birds aren't psychic, fatty?” the crow said. “On the whole you only know the little that you know about anything because you rely on the questionable reports of supposedly wiser individuals, and the little that you know from personal experience probably isn't worth knowing.”

“What.....” the boy mumbled. He was about to say 'What the fuck?' but he hated the nastier swear words and he had heard enough of that sort of language from the other kids at school to last him a lifetime. “What.....” he repeated, his tongue tying in knots.

“Whasamarrer, chubby, has the puddy tat got your tongue?” the crow said, dancing back and forth along its perch and doing a little pirouette as it whistled The Magic Roundabout theme. “Talking wildlife doubtlessly comes as a shock to a naïve little cum-dumpster like you, but I'm not really part of the local flora and fauna. I'm something else, boy, and a talking crow is the least shocking way I could have introduced myself, believe me.”

“I..... I can't have a conversation with a bird,” Mark replied. “It's not normal, it's not right! How come you can speak so fluently, how come what you say seems to make perfect sense? My grandma has a parrot that she's had for years and she spends hours talking to it every day, but you can only have a very basic conversation with it and most of what it comes out with is gobbledegook.”

“Don't you listen, Porky? As I've already told you that I'm not a real crow, I'm something else entirely. The reason I've presented myself in this guise is partly because crows are harbingers of doom as your grandma neatly puts it and partly to wean you into my version of reality nice and slowly; it's best to break the disquieting truth that it's my duty to reveal as gently as possible, I've found.

At this point in the conversation I'd expect you to say 'Well what are you, then, matey-peeps?' with a questioning expression on your fat face instead of standing there open mouthed like a mentally retarded fucking lemon. Well – are you going to enquire about my true nature, or what?”

“All right then,” Mark said after a moment's thought. “If you're not really a crow, what are you?”

“To cut to the quick I am a disciple of His Satanic Majesty, my boy, and I've been sent here to enquire if you would consider selling your soul to my most honourable master in return for lifelong wealth and success, great piles of gold and jewels, the love of countless beautiful women or one woman in particular, maybe, the physique of a Greek god, freedom from bullying or perhaps a combination of desirable things. The list of possibilities is endless, you can have whatever your heart most desires. Think carefully before you answer.....”

“You're..... you're the devil?” Mark said, tears beginning to cloud his eyes.

“No, I am not the devil, you cake loving cretin! I'm an emissary of the devil, a messenger from the master's burning pulpit in his infernal HQ on the edge of the fiery pit. Look, if talking to a bird is putting you off I could always change into a sweet, innocent looking child, a little wizened old man or woman, a pink stuffed donkey like the one you still cuddle up to at night, you great wuss, or the delectable Sarah-Jane Fitzgerald, maybe - anything at all, take your pick.”

“How about a little old man?”

“Your wish is my command,” the crow said, fluttering down and vanishing at waist height in a flash of painfully bright light and a puff of dark, sulphurous smoke. Mark rubbed his stinging eyes, and when he opened them there was an old man barely four feet tall standing in front of him. The crooked little figure wore a well-cut charcoal grey suit over a frilly white shirt, a red and black polka dot dicky-bow and a wide brimmed hat with a yellow feather sticking out of the brim.

“You weren't kidding,” Mark mumbled, taking a step backwards. “Look, let me get this right. You, no, your master, is offering me more or less whatever I want in return for signing over my soul. So I can have as splendid a life as I could possibly wish for here on Earth in return for burning in Hell for all eternity after I die? I'm not sure if I fancy that, to tell the truth. No matter how fantastic a life I lead all I'll be able to think about is suffering for ever and ever when my three score years and ten grind to a halt.”

“Ooh, dearie me! It's nowhere as dark and nasty a picture as your over-active imagination paints, boy, the suffering in Hell isn't always as bad as mortals are led to believe. Not if you play your cards right, anyway.

If you accept Old Horny's offer I or one of my colleagues will visit you on occasion during your mortal span and ask you to perform, how shall I put it, certain tasks, which you will be generously rewarded for in the afterlife. You've seen The Godfather and other Mafia related films, I presume. You know when someone asks the Don for a favour and the Don asks them to perform a job for him in return at some point in the future? It's a bit like that. Whatever task you're asked to do will be well covered up, the devil looks after his own, you can count on that.....

When you eventually expire at a ripe old age and you're escorted down to Hades the bloodthirsty, pitchfork wielding imps will stay well away from you. You'll be granted a position as one of Satan's right hand men, individuals like myself who's job it is to toddle to and from the land of the living running errands, usually but by no means always nice, cushy ones. It's a great way to spend eternity, there's lots of variety and we never have a dull day - I'm sure you'll love it.”

“You mean I'll become a demon?”

“Yeah, if that's how you want to put it.”

“All right then, that sounds like a fantastic offer to me.”

“You mean you agree to the deal without kicking up a god-awful fuss and accusing me of being a bloody liar trying to lure you into a trap like most suspicious humans?”

“Yes, I agree.”

“Great! You've made the right decision, fatso, and I promise you won't regret it. What do you want in return for signing over your soul, or do you need a little more time to think?”

“Everything on the list. I want everything I can possibly have, barring nothing. I want fame, riches, I wanna win the X Factor next year, I want a bronzed, muscular body, loads of gorgeous women swooning over me when I'm a bit older, plus a faithful wife who won't suspect what I get up to behind her back. I want TOTAL freedom from bullying while I'm still at school and I want to pass all of my exams with flying colours - straight A's, in fact. Oh, as well as having freedom from bullying I want the worse of the bullies to die in unimaginably painful, horrific ways. And I want my dad's pancreatic cancer to be cured, he's been ill for nearly a year now and I can't tell a soul at school because the news will spread and the bullies will take the piss, and I couldn't bear that.”

“You drive a hard bargain, sonny, but I reckon I can wangle that little lot for you. You and I are going to have an outstanding professional relationship, I can feel it in my bones. I like the way you think..... Now just sign this parchment on the dotted line, it's a legally binding contract. In blood, of course, here's a quill and a tiny blade to cut your thumb with – you'll just feel a little prick, as the dentist said to his sexy patient.”

“Can I ask you a favour before we do that?”

“Course you can, lard-arse, anything for a good customer who doesn't give me any bollocks.”

“You know you first appeared as a crow and then you transformed into a little old man? Could you turn into a fly for me and sit on my palm, just for the pleasure of knowing that I've had a demon in my hand?”

“No problemmo,” the being said. “I'll grant you that wish as quick as you could say ' Michael Portillo is a complete willy'. Actually it might take a bit longer than that, my batteries are running low and I have to get back to Hell soon for a recharge.....” The old man closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he concentrated the dregs of his infernal energy; eventually he disappeared in a flash and a puff of smoke, and Mark had a fat, ugly bluebottle sitting in the palm of his hand. “Owzat, you enormous cock loving, bacon guzzling tit-bag?”

The boy closed his hand, and he fished out the tiny, buzzing monster from its moist prison with his finger and thumb. Deftly he pulled off its wings and flung it into a spider web stretched between two Silver birch saplings at the edge of the path. “That's not fair, you cheated me, you fat bastard!” the fly screamed as a bulbous Garden spider appeared from its lair in a curled leaf and hurried to the middle of the web. Before many seconds passed it had wrapped its screaming victim in a neat silken cocoon and injected it with venom.

“Good riddance, shit breath,” Mark said, spitting on the ground in disgust, and then he searched his bag for the Mars bar he had been saving and carried on his way merrily whistling The Magic Roundabout theme.