Eve Langlais - Last Minion Standing

“I need a minion,” I announced suddenly.

My best friend Jezebel, more commonly known as Jezzie, whom I’d grown up with in the pit known as Hell, looked up from her issue of Demon’s Duds and frowned. “What do you need a minion for?”

“If I’m going to be hunting down scummy souls and sending them back to Hell then that kind of makes me a superhero, right?”

“I guess,” said Jezzie slowly. “So why the need for a minion?”

“Don’t all superheroes have a minion?” Redundant question, as I’d watched all the movies and had read like a zillion comic books—Batman had Robin, Hercules was followed around by the weird satyr, Han Solo had Chewie. If I wanted fame—and the other side of the coin, fortune—I needed a lackey of my own, someone to enhance my awesomeness. Besides, I’d grown tired of fetching my own coffee and dry cleaning.

Jezzie’s face cleared in understanding and she laughed. “I think you mean a sidekick.”

Talk about splitting horns. I rolled my eyes. “Minion. Sidekick. Whatever you want to call it, I think I need one.”

“Sure, why not? But, if you’re going to set yourself up as some kind of super crime fighter, shouldn’t you have a cool name? I mean seriously, even Diana Prince had a secret identity.”

“Who is she?” The name drew a blank. I thought furiously. I knew who Clark Kent was, Peter Parker, too, but I’d never heard of this Diana broad.

“Diana Prince.” Jezzie sighed at my continued blank look. “You know, Wonder Woman. She wore the American flag body suit and tiara.”

“Oh, yeah.” I knew who Jezzie was talking about now, and I hated Diana even more than ever for she not only already owned the best superhero name, she also had the sluttiest supergirl outfit—the bitch.

Much as I hated to admit it, Jezzie had a good point though. Somehow my true name, Sally Jones, just didn’t have an awe inspiring ring or the right kind of syllables sure to make villains tremble. It was my father’s fault. He, a demon with the wicked and strong name of Asmodeus, had caved into the stupidest of human emotions—love. Ick. You wouldn’t catch me falling in love—lust yes, love never. My father though had fallen hard for my mother and out of nostalgia for the human who begat me, he named me after her. I wasn’t impressed. I might have felt differently if she’d lived to raise me, but all I had left of my mother, other than her name, were faded photographs.

“What do you think I should I call myself?” I asked jumping up from my sofa to pace back and forth. I really liked the idea of changing my name. “How about Sexy Lady? Or Wears Prada?”

Jezzie, the traitor whom I instantly demoted from best friend, laughed at my wonderful suggestions. I growled and she laughed harder. I ended up joining in. Okay, so they weren’t the greatest titles, at least I’d gotten the ball rolling.

“I know what you should do,” said Jezzie, the bright gleam in her eyes signaling the arrival of a great idea. I waited eagerly to hear it. Her last great idea had been utterly fantastic and gotten us kicked out Hell for six months. I still wasn’t allowed to talk about it according to the terms of the contract Satan made me sign. But damn, we’d had fun.

“Well, spit it out,” I said. “Wait, don’t spit. Last time your acid ate right through the carpet and floor into Mrs. Livingston’s place and she wasn’t happy.” For a human, my neighbor could be quite shrill.

“How about you have a contest?”

“What? For a name or a minion?”

“Why not both? We’ll setup a Hellbook fan page with pics of you doing superhero stuff and let the denizens of Hades choose your name. And at the same time, we’ll put out word we’re accepting applications to become your sidekick.”

“Minion,” I corrected absently, my mind already turning this idea around in my head. Did I want strangers choosing my name? Then again, could they do any worse than I had so far? The more I thought of it, the more I liked it. “Let’s do it.” With a shout of glee, Jezzie dove for her laptop and fingers flying, she got the proverbial ball rolling.

Leaving her tapping madly, I went to the third bedroom, a space I’d converted into a walk-in closet. If I was going to be in the spotlight, I’d need to dress the part. Of course, I managed to find nothing at all in my closet that would work. What a shame. I’d have to go shopping.

Stores beware. I grinned when I imagined my credit card screaming in my wallet.

I came back from a successful bout of shopping, laden with bags and not a single dime left on any of my credit cards, to find my special phone from Hell flashing. In the shape of a pair of lips, it blinked red on and off when it had a message for me. Tacky, but it was a gift from my daddy, so I made it work with the rest of my decor.

Before making the call, I dropped my bags of clothing in my closet and peeked in on Jezzie who absently waved at me even as she still furiously typed. No longer able to avoid it, and knowing I was about to lose an evening of dancing and flirting, I put the plastic lips to my ear and pressed the only button on the base of the phone. The line rang a few times then was picked up with a snarky “Hello” by my arch nemesis, Medusa.

Medusa positively hated me. I think she resented the fact I’d gotten to move topside, lived in a swanky apartment and got to do all kinds of cool ass stuff. It wasn’t my fault she was stuck in Hell because she had an obvious head of snakes—although I think her intense dislike of me might have also stemmed from the fact I’d once braided her serpents when we were just kids. Some people just couldn’t let go of the past.

“Hey, mouse breath,” I said in a cheery voice. Did I forget to mention I still hadn’t lost my instinct to drive her nuts?

“You.” The disgust in her voice made me beam.

“Yes, it’s me, your favorite soul hunter. What do you have for me today?”

“I heard about your contest and I’ve got a suggestion for you.” Wow, Jezzie had truly worked hard in my absence if word was already getting around. “Oh yeah, let’s hear it.”

“Super Bubblehead.” Medusa snorted in mirth, pleased with herself.

I tsked. “Really, Muddie, can’t you come up with something more original?

Bubblehead is so overdone already. If you’re going to play, put a little effort into it would you.”

The laughter on the phone stopped abruptly. “You’ve got a mission. This one is an escapee from Hell. Quite a nasty little fucker, too. I hope he gets you. Check your printer.”

Without a chance to retort—a specialty of mine—Medusa cut the connection. As soon as she did, the printer I hid in the console table under the phone whirred to life. I opened the cabinet and pulled out the wanted poster that spat out into the tray followed by a few fact sheets.

Hell’s escapee didn’t look too imposing—balding on top with a sharp nose, almost no chin and beady eyes. The stats sheet put him at only five foot six which was shorter than my barefoot five foot nine. I read his summarized bio.

Albert Jefferstein lived from 1898 to 1959. He killed over one hundred women, mutilating them while still alive. He was brought to Hell prematurely when one of the victim’s mothers sold her soul in return for him being captured and punished eternally.

I perused the rest of the sheet, but mostly found an itemization of the crimes he’d committed and the punishment he’d incurred. I winced at what Albert had earned—Satan had a perverse sense of retribution. Something nagged at me though? How had he escaped? Prisoners who received the most severe of punishments were closely guarded.