The Man of the People
Jul. 27th, 2025 12:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rayaso Wheel of Chaos 2025
Week 5
Prompt: Toi toi toi
Sunday July 27th at 4pm
“Toi toi toi,” besides sounding deeply silly, is a phrase, as we all now know, that is similar to “break a leg” and is used primarily in the performing arts as an expression of good luck. Supposedly, besides sounding like spitting three times (silly, silly, silly), it is thought to have derived from the German word “Teufel,” or Devil. There should be no doubt as to which meaning I chose.
“Why would anyone want to meet me in a Hawaiian restaurant in this town?” thought Nicolaus Abaddon, “I’m getting too old for this.”
Nicolaus was one of the premiere political consultants in Washington, D.C., unmatched for his success rate. If he took you as a client, you would be favored to win.
Potential clients usually preferred meeting in steakhouses with lots of dark wood and heavy glass tumblers, while holding expensive, manly drinks. They wanted to project the power and importance they lacked, and of course to be seen by other low-level political toadies. After all, this was Washington, D.C. and everyone wanted to make America great again, as long as it involved a little something for them.
Bo Thompson was late, which annoyed Nicolaus.
“Stupid power move,” he thought. “The I’m too important to be on time tactic. I’m an alpha and you’re not. More like, you’re a bug about to be squashed and you’re too dumb to know it.” There would be no special deals for good ol’ Bo.
In the meantime, Nicolaus ordered the Hawaiian Burger Special. He had the cook hold the Hawaiian and add some cheddar cheese and bacon. Nicolaus enjoyed a good cheeseburger, but this wasn’t it. The fries were limp and greasy, and the Poi! Poi! Poi! Milkshake did not deserve its exclamation points. It also did not deserve drinking.
“I’ll have the administrative cafeteria add this for the minions,” he thought. “Right next to the duck milkshake."
Bo finally arrived. To show he was a genuine Man of the People, he was wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag flying over an assault rifle colored like a Confederate flag. To demonstrate that he was a true patriot, he wore an American flag pin which, lest anyone be confused, was upside down. His 50-year-old belly bulged over his new too-tight jeans and he sported the requisite red baseball cap.
“I’ll have to change all that,” Nicolaus thought. “Maybe a cheap suit with too-small cowboy boots – business on top with cowboy on the bottom. The painful feet will give him that fresh-off-the-horse gait.”
Nicolaus enjoyed inflicting pain whenever he could; it was a little taste of what would be coming later.
“How do you do?” Nicolaus asked as he stood to greet him. He did not hold out his hand.
Nicolaus looked like a political consultant. He wore a bespoke grey suit with a white shirt and a red tie. On the table was his briefcase, a 1942 Luis Vuitton classic. He looked every inch the power broker. In London, a dapper werewolf had once asked for his tailor.
Nicolaus waited for Bo to start, which clearly made him ill at ease. Nicolaus kept waiting until Bo finally said, “I hear you’re the best.”
“Why don’t you order something, and we’ll get to work,” suggested Nicolaus.
Bo ordered the Deluxe Spamburger, a 1/3-pound beef patty topped with two slices of fried spam, French fries, and Hawaiian BBQ sauce, with an extra-large fully-leaded Mountain Dew.
“Didn’t think no one would recognize me here,” said Bo, as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“Bold choice,” said Nicolaus, who knew that no one would recognize him anywhere.
Nicolaus kept waiting for Bo to ask for his help. This was critical. If he didn’t say it, he couldn’t crack open Bo’s soul to see what was crawling inside.
“I want to primary our RINO congressman. I’ll run from the right ‘cause people don’t think she’s really supportin’ the President.”
This was, of course, a lie. Few politicians were as vocal in their support as the incumbent. Even her detractors praised her for her craven spinelessness. Beau just wanted to get his snout in the trough.
“I need your help.”
There they were – the magic words. Nicolaus grinned slightly. The fun was about to begin.
“Before we start, you need to sign a personal services agreement. Otherwise, I can’t represent you.”
While Bo read it over, Nicolaus opened his soul and looked around.
“Just what I expected,” he thought with a sigh. “It’s tiny, twisted, and without any compassion. He has the standard vices. His porn leans toward young women with a sprinkling of men. He’s terrified that his wife will know. Basic stuff for these men of the people. He’s a Grade A avaricious pig. I’m not going to get much credit for this one. Low hanging fruit.”
Still, a soul was a soul, and as one of Hell’s Soul Catchers, he had a quota. Failure to meet it meant a stint in the Pit of Fire. This was a great motivator, and Nicolaus had always exceeded his quota.
Nicolaus had never been damned to Hell -- he just worked there. As a demon, he had never had a soul. His only purpose was to serve the Master. When not on Earth, he lived in the Administrative Circle of Hell, which was painful, but the perks were pretty good, except for the food, and he enjoyed creating Hell on Earth. It was almost too easy. Politicians did most of the heavy lifting.
Bo finally finished reading the contract for the primary election and signed it. He didn’t really understand it, but the eternal damnation clause caught his eye. He didn’t believe it and the political power would be worth it. Anyway, he’d just confess his sins to Pastor Steve and get absolution. Bo didn’t know that Pastor Steve was running his own scam. He could no more absolve anyone of sin than any other grifter.
Pastor Steve had his own agreement with Nicolaus – there would be no escaping the contract for Bo.
Nicolaus took over Bo’s campaign. He brought in his staff of minions to run everything. It was a classic mud-slinging, substance-free campaign. Bo supported all the President’s hot-button issues. No vaccinations. No fluoride. No contrails. Tarriffs. End Social Security and Medicare. Tax the poor to feed the rich. It didn’t matter how bizarre the position; if the President was against it, so was Bo. Truth was not only optional, it was forbidden.
Of course, his opponent was just the same, but Bo accused her of being a closet libtard and a member of the coastal elite.
Bo eked out a primary victory, complete with rumors of election fraud. Nothing was ever proved. Nicolaus saw to that.
Bo became a rising star in the party. He appeared on approved news shows and held lightly-attended rallies with c-list entertainers. In a memorable endorsement, the President called him his attack dog, but seemed to have him confused with Bo Jackson, the famous football player.
Bo was sure the general election would be a cakewalk. He was stunned when Nicolaus resigned as his campaign advisor.
Nicolaus ignored Bo’s frantic phone calls except for the final one.
“You can’t quit!” yelled Bo. “We got us a contract!”
“We do have a contract,” said Nicolaus. “You wanted to win the primary. You won the primary. You would need a new contract for the general election, but I already own your soul. You don’t have anything to offer me.”
“But . . .” spluttered Bo.
“No buts. Let me give you a little taste of what to expect for your afterlife,” said Nicolaus.
He liked this part. Gloating was petty, but then he was a demon.
Bo saw himself being eaten by maggots, then a demon ripped out his spine, and he was cast into the Pit. Unknown horrors awaited him, and it lasted for eternity. It was pain beyond measure.
The telephone went dead as Bo collapsed.
Life became hellish for Bo. He was humiliated in the general election. All his secrets were revealed. His wife left him and took the children. He was no longer an attack dog. No one would hire him, and he was reduced to homelessness, dependent on a meager Social Security check, which he usually drank away. He was plagued with nightmares about what awaited him after his death.
Finally, Bo died. No one claimed his body and he was buried at the County’s expense. His body smelled strongly of sulfur.
Bo's body may have been committed to the earth, but his soul went straight to Hell. He could feel the maggots eating him and he began screaming in pain. Forever.
Week 5
Prompt: Toi toi toi
Sunday July 27th at 4pm
“Toi toi toi,” besides sounding deeply silly, is a phrase, as we all now know, that is similar to “break a leg” and is used primarily in the performing arts as an expression of good luck. Supposedly, besides sounding like spitting three times (silly, silly, silly), it is thought to have derived from the German word “Teufel,” or Devil. There should be no doubt as to which meaning I chose.
THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE
“Why would anyone want to meet me in a Hawaiian restaurant in this town?” thought Nicolaus Abaddon, “I’m getting too old for this.”
Nicolaus was one of the premiere political consultants in Washington, D.C., unmatched for his success rate. If he took you as a client, you would be favored to win.
Potential clients usually preferred meeting in steakhouses with lots of dark wood and heavy glass tumblers, while holding expensive, manly drinks. They wanted to project the power and importance they lacked, and of course to be seen by other low-level political toadies. After all, this was Washington, D.C. and everyone wanted to make America great again, as long as it involved a little something for them.
Bo Thompson was late, which annoyed Nicolaus.
“Stupid power move,” he thought. “The I’m too important to be on time tactic. I’m an alpha and you’re not. More like, you’re a bug about to be squashed and you’re too dumb to know it.” There would be no special deals for good ol’ Bo.
In the meantime, Nicolaus ordered the Hawaiian Burger Special. He had the cook hold the Hawaiian and add some cheddar cheese and bacon. Nicolaus enjoyed a good cheeseburger, but this wasn’t it. The fries were limp and greasy, and the Poi! Poi! Poi! Milkshake did not deserve its exclamation points. It also did not deserve drinking.
“I’ll have the administrative cafeteria add this for the minions,” he thought. “Right next to the duck milkshake."
Bo finally arrived. To show he was a genuine Man of the People, he was wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag flying over an assault rifle colored like a Confederate flag. To demonstrate that he was a true patriot, he wore an American flag pin which, lest anyone be confused, was upside down. His 50-year-old belly bulged over his new too-tight jeans and he sported the requisite red baseball cap.
“I’ll have to change all that,” Nicolaus thought. “Maybe a cheap suit with too-small cowboy boots – business on top with cowboy on the bottom. The painful feet will give him that fresh-off-the-horse gait.”
Nicolaus enjoyed inflicting pain whenever he could; it was a little taste of what would be coming later.
“How do you do?” Nicolaus asked as he stood to greet him. He did not hold out his hand.
Nicolaus looked like a political consultant. He wore a bespoke grey suit with a white shirt and a red tie. On the table was his briefcase, a 1942 Luis Vuitton classic. He looked every inch the power broker. In London, a dapper werewolf had once asked for his tailor.
Nicolaus waited for Bo to start, which clearly made him ill at ease. Nicolaus kept waiting until Bo finally said, “I hear you’re the best.”
“Why don’t you order something, and we’ll get to work,” suggested Nicolaus.
Bo ordered the Deluxe Spamburger, a 1/3-pound beef patty topped with two slices of fried spam, French fries, and Hawaiian BBQ sauce, with an extra-large fully-leaded Mountain Dew.
“Didn’t think no one would recognize me here,” said Bo, as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“Bold choice,” said Nicolaus, who knew that no one would recognize him anywhere.
Nicolaus kept waiting for Bo to ask for his help. This was critical. If he didn’t say it, he couldn’t crack open Bo’s soul to see what was crawling inside.
“I want to primary our RINO congressman. I’ll run from the right ‘cause people don’t think she’s really supportin’ the President.”
This was, of course, a lie. Few politicians were as vocal in their support as the incumbent. Even her detractors praised her for her craven spinelessness. Beau just wanted to get his snout in the trough.
“I need your help.”
There they were – the magic words. Nicolaus grinned slightly. The fun was about to begin.
“Before we start, you need to sign a personal services agreement. Otherwise, I can’t represent you.”
While Bo read it over, Nicolaus opened his soul and looked around.
“Just what I expected,” he thought with a sigh. “It’s tiny, twisted, and without any compassion. He has the standard vices. His porn leans toward young women with a sprinkling of men. He’s terrified that his wife will know. Basic stuff for these men of the people. He’s a Grade A avaricious pig. I’m not going to get much credit for this one. Low hanging fruit.”
Still, a soul was a soul, and as one of Hell’s Soul Catchers, he had a quota. Failure to meet it meant a stint in the Pit of Fire. This was a great motivator, and Nicolaus had always exceeded his quota.
Nicolaus had never been damned to Hell -- he just worked there. As a demon, he had never had a soul. His only purpose was to serve the Master. When not on Earth, he lived in the Administrative Circle of Hell, which was painful, but the perks were pretty good, except for the food, and he enjoyed creating Hell on Earth. It was almost too easy. Politicians did most of the heavy lifting.
Bo finally finished reading the contract for the primary election and signed it. He didn’t really understand it, but the eternal damnation clause caught his eye. He didn’t believe it and the political power would be worth it. Anyway, he’d just confess his sins to Pastor Steve and get absolution. Bo didn’t know that Pastor Steve was running his own scam. He could no more absolve anyone of sin than any other grifter.
Pastor Steve had his own agreement with Nicolaus – there would be no escaping the contract for Bo.
Nicolaus took over Bo’s campaign. He brought in his staff of minions to run everything. It was a classic mud-slinging, substance-free campaign. Bo supported all the President’s hot-button issues. No vaccinations. No fluoride. No contrails. Tarriffs. End Social Security and Medicare. Tax the poor to feed the rich. It didn’t matter how bizarre the position; if the President was against it, so was Bo. Truth was not only optional, it was forbidden.
Of course, his opponent was just the same, but Bo accused her of being a closet libtard and a member of the coastal elite.
Bo eked out a primary victory, complete with rumors of election fraud. Nothing was ever proved. Nicolaus saw to that.
Bo became a rising star in the party. He appeared on approved news shows and held lightly-attended rallies with c-list entertainers. In a memorable endorsement, the President called him his attack dog, but seemed to have him confused with Bo Jackson, the famous football player.
Bo was sure the general election would be a cakewalk. He was stunned when Nicolaus resigned as his campaign advisor.
Nicolaus ignored Bo’s frantic phone calls except for the final one.
“You can’t quit!” yelled Bo. “We got us a contract!”
“We do have a contract,” said Nicolaus. “You wanted to win the primary. You won the primary. You would need a new contract for the general election, but I already own your soul. You don’t have anything to offer me.”
“But . . .” spluttered Bo.
“No buts. Let me give you a little taste of what to expect for your afterlife,” said Nicolaus.
He liked this part. Gloating was petty, but then he was a demon.
Bo saw himself being eaten by maggots, then a demon ripped out his spine, and he was cast into the Pit. Unknown horrors awaited him, and it lasted for eternity. It was pain beyond measure.
The telephone went dead as Bo collapsed.
Life became hellish for Bo. He was humiliated in the general election. All his secrets were revealed. His wife left him and took the children. He was no longer an attack dog. No one would hire him, and he was reduced to homelessness, dependent on a meager Social Security check, which he usually drank away. He was plagued with nightmares about what awaited him after his death.
Finally, Bo died. No one claimed his body and he was buried at the County’s expense. His body smelled strongly of sulfur.
Bo's body may have been committed to the earth, but his soul went straight to Hell. He could feel the maggots eating him and he began screaming in pain. Forever.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-28 01:31 am (UTC)Also, *loved* Poi! Poi! Poi! - with its unearned exclamation points. 🤣
no subject
Date: 2025-07-28 03:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-28 02:24 pm (UTC)I do wonder what some of these politicians are on.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-28 03:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-28 11:21 pm (UTC)Nicolaus enjoyed inflicting pain whenever he could; it was a little taste of what would be coming later.
EXcellent...
no subject
Date: 2025-07-29 01:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-29 02:04 am (UTC)I also like the reminder not to make deals with the devil- I certainly don't want my soul winding up with a fate like Bos.
no subject
Date: 2025-07-29 01:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-29 03:53 am (UTC)"In the meantime, Nicolaus ordered the Hawaiian Burger Special. He had the cook hold the Hawaiian and add some cheddar cheese and bacon."
Now see, that's a truly demon move, you can't order a Hawaiian burger without the Hawaiian!
Fun story.
Dan
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Date: 2025-07-29 01:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-29 03:27 pm (UTC)Dan
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Date: 2025-07-29 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-30 01:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-07-30 04:23 pm (UTC)Thank you for the laugh. This piece, as always, was a hell of a ride. So much fun.
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Date: 2025-07-30 10:29 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2025-08-01 05:01 pm (UTC)