The Bowels of Hell

Flash Fiction by Victor Lembrey



It’s been three days, and I’m still happy with my decision. After a miniaturized female version of the devil simply appeared in my thermos, I made a deal with her, accepted her offer. In exchange for unlimited wealth and irresistible sex appeal, I agreed to automatically poop my pants anytime someone asks me for the time.

Prior to that fateful day (again, just three days ago), when it came to satanic deals, my main frame of reference was Charlie Daniels’s The Devil Went Down To Georgia. In the song, a young fiddle player named Johnny finds himself engaged in a satanic contest, whereby winning gains him a fiddle of gold, and losing costs him his soul. The song is fast-paced, exciting and dramatic. You totally sweat it out with Johnny.

In the end, Johnny wins; the devil is defeated. The song weighed heavily on my mind as I contemplated my decision. The song makes the devil seem vulnerable, capable of poor judgment, susceptible to miscalculation. I thought about the frequency with which I’m asked for the time. Not enough, I concluded, for the devil’s odd request to be a deal breaker. I can handle occasionally pooping my pants. I know I can.

So it’s been three days, and my newfound wealth is exhilarating, reassuring and magical. Wads of twenties appear out of the blue in my sock drawer. It’s a truly kick-ass arrangement. Every time I open the drawer, I find at least a thousand in cash. If I remove the cash, close the drawer and open it again, I find at least a thousand more. Every time. Every single time! I haven’t completely worked out how to store it, save it, invest it, etc., but it’s a great problem to have, believe me.

Regarding my irresistible sex appeal, it’s intangible and authentic. I have the same pre-meeting-the-devil appearance; I’m not taller or fitter or better dressed. I’m simply a newly hatched bitch magnet. This is an actual example; I’m not exaggerating: I entered a bar yesterday and a model named Nikki removed her top, fell to her knees and said, "Please repeatedly mouth my breasts right this instant!" So I did. (Again, I’m not exaggerating.)

Walking home last night, someone asked me for the time, and just like that – pffffffeeerrrttt - I pooped my pants. Rocket-fire diarrhea exploded from my hole. It was plentiful and wet. And it smelled precisely as you’d expect.

"You just drop a load in your chinos?"

I said "midnight" and squished away.

So I’ve taken to not wearing a watch. I figure fewer people will ask. And even if the devil is a prankster, even if, when the mood strikes, she decides to take multiple human forms and hit me with a barrage of “what-time-is-its,” I still think it’s worth it. I don’t kid myself: being rich and sexy is a dirty business.