Everything in Creation is governed and bound by Laws;

Heaven and Hell are no exception.

In times when Demons refuse to comply,

When the actions of the rogues jeopardise the balance,

Hell sends their ancient and most dangerous spawn;

The Contractor…

Act VIII – The Tyrant

“… and as you can see in this small village south of Port Loko, the villagers are evacuating after the locals received a tipoff that the Marauders are planning on ransacking at dawn.

“The Marauders, as you are all aware, are the personal army of Warlord Abdou Momka, who has taken control of a small section of Sierra Leone by funding his small army with illegal trades of blood diamonds from the area.

“Momka’s rule had suddenly shot to worldwide infamy after Channel Nine’s exclusive investigations revealed that one-tenth of the world’s diamond trades were actually being sold and traded by Momka’s Marauders.

“In order to keep locals passive, Momka has been known to raid neighbouring villages from diamond mining hotspots, killing hundreds to send a message.

“Many of these villagers had already suffered enough during the Sierra Leone Civil War back in ninety-one with many having their hands cut off from the Revolutionary United Front. And as you can see behind me on their many dismayed faces, their primary concern is getting their family out of the villages safely.

“This is Brenda Mattson with CNBC Africa; bringing the news as it unfolds.”

The demon made an obscene gesture at the man in the crimson trench coat, dancing and cartwheeling through the air merrily. In its decaying, darkened, purple talons sat a golden sphere, glowing between its fetid fingers.

‘Give me back that fucking soul,’ said the crimson man angrily, ‘or I will peel back your fucking skin and use it to wipe my ass!’

The purple wind demon cackled madly and launched a gust of air toward its feet, lifting it high off the ground and into the air. The crimson man spat angrily on the ground and, in an impressive feat of strength, leapt off the ground and matched the demon’s altitude.

‘I told you I wanted that fucking soul!’ He shouted through the air, grabbing a hold of the demon’s neck with his powerful hand and hurtling back towards the ground, crashing into the pavement and sending chunks of granite and dust into the air.

As the debris settled, the crimson man raised the kicking and squirming demon from the ground by its neck, squeezing his fingers into its throbbing throat.

‘Now, hand it -’

A loud gunshot was heard echoing through the night and the crimson man fell backwards and felt the flesh of the wind demon between his fingers crumble into dust until all that remained in his hand was ash and soot.

With his free hand, he felt around his chest, feeling his torso riddled with tiny, open wounds. He let out an angered, exasperated sigh.

‘Rock-salt!’ He shouted into the air. ‘You gotta be fucking kidding me!’

‘That’s a rude way to greet an old friend, Faust.’ Replied a snide voice accompanied by footsteps.

The crimson man, Faust, desperately patted the ground around him, searching for the orb before he saw the silhouette of a man bend down to the ground, scooping something up into his hand.

‘All your work for such a weak, trifling object.’

Faust then saw the face of an aging man standing over him; Deslin Conrad, the Demon Hunter. The Contractor scoffed at the hunter’s remark. ‘All your studies about Hell and you know jack shit about souls. What fucking good are you?’

Conrad smirked and threw the soul onto the ground, crushing the orb under the heel of his tightly-laced, ‘Hugo Boss’ dress shoes.

Faust’s nostrils flared angrily as he heard the sound of breaking glass and a shotgun being cocked.

‘I know the value of a human’s soul,’ said Conrad snidely, ‘is worthless on Earth if it’s made deals with the likes of your kind.’

‘For the last fucking time,’ Faust shouted, ‘I am not a de-’

Conrad did not hear the last part of that sentence as he pulled the trigger and reduced the Contractor to nothing but a pile of ash.

In the cavernous depths of Hell, through the fiery gates and at the centre of the Nine Circles stood a large, black castle made of brimstone. Within its many black towers was an ancient, infernal library where an agitated, crimson-cloaked Contractor stood, reading through book after book and muttering the words ‘fucking rock-salt’ to himself.

Swearing madly, he threw tome after ancient tome over his shoulder as none contained anything on surviving rock-salt assaults. Giving up, he reached into his coat and produced a small, silver bible and continued assaulting the pages with his finger, flicking through them manically but in vain.

‘No, no, no, no, no, no. Fuck! NO!’

Infuriated, he threw his bible at the nearest book case and roared angrily. There he stood, at the centre of the library, breathing heavily for minutes on end before he finally calmed down. Grinding his teeth angrily, he took a few steps towards his bible and picked up the silver book, paying curious attention to a page that fell out of it as he so did.

Faust knelt down and inspected the page; it was a very worn and time-weathered photograph. The colours were all but faded, leaving behind a blurred, greyish image of a woman wearing a long flowing wedding gown, holding a large bouquet of flowers and leaning her head upon a tall, thin man wearing a long, white tail coat.

Faust squinted at the picture and he could make out the subtle features of his own face; this was a picture of his wedding day. He shook and scratched his head; how could he not remember his own wedding? Did this picture mean that he was once mortal?

Confused, he flipped the picture over and saw a small, faded message written in an unfamiliar scrawl.

‘To remind you that you may someday break the cycle. Laurus –‘

‘Laurus? Who the fuck is Laurus?’ He thought to himself. ‘What cycle?’

Faust quickly put the photograph back into his bible and the bible back into his coat as he heard footsteps echoing loudly towards him.

Through amongst the bookshelves, an angrily looking man wearing a pitch black suit appeared.

‘You’re needed on Earth, Contractor.’ The man said sternly.

Faust crossed his arms defiantly. ‘You’re in your meatsack early today Satan. Let me guess; hot date on Earth?’

‘That is none of your concern, cretin,’ Satan, The Wrath Prince, replied arrogantly, ‘your primary occupation is to get yourself onto the surface world and do what is required of you.’ Satan awaited no reply from the Contractor and made his abrupt exit.

Faust tilted his neck left and right, cracking his neck before he exited the library and made his way towards the mortal realm.

‘Kusheh Mr Faust, wikkom ta Salone.’

Faust stood before a fat, bald and aging African donning ‘Gucci’ sunglasses and a faded red beret. He nodded his head politely to the greeter and replied in kind.

‘Kusheh Momka.’

Faust cared not for the petty strife that plagued the human world, but there was something about the Warlord from Sierra Leone that bothered him. Perhaps it was the hubris that the mortal exuded that offended him so. Regardless, Faust continued his discourse, unfazed by the large platoon of heavily armed soldiers standing around the overly-extravagant room.

‘It’s getting to be that time Momka,’ he stated professionally, ‘you’ve gotten all you can from this deal and now it’s time that you honour your end.’

The Warlord took off his oversized sunglasses and pocketed into the breast pocket of his buttoned shirt.

‘Mi gladi fo mit yu agin Faust.’ He spoke again in Krio. ‘Dis plabah wit dem govment boys… bohku wowoh ah? Yu de med mi gladi, padi; yu de hep mi.’

Faust shook his head. ‘I didn’t help you with jackshit Momka; the Wrath Prince Satan was the one that formed the pact with you.’ He stared menacingly at the Warlord. ‘Now you’ve seen what he’s like Momka; you know what he’s capable of and you know he hates to be kept waiting.’

The large African warlord scoffed at Faust’s threat. ‘Yu no de gon scare mi, Faust.’ He turned his head quickly towards his armed troops, lining the walls. ‘Yu de go now ah!’

His men quickly snapped to attention and exited the room. Faust watched each one of them passing through the doorway, matching their leers with a look of bored indifference. As the last of his troops left, Momka quickly strolled over to the door and locked it, shaking the door handle to ensure it was secure.

He turned to face Faust and smirked at him. ‘It time we de tok agin.’

Faust let out an impatient sigh. ‘Alright Matthews, cut the bullshit and let’s get on with it.’

Momka stared back at Faust, his smirk diminishing slowly. ‘Fine then,’ he said in a heavy, British accent, ‘I see no point in keeping up pretences.’ He walked back over to his large, mahogany desk and sat down on his throne-like chair. ‘As appreciative as I am for the deal your master had made, I’m afraid I need more time, Contractor. So no; I will not be handing over my soul today.’

‘Listen you arrogant fuckstain; you don’t get to dictate the terms of your fucking arrangement. You made the deal, you signed for the expiry and now I’m here to execute the finality clause of your fucking pact.’ Faust hissed angrily. ‘Your soul is owed to us!’

Momka, or Matthews, raised his finger to the air and waved it from side to side. ‘Please don’t go on about the ‘just another black man in Africa’ speech; I’ve watched ‘Blood Diamond’ too many times I’m actually starting to believe that I’m the villain.’

‘Is that where the bullshit Krio accent comes from? Because you sound like a dumb ass.’

‘Yes, I do admit when I planned this out I should have researched my role a bit more.’ He said, looking at his fingernails. ‘But according to the idiot locals, I’m just from another part of this continent that’s all.’

‘And little do they know you’re just a failed thief from a shitty cul-de-sac in Sutton.’ Faust sniggered. ‘When I first met you, you were still doing time for what? Robbing a liquor store? What did you make off with that night? Fifty pounds and a bottle of Johnny Black? And now look at you; if only your slaves could see your former fucking glory.’

Matthews’ demeanour soured and he glared at Faust. ‘It’s a dog-eat-dog world Mr Faust,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘we all must do what we can to survive.’

‘And your slaves? The people you kill? What can they do to survive?’ Faust asked unconvinced.

‘Necessary sacrifices for the greater good Mr Faust.’ The Fake-Warlord replied, shaking his head dismissively.

‘Sacrifice?’ Faust asked sceptically.

‘Think about what these peons have to lose; just labour, limbs and life. And when they do eventually die, all they would have done is leave behind their Earthly remains anyway right? I’ve actually given up more than they have; I’ve given up my immortal soul; my ticket to a better afterlife so that I can make this life better.’

‘Better for yourself.’ Faust spat.

‘I don’t care what you think, Contractor, you’re just the mediator for my pact with your master; you’re just the middleman so it’s not like you can appreciate what it’s like to break your back for something you truly want in life. I’ve made sacrifices; through sacrifice, I have earned my power Mr Faust. Being immortal, I'm sure there isn't a lot that you have given up to be where you are.’ Matthews preached.

Faust stared at the phony tyrant curiously; something about the mention of sacrifice resonated within him and raged against his very existence. He wanted to shout aloud and tell the Wannabe-Warlord contrary, but he could not, for the eternal life of him, remember a reason that afforded him the opportunity. All he could think about was the picture in his bible and even though Matthews continued evangelising his own life, all Faust could hear, in the back of his mind, was one solitary word: ‘sacrifice’.

‘… so you see Mr Faust,’ Matthews’ voice cut through the Contractor’s daze, ‘I will not be giving up my soul today. But can I pencil you in for next week?’ He stated sarcastically. ‘I think I have an opening then.’

Faust took a menacing step towards him, flicking his crimson trench coat angrily behind him as he so did. But Matthews did not move; he sat motionless at his desk, smirking at Faust, holding the Contractor’s gaze.

‘I’m taking that soul to Hell,’ Faust declared, ‘and I’d like to see you try and stop me.’

Faust vaulted over the long desk and pushed his hand onto Matthews’ chest, mid-jump, before knocking the fake-warlord over onto the ground and kneeling on his chest.

Matthews had no expression on his face and said not a word; he simply continued to stare at Faust, unfazed by the Contractor sitting on his chest. Faust tilted his head and frowned curiously at the mortal upon which he perched and ducked just in time as he heard the door to the room burst open and ‘Momka’s Marauders’ showering the room with gunfire.

Upon seeing a sizzling graze across his cheek, Faust called upon his incredible, inhuman might and flipped the extravagant desk forward, shielding himself from the onslaught.

‘Fucking rock-salt again?’ Faust shouted angrily. ‘Are you kidding me?’

Matthews, sensing the Contractor’s distraction, kicked Faust in the jaw before crawling around the desk and towards his protectors.

‘Mama tell mi “keep tik behind your dor fo di dae wen you neighbour go craze!’ Matthews shouted mockingly in his fake Krio accent. ‘Kill im! I de ep dem govment troop!’ He ordered. ‘I no putin fett now ah!’

The small group, a dozen men strong, advanced onto the desk, raining fragments of hard rock-salt. They rounded the up-turned desk and trained their weapons under it and exchanged confused looks; the Contractor was gone.

‘Wetin yu waiting fo! Kill im!’ Matthews shouted angrily from the doorway.

‘I na no here ah boss! Im disap-’

They all stopped and pointed their weapons at Matthews. The wannabe tyrant slowly turned around and found himself staring face to chest with the Contractor, Faust. He wore a furious look upon his face and, in a maddened fit of rage, grabbed hold of the warlord around his neck.

‘Kill… im! I no… can hurt mi!’ Matthews choked. ‘Dem anges nag on git im!’

‘Oh it’s true,’ Faust replied dangerously, ‘I can’t hurt you… but they can.’

As his sentence finished, a strong gust of wind forced the large double-doors to the room shut and upon their white surfaces were two burning, red sigils. The Marauders started shuffling towards Faust with their weapons trained carefully on the Contractor before they heard an ominous, low, growling noise.

One of them let out a cry of horror as one by one, wild demons came pouring through the red symbols emblazoned upon the doors. Without warning, the horde of wild Hellions pounced upon their human prey and the air was marred with gunshots and screams.

Faust, still holding the squirming dictator by the throat, stared upon the carnage victoriously. For every demon that fell under the hail of rock-salt rounds, more leapt through the sigils, overwhelming Momka’s Marauders.

The Contractor had a mad glint in his blood-red eyes as he lifted Matthews off the ground and walked towards the horde of hungering Hell beasts.

‘Wait, wait!’ Matthews protested, dropping all pretences of his Sierra Leonean alter ego. ‘You can’t kill me! What about my soul? You still need my soul!’

 ‘Haven’t you seen “Blood Diamond”,’ Faust replied madly, ‘you’re just another black man in Africa.’

And with that statement, the Contractor cast the False Tyrant into the fray and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him and relishing the sounds of ‘Momka’s’ muffled cries of pain as dozens of hungry, bloodthirsty demons tore into his flesh.

And so ends the tale of the Tyrant… and the Contractor.