• Eddie Fogler

Benji: Hell Raiser

Updated: Sep 19, 2020

Everything on my desk is slightly out of line. Typical. But no less annoying. I adjust my stapler and pen holder and then watch as they slowly drift off-centered again. Honestly, whoever designed my desk is a genius. An evil genius. They know I’m just like that guy who pushes that boulder up the never-ending mountain. Just not as fit.

I stare at my computer screen and decipher all of the coding. I thought I would hate using such an ancient machine, but I’ve grown accustomed to the rudimentary black background and green type. It’s a nice contrast to the over-the-top announcements that flash across the office TVs. I’m sure the person behind them is being forced to produce them with the same limited selection of clipart.

A stack of paper drops onto my keyboard and snaps me out of my daze.

“One hundred eighty-six unfiled FACs,” Moll says and then drops another stack. “And five hundred fifty-three unfiled ACDRs.”

Seeing them in a pile, I’m a little impressed by the number of Fallen Angel Cases I’ve completed. Not so impressed by the number of Accidental Casualties and Damages Reports though. I’ve really been doing my best to lure targets into more open spaces to avoid unnecessary casualties. Specially since some of the ones that die end up working in my department.

I thumb through the stacks and sigh. “I didn’t realize when I made a deal with the devil there’d be so much paperwork.”

Moll is never amused by me. She just leers over her excessively pointy glasses. “This is hell, Benjamin; we all have to do things we hate.”

“Ugh. Fine.” I sulk into my chair. I actually don’t mind the paperwork; I just like being out in the field more. “I promise to have them filed by the end week.”

“No need.” Moll takes the stacks and burns them up in her hands, letting the ashes fall over my workspace. She’s so wonderfully dramatic. “Ned did them for you.”

Without thinking, I look back behind me. Several desks down, Ned is sitting dead eyed with his mouth agape like some socially awkward fish in his late forties. He puts his hand up like he is about to wave but stops with the gesture unfinished. And then just sits there like that.

I turn back uncomfortably. “He’s such a creep.”

Moll gives my shoulder a pat; her hand is still a little warm. “Again, Benjamin, this is hell.”

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