FFM 2017 Day 1- Guess I'll Die. Psyche!

  The guard shoved Ig for what must have been the sixth time, making him stumble and wince.  “All right, all right, I’m walking, geez!  Can’t you let a guy take one last look at nature’s beauty?”

  “I will grant you no such mercy,” she sneered, and pushed him again.

  Ig rolled his eyes.  “You better save all your dramatic talk for the actual execution, or else you’re gonna run out of good lines.”

 “Only a fool such as yourself would speak of death so lightly,” she hissed.  “The gods will punish you for your misdeeds.”

  “What did I just say?”

  The next shove resulted in grass-stained clothing and a mouthful of dirt.  He managed to squirm a foot or two towards the trees before the guard yanked him back by his handcuffs.  He considered berating her for ruining his shirt, but decided against it, lest she try to convince her superiors that his demise should be a more painful one.  Not that it really mattered, but still.

  They reached the clearing and stopped by the side of the holy man, who watched them approach with narrowed eyes.  Ig shuffled away from him.  The guard shoved him closer.  In front of them gaped a circular hole of impossible depth, as though some cosmic seamster had stabbed a needle eye-deep into the ground.  The townspeople called it ‘The Demon’s Maw’.  Ig thought ‘The Spooky Pit’ was a more fitting name (you can’t name anything after a demon’s mouth if it doesn’t have lots of sharp, pointy teeth, you just can’t), but it had never caught on.

  On the far side of the hole stood a small crowd of pained faces.  The exact sort of pain differed from person to person- betrayal, mostly, with some confliction and grief, and a few who were physically injured- but all at maximum intensity, and all directed at him.  These were the family, the friends, the acquaintances, the people pulled into his ‘good, normal person’ charade.  Ig drank in their sorrow, one expression at a time.

  The holy man took a short piece of parchment from his coat and unfolded it.  He cleared his throat.  “You, Ignius Arkenson-”

  “It’s just Ig, actually.”

  “...Have been found guilty of the following charges: trespassing, theft, vandalism, arson-”

  “Okay, but can you really convict me for vandalism and arson?  Because if it’s burned down, then how would you know if-”

  “-assault, and murder.  For these crimes, you shall be cast into the Demon’s Maw-”

  “_{Spooky pit.}”

  “-AND SPEND ETERNITY being tortured by the monsters and beasts which inhabit the Underworld.  Have you any last words?”

  Ig took in the faces again: the woeful crowd, the grim, if irritated, holy man, the seething guard.  Then he grinned.  “You’re making a mistake, you know.  Sending an arsonist down into a land of fire?  Sounds like a paradise to me!”

  There was an outburst from the crowd, something wailed and distraught, and then he was forced away from the earth and into the void below.

  Well, that was fun while it lasted.  With a jerk, he snapped the cuffs apart and began to tidy himself up.  It’ll be nice to get back home again, though.

                        ***

  He stuck the landing with poise and an exaggerated flourish, just for good measure.  The last remains of his falsified humanity shimmered in the distant firelight before sizzling and burning away in the heat.

  Maz looked up from their book (Gaslighting: The Torture Method of the Mind), checked their stopwatch, and let out a long whistle.  “36 years, huh?  That’s your longest time yet!”

  “I told you I’d beat my old record,” Ig replied, stretching out his ebony claws and whip-thin tail.  “I could’ve gone for longer without getting noticed, but humans are just so boring, you know?  I had to do something fun.  Besides, I was starting to miss the heat down here.”

  “I bet you a meal at the Soul Eater bar that I can make it to 50.”

  Ig grinned.  “You’re on.”