The Demon and the Thief

A snake in the grass.


I tie a broad waistband woven in rust colors around my waist, before I look myself in the mirror, running dry fingers down my hairless, bronzed chest revealed in the gap between the hems of my impeccable starched linen shirt, grinning at the reflection which isn’t there. I never bother to do up the buttons. I only do as I always have done, and tuck the shirt inside my trousers in an attempt to look decent in front of my father. I check that my cufflinks are in place. They sparkle golden in the modest lamplight. A gift from my father, on my eighteenth birthday. I drag my fingers through my neck-long hair. Why bother with a hairbrush? I am not hampered by vanity like all those mortals. I take one last look into the mirror, and if I concentrate, I see a vague outline of a man in his mid-twenties. Vital, powerful and beside himself with wantonness and boredom. It’s time to find a new plaything.
I glance at yesterday’s newspaper. A footnote tells me there’s been a string of burglaries in a small town some hours west of London called Midsomer Mallows.
A small town. A countryside village with bored teenagers having nothing better to do than burgle decent family homes in the midst of night. I tap my right index finger at the letters in the footnote for a moment. Usually I wouldn’t care, but some gut feeling tells me I ought to be there and fish out the snakes, toy with them a little. So Midsomer Mallows it is then. I was getting tired of London anyway.
The perfect little English countryside villages. Their narrow brick-clad streets, white churches and lively market places. Beautiful, shining people. Churchgoers and families with little children. Dogs and white fences. Farmers and cows, lush green fields and the smell of manure.
They all go about with their perfect, normal lives, not knowing, not caring that evil walks beside them every day. Like snakes in the grass, slithering unnoticed past the big, fat cows, the sheep and the chickens. They all squawk and sigh over everyday life’s big and small nothings.
I arrive during the day, arriving through a hellmade wormhole as usual, in the outskirts of town, in the thicket of a forest. I make my way out onto the main road and I start walking into town. Each town, like each person, has its own smell, and every time I set foot into a new village, I always take the time to smell it. The smell is a combination of all the feelings accumulated by the citizens, and if something is wrong, I can quickly smell the source, often finding many a wicked mortal who deserve the fate of being my plaything. It’s until death of course. Until I finally turn them over to Hades and eternal wrath. My ministrations and punishments are merely...a prelude of what’s to come in the afterlife. I mean, it’s not like they’ll make it to the gates of Heaven anyway. Why wait until they’re dead when they’re supposed to be punished for their crimes anyway? I have no use for them when they’re dead. I’m no necromancer, I don’t like to lay with cold bodies. No, I need them alive and kicking, they’re eyes wide with fear so I can study my own reflection. For I cannot be seen anywhere else. Not unless you’re special. Very special.
I stop outside the butcher’s shop, staring inside at the youngster working at the counter. His name is Jack, and he’s twenty-one. Grandpa’s name is also Jack. But this Jack is a totally different Jack. A scoundrel. A bored out of his mind snake hissing when his dad’s not looking, getting his kicks at night together with his partner in crime. I don’t find this Jack Dorset the least bit intriguing. There’s nothing special about him. I stand before him at the counter, staring straight at him. An old, white-haired lady at my side, asking to buy two sausages. He does not see me, for he is blind to all, even his own family. Greed runs in his veins. His greed is what attracted me. I catch a glimpse of his accomplice, a vision racing through his mind as he contemplates about which house to hit next. The young manin the vision is beautiful. I find him very attractive, immediately understanding he’s the one I seek. I scan his mind, picking thoughts from this Jack which will vanish into oblivion, who will never be remembered. I leave the Dorset store, walking out into the streets, smelling the enthralling smells of mankind’s sins. I submerge myself among the pedestrians, slithering away unseen, seeking out my next victim. Somewhere on the way I catch a trail here, another one there, following them out of the small town and into the countryside. Finally I get there. I stop to gaze at the weathered and worn farmhouses, the overgrown lawns and the tall oak trees. I tilt my head upwards, drawing in air through my nose in one deep breath. Ah, yes. He’s in there. I can smell him all the way out here. His body is reeking with sin. He’s with a woman, goading her with lies and promises of marriage and money, deriving pleasure from her body, greedily eating of her tits like one of my newborn uncles. He’s whispering sweet nothings into her ear, weaving a web of lies around her, abusing her trust in him. I can smell his sex mingling with hers, smell the lust. I find myself shivering with anticipation. Soon, he’ll be mine for the taking.
I let him have his way with her. He deserves it. It's the last pleasure he'll be getting in quite some time. From now, all he'll feel will be my cock deep in his arse and the noise of his own screams.
I wait patiently, slowly pushing my way into the back of his head, taking delight in making acquaintances with a fresh mind, hiding int the dark folds of his lusts, riding her with him. He's young, filled with life. An obnoxious little snake. A beautiful black-hearted creature. I ride through the orgasm with him. Hm. I stop to contemplate. Surely he can do better than that? I'll show him orgasms which will send him spinning into the black abyss that is the gateway to the hells. He'll know their nature, feeling them ripping him apart. He'll learn to avoid them if he can, not wishing to tread into shadows. I'll make him cold as ice, I promise to scare him away from his own lusts.
The girl leaves, gazing up at his bedroom as she hastily walks by without even knowing I am standing there. She gets on her bike and rides away. I gaze up at the bedroom to catch him staring out of it for a minute, his chest bare, showing himself off, inviting me inside. The little whore. Oh yes, he'll know his worth.
The front door is open. I walk to the threshold, glancing to my right, looking inside the sparsely decorated kitchen. He's done nothing to maintain it. Dirty dishes, dusty counters and broken plates on the floor. My little snake lives in a pigsty. How becoming.
I hear him rummage around upstairs, and I stand still, listening to his footsteps as he treads back and forth across the floors upstairs. Then he flushes down in the toilet. I follow the sound of the water down through the pipes until it leaves the house. He comes downstairs, and finally, I can behold my new plaything.

He isn't much to look at, actually. He's frail, with unbecoming short and curly hair. He wears his shirt open. Beneath it is a t-shirt, a grey one, and he snorts, wipes his nose and picks up his black leather jacket and dresses in it. He's wearing worn jeans and sneakers. His chin is beautiful, and his cheekbones high and classic. Yet what strikes me the most are his eyes, and as he sees through me for a moment, the light reflects in his eyes, and I know I've made the right decision. He walks outside, his stride is determined, with the keyes to his car in his right hand. I allow him to leave, a wicked smile on my face. What a beautiful, beautiful snake. How I'm going to enjoy ripping the skin from his body.
I stand still, listening to him curse as his car refuses to start. All my doing, of course. Guilty as charged. My grin broadens and I allow myself a small laugh. I hear him open the hood. Then he talks into his cell phone, calling his mate Jack. I jam the line, and the young man hangs up, staring in disbelief at his phone. He curses anew then walks inside again, shuffling into the kitchen wher I'm still standing, waiting for him.
It is evening. He makes himself a sandwich and watches television. I go upstairs to investigate his bedroom. Clothes are tossed everywhere, and he keeps a package of condoms in the drawer of his bed stand. Half of them have been used. I draw in the familiar scent of sperm before I yank the drawer out and let it fall to the floor with a loud bang. That ought to get his attention.
I hear the television being shut off abruptly. Then some cautious steps up the stairs. I grin to myself, watching him stare in wonder at the drawer, not seeing anyone else in the room. But he notices a chill. I reach out with my powers and open the window at his left. It is behind his back. He doesn't see what I do, nor does he see me. The young, brown haired man come over, comes closer, and without knowing it he stands right at my side, and I smell his aftershave as he bends down to pick up the drawer. That's right. A little lower. He sinks to one knee in front of me, and I imagine my cock in his mouth, pumping in and out all the while he gasps for air and moans. I watch him pick up the drawer, watch him snort then put it back in it's place. I realize I don't like him doing that. He's ugly when he snorts. I smell his hair. That' when he notices the window, walks over to close it and then he leaves for the bathroom. Excellent. It's getting better by the minute.
I follow him into the bathroom, watching him strip down until he's naked. He has a good build, with muscles and a taut belly. His equipment, which dangles gently between his legs, does not particularly impress me, though it compliments his body, making it more masculine. But I do not care for his short hair. It looks silly on him, making him more of a boy rather than man. He turns on the water, and I watch him shower with haste. There's probably no hot water, since he's so obviously a squatter. I decide it's time to make my move. It's the twilight hour outside. The sun sets on Midsomer Mallow, and another snake in the grass is about to be impaled on the claws of a sparrow.