Happy indeed is that person who knows not the horror of existence. Blessed is that mind that lives free from tension and paranoia; truly marvelous is that physique which remains pure and unsullied by chemical preservatives and toxic trace elements. For this modern world represents all the inner turmoil and contradiction of the human spirit made manifest -- visited upon the earth in the form of our schizophrenic culture, our sadomasochistic religion, and our fascist institutions of government and commerce.
Such was my lot, until the day that Mephisto himself befriended me, and we made our peace (such as it is) at last.
That day began as all other days, in a haze of pain and confusion. I had just woken with a start from a troubled dream, when an awful wail broke the still morning air. Clapping my hands over my ears, I searched the room with bleary eyes for the source of this offensive and persistent din.
At last I saw it, and a shudder of recognition passed through my aching body. I knew those red eyes, glowing like a daemon from the deepest pit in Hades. It was my alarm clock.
With feverish rage I lashed out, groping for the switch like a blind man. When its electronic bleating was mercifully ended, I staggered into the kitchen. For a single thought now dominated the whole of my being -- indeed, one idea blazed in my mind with a hideous, pounding intensity: caffeine, caffeine!
Upon satisfying this unwholesome addiction to which I am enslaved, I glanced once more at the hateful clock. Its crimson numerals seemed almost to reproach me for having treated it so severely, and it communicated a baleful message indeed, one that made my blood run suddenly sluggish, like the crushed ice of a raspberry slurpee: I was late for work!
Hoarsely shouting imprecations that would have shocked the most hard-core gangsta rapper, I gathered my few necessary papers, my jacket and my keys, and I fled from that place like a man possessed.
Of the ride to my office I shall say nothing, or next to nothing, for even now the memory of that tortuous journey causes my hair follicles to stand erect. The potholes yawned like chasms of madness, the street crews malevolently blocked all the most direct routes, "One Way" signs thwarted my every navigatory decision -- it was, in short, a drive such as I had been accustomed to make every weekday morning since the date of my graduation.
As I brought my vehicle to a lurching stop before the strip-mall where I work, I reflected that my grotesquely disconcerting life had not always been so. My childhood had been serene and calm, and my school years were filled with pleasant and idealistic dreams.
The change had come when I finished school and entered the so-called working world -- entered the office into which I now stepped, giddy, breathless, a sorry shell of my former self. I smiled weakly at my supervisor, feigning not to see the evil expression which contorted her pasty countenance almost beyond recognition.
Yes, this was where it had changed, I told myself, as I hurried to the nearest empty cubicle -- here, when I first strapped on these hateful headphones and laid my fingers across this detestable row of plastic keys. Now I waited for the first call and wondered at the low whimpering voice I heard, like a dog that has been beaten one too many times... until I realized that the sound was coming from my own throat.
Then my first call came through, a man, a young man, a very young man. He said he was over 18. I didn't believe him for a second. But his credit card number checked out, so I asked him how he was feeling.
"Not so good," he whined. "I've been up all night..."
"Ah, you've been a bad boy, then. Haven't you?"
"Yes, yes, very bad," he gushed, his adolescent voice cracking. "And I -- I've been carrying a hot stinking load in my panties for five hours straight."
You see, I am an operator on the Diaper Fetish 900 Hotline.
The minutes ground into hours, and I listened to one man after another -- and two women -- recount their sordid tales of wet or otherwise messy underthings. I never gagged; I never choked. That instinct had vanished years ago, along with every sense of scruple and decency that had once allowed me to walk upright in the company of others.
I never censured my clients for their fixations, not even mentally -- I never had. But I pitied them, that they had sunk this low, that they must pay another to listen to their most private imaginings. They were a lonely and sorrowful lot.
But even more I pitied myself, and I hated myself for pitying myself, and this was the source of my spiritual dereliction. When I took my mid-morning toilet break and regarded myself in the lavatory mirror, I saw that my sunken eyes were like hollow pits, revealing me for the empty husk I had become.
Then, in the reflection, I saw over my shoulder a round yellow face, with oval eyes and a broad smile. Hanging beneath its chin was a placard which bore the arcane legend, "yaD eciN a evaH."
I recognized Mephisto immediately.
And in that moment I resigned myself to him, quietly, quickly, without struggle. I had no strength with which to fight, I had no illusions of virtue with which to defend myself. I made my Faustian bargain.
And now I smile as I go about my quotidian duties. At the office I am known as the most veteran phone rep, the Diaper Gipper; around town I am recognized as "that crazy guy in the trench coat with the goofy grin." But it matters not to me whether I am respected or reviled. Nor do I care that my soul will burn in Tartaros for all eternity.
For I have made my peace with the devil. And I am having a Nice Day.
About the Author: B. P. Evercraft is an aspiring horror writer who has lived in Bloomington, Indiana for the past ten years. He is currently at work on a novella entitled Death is a Telemarketer.