Mr. Mann - The Afterlife and Times of the Devil's Acquisitor ad Infinitum

By John Byron

My name is Marten Mann. I work for the Devil, or The Prince of Lies, as you people are so fond of calling him. Yes. You read that last line correctly. I am employed by the Powers of Evil as Acquisitor Ad Infinitum. Catchy, huh? To put it in simpler terms, I am a broker of sorts. You know, the guy who finds out what it is that you want the most. I make it readily available to you for a price. I think we all know just how costly that one thing that you think you need so much can be. Which is why I urge all of my clients to choose wisely.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Byron
• Release date: Jul 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781386032489

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Christmas.

For the record, I loath Christmas...

It has nothing to do with who or what it represents. It has nothing to do with who I work for or anything of the sort. I despise this particular holiday because of what it brings out in people. It’s almost as if Christmas has become the poster child for humanities’ false virtue. It has a lot to do with how nostalgic we are as a species, due to the hermetically sealed, silver screen fodder we’re force fed until we claim those disposable desires as our own. For instance, how many times have you looked at a particular Norman Rockwell rendition of a given holiday and felt a little pang of sadness and longing that it wasn't you in that painting. It wasn't you cutting the turkey, or you saying grace? It’s a fucking painting for Pete’s sake! Those people probably didn’t exist any more than those in your favorite movie! Humanity has become addicted to unrealistically longing for things out of reach, times that were never ours in the first place, and in turn we’ve lost our way. We find ourselves discouraged because we’ve forgotten how to find that much needed happiness, never quite realizing that it was right there in our grasp the entire time. We’ll seek solace by looking into the past, pointing at it like an enraged protester and screaming, ‘See! That’s how things are supposed to be!’ We have a tendency to find nothing but disappointment when we turn forward once more, because our life is somehow missing that wistful, warm butterscotch flavor of days gone by. When you look at it like that, its almost as if we are our own worst enemy.

That emotional angst, I might add, is what makes my job so easy.

My name is Marten Mann. I work for the Devil, or The Prince of Lies, as you people are so fond of calling him. Yes. You read that last line correctly. I have been employed by the Powers of Evil as Acquisitor Ad Infinitum for just under 300 years. It might be easier for you to think of me as a broker of sorts. I’m the guy who finds out what it is that you desire most, and then I make it readily available to you… for a price, and I think, no… I hope you all know just how costly that can be. Which is why I urge all of my clients to choose wisely.

Now, there are those of you out there who will view me as evil; a iniquitous, reprobate who preys on the weak, but most, if not all of the people I deal with on a daily basis are very bad people. It really doesn't matter how sorry they may be for a past wrong or how forgiven they think they are, if it’s bad enough, it doesn't wash off. Those people can scrub themselves with the blood of the lamb until sheering time and I’ll still be able to pluck the wicked out of the crowd. They are very easy to spot after all; it's written throughout their auras, and reading those auras make my job a helluva lot easier. The lighter and brighter an aura is, the more good a person will have in them; the darker it is… well, you get the drift. I do not consider the lighter auras a target rich environment and I rarely, if ever, attempt to sway those types; unless of course I feel a challenge coming on or maybe just the primal need to corrupt someone, which is very rare. You’ll never see me cruising the church bake sales for my quarry.

I was sitting in The Crossroads, wondering if I would survive the night, knowing full well that my odds were slim at best. I stared into the shot glass sitting in front of me as Nat King Cole’s voice drifted down from the speakers in the ceiling. He was droning on about roasting chestnuts over an open fire. I was hoping that the song wasn’t an omen of things to come as I rubbed at my weary eyes, leaning on the worn bar top. I was tired. So fucking tired. Then again, given that I hadn't slept in a little over a quarter of a century, it was way past my nap time.

I knocked back the tequila and ran my fingers through my hair, smoothing it back as I looked into the mirror behind the bar. I studied the face that looked back at me and all I could see was the accusatory glare of my self loathing. My dark and brooding eyes stared back at me as if in challenge, seemingly daring the remnants of my worn out empathy to rear it’s bruised and swollen head once more. It was if my reflection was sneering at me, caustically reminding me that this was all of my own doing; that I had brought this on myself. I turned away from the mirror because it was almost too much. That little bit of irony was almost laughable to think that, at one time, I had no problem looking into the mirror. Back when I was alive, I thought that I was good looking, a catch even. I'm not saying that I am unattractive, not by a stretch, but when you’ve seen the things that I have over the course of my employment, being pretty is the last thing on your mind.

I extracted the contract from the inner pocket of my coat and unfolded it, examining the document just like I had several times before. I once again found myself focusing on the signature that appeared to be more of a symbol than anything else. You’re obsessing again, Marten. I chided internally. This is going to work out fine. I was sure that once I showed my boss the contract, he would have no problem overlooking my unintentional transgressions. Yeah, right! Came the unbidden answer. You just keep telling yourself that, Marten. He’s going to peel you like a grape and roll you in salt! I closed my eyes, trying to quell those thoughts; to keep them at bay by any means necessary. I pocketed the document with a trembling hand once more and looked back over my shoulder at my new client, who in turn returned the glance with a wink. Coy Bastard, I thought. My mind kept going back to the question that was incessantly nagging at me like a crow after that last bit of marrow. Why would he sign now? My empty glass disappeared and was replaced with a full one, startling me out of my musings. I looked up and saw Joel, the guy who ran this place, as he he reached down behind the bar and quickly washed the glass, stacking it on the drying rack. Joel is one of those nondescript bartenders who will serve up your drinks, occasionally listening to your woes and rarely, if you're lucky, he may offer you some advice. Let me warn you though, that advice will often come in the form of a grunt that is almost as nondescript as he is.

Thanks. I muttered. Joel offered one of those aforementioned grunts in reply. To most people, he would come across as noncommittal on a good day, but once you got to know him, you learned that every one of those grunts meant something. This one meant, 'You're welcome.'

I sipped at the tequila savoring the burn as it went down. My thoughts homed in on the client once again. I mean, after all this time, why now? I had been after this guy for years, of his time frame anyway, with nothing to show for it and then tonight, out of the blue, he shows up here of all places and wants to sign. It's generally taboo to conduct business of this sort in the Crossroads, but he approached me so... I guess it's ok. Right?

I continued to study my acquisition in the mirror. He had the darkest, roiling aura I had ever seen. Black holes were brighter than that black, ethereal mass swirling about him. I had a dreadful feeling that there was something, some… unseen aspect, or fine detail that had slipped by me. I know that I seem like I am being paranoid, but that’s only because I have to be. When you have a boss like mine, you dot those ‘I’s and cross those ’T’s, because your due diligence has to be rock solid in a situation like this. There is no room for any mistakes, and when you considered the blunder I was seeking to remedy with this, my latest contract, I could not afford another slip up. I realize that it’s too late at this point, the deed was done, and I decided that it didn’t really matter why he finally signed, I was just glad that he did. I remember hoping that it was enough. I took another sip of tequila, rubbing the rim of my glass along my bottom lip as Gabrielle wandered into my thoughts. I looked at her and Michael in the mirror. They were sitting in the booth across from the bar and I was about to go and join them. That is, until I felt a deeply familiar coldness sidle up next to me. Now, I don't care where you live in the world. The deepest cold you have ever experienced is nothing compared to the chilled air of the original Vendor of Sin himself.

How’s my little boy scout? rasped an edgy voice beside me. Now, you probably wouldn't know the Devil's true name, most people don’t. You assume that his name is Lucifer or Satan because that's what you’ve been told; that just goes to show that you can't believe everything you hear. Iblis and Abaddon are probably more accurate. I refer to him as Abby.

I knew that this wasn’t to be a social call, and Abby knew that I knew as much, but that didn’t mean that I had to turn into a card table and fold at the first sign of trouble.

Fine. I said, adding. Just got back from Pike’s Peak. I was trying to be aloof; carrying on like I hadn’t a care in the world. Did he know? How could he know so fast? No, he couldn’t have, right?

Pike’s Peak? Abby sneered. And here I thought you were down in southeast Asia.

Fact. There is no feeling like the one you get when fear grabs you roughly by the intestines and jerks hard. That resulting, spasmodic reflex shoots straight down and you feel your sphincter go tighter than a snare drum.

I sighed heavily. He knew. Think fast Marten, I thought as I lowered my head, my fingers tapping out a nervous, staccato rhythm on the lacquered bar top.

It’s not a big deal, I said, trying my best to not sound defensive, and also hoping that I would still be in one piece by the end of the evening. In fact, I have something better; something I think you will like. I reached into my coat and withdrew the parchment from my pocket and slid it across the bar. I reached for my tequila as Abby’s ferociously nail bitten hand covered the contract and slid it in front of him.

We’ll see about that. he said. It has been said that Abaddon was the most beautiful of all the angels at one time; if you look closely, that beauty is still there, but as of late the Devil is looking pretty rough.

I looked over at Abby, and as usual, he was reading the contract thoroughly. He's always on the lookout for loopholes and gotchas that the damned always try to work in.

What's this? he asked, pointing at one particular line. I leaned over to look where he was pointing.

That's what he wanted. I answered, straightening once more.

For you to work for him?

Yep. I signaled for another shot.

Forever? a note of possessive jealousy in Abby’s rising tone.

I guess. Not that it's gonna do him much good after the initial 20 years though.

I don't know if I like that very much.

Come on, what's 20 years? I asked rhetorically, trying my best to sound flippant. You never know when this eternal outcast is going to turn on you. You can trust me when I tell you that it can very well happen. One minute you can be laughing it up with the Devil like lifelong buddies and the next you're extracting your shorn flesh from within a particularly smelly orifice wondering how the Hell that happened exactly.

It's not like I can't still procure at the same time. I added.

Maybe. he grumbled with some uncertainty.

What’s so important about this one anyway? I carefully inquired.

Something strange about this one. He looked at me patting the place where a heart would be, if he had one. Got a feeling right here. he muttered with a disparaging smile, his eyes seemingly boring into mine. I deftly avoided his gaze and chose instead to focus on the spot just above the nose. I have learned over the years, that it’s never a good thing to look the Grand Deceiver directly in the eyes.

He turned back to the parchment and continued reading. Now, when you’re in the presence of the Devil, or any other deity for that matter, for any length of time, you learn to feel rather than sense their moods. Well, just then I felt Abby’s mood swing dangerously from the usual politesse he proffered, towards a baleful and malevolent rage.

I looked down and saw that his finger had halted shakily at the signature. He twisted his head and looked at me, his red rimmed eyes were aglow with a spiraling fury that I had never seen.

What? I asked, sincerely confused as Abby looked back at the contract with what seemed like disbelief, then his eyes snapped back to me once more, a dark, unforgiving malice in his eyes.

Do you even have an inkling of what you've done? he asked in a tone that did not bode well for one Marten Mann. I nervously shook my head, having no idea where this was going, but knowing it was not going to be good. Iblis rose, upending his stool, and stormed towards the client. This was about to get ugly. Very ugly indeed.

Ok, hold on. I am getting way ahead of myself here. I couldn't tell a story straight if you had a gun to my head. None of this is going to make any sense unless you know everything. I should really start at the beginning. Well, not The beginning, but at least the beginning of this tale. How about we start with how this sordid little bedtime story began in the first place.

CHAPTER 2

Remember when I told you I was almost 300 years old? That's not quite true, as you would see it anyway. Objectively as you view the years, I am actually 45 years old and have been in the employ of the darker forces for roughly twenty years. This is where things can get a little foggy, because when you’re dealing with deities of the eternal sort, you have to understand one thing... time and space are like toys to these guys. You've seen those pill cases the old folks use right? The ones with the days of the week on each compartment? Well that is roughly how time is. Little containers laid out in neat little rows that stretch onward forever. Think of those little boxes as days. My sort can hop from container to container whenever and how often we wish, but there are limits. I can't travel beyond the point of where I first received my power. Otherwise, I could travel beyond that point and undo a lot of things. As much as I would like to, I can't move forward either, because the future hasn't happened yet... or so I thought, but that's a different story, or at the very least, one we can schedule for a later telling. Bouncing back and forth through time allows me to do my job with an expediency you could only dream of. Yes, it's all kinds of magical at first, but then it’s just another mode of travel, but when you look at it that way, I have been doing this for almost 300 years, subjectively speaking. All in all, I have officially sent 387,254 souls into the abyss. That's something like 3½ souls a day if you do the math, subjectively, mind you and most if not all of them had it coming. I just gave them a 20-year party before it happened. Before you ask...yes, I have run into myself before. All that bullshit about the same matter not being able to occupy the same space is just that, bullshit. Running into myself is an eventuality I work very hard to avoid as things can get very weird sometimes. For example, once I walked into the Crossroads and saw myself sitting all too cozy like with Gabrielle. I awkwardly winked at myself, my other self winked back, and I just disappeared into the night once more.

Now, the beginning. Back in 1990, I was working for Ruphert and Schapht as a stocks and futures broker. My job was to get people to invest their money. All of their money. It was something that I excelled at. I could talk a guy into killing his neighbor for his last nickel if I had to. That's not ego talking. I was just that good. I had just received the news that one of my clients had killed himself over a very bad loss. It’s important for you to understand something from the outset, this wasn't some Ponzi scheme. R&S was a reputable house that invested money for you, the client, and while we usually made money for you hand over fist, such was not the case this time. My client, Cal Brady, decided to repaint his bathroom wall with the contents of his head as a result, if you get my drift. I wasn't too broke up about it though. Brady was an asshole who liked beating his wife, partying endlessly with strippers and whores, and he loved the ample supplies of coke that went with that lifestyle. Apparently though, losing 4.5 million (which was more than he had mind you) was more than he could handle. Now, some of you reading this are going to say that his loss was more than likely my fault since I was his money manger of sorts, but we'll get into more of this later.

At the time, I was the highest paid broker at R&S. Highest paid because I brought in the most money. That's what Ruphert liked the most about me.(Schapht died years ago, but Ruphert kept the name due to its familiarity amongst the big money.) I was ruthless and I brought in the big bucks. As long as the money flowed in, old man Ruphert didn't really mind the occasional body count. That's how I secured Schapht's much coveted corner office overlooking the city. Schapht wasn't even 24 hours in the grave when Ruphert made me partner and gave me the old man's office. The monies I had brought in to that place since I had come to work at R&S had bought these guys many a house, car, vacation home, hooker, you name it. If money could buy it, someone in this place had bought it. The perks were unreal at best! I always had great tickets to some of the biggest shows. While I was never really into Broadway per se', they made great gifts that had spectacular returns. It was also nice not having to wait behind the rope at the clubs; all it took was a knuckle tap with the bouncer along with a Benjamin or two and I was always ahead of the line. Then there are the other things that can only be had when you have the stink of money all over your person. The empty things that we think will fulfill us, but rarely, if ever, do. At the very end, I had a 2500 square foot penthouse loft that overlooked the park, numerous cars that I rarely drove, as well as a boat that I only used once. I had more money pouring in than I could ever use in a lifetime, and quite honestly, I was bored. People say, Man! When I win the lotto, it's all gonna change... Nope. You will just find other things that are as equally unfulfilling as you think your existence is now.

On this particular day, the last day of my so called mortal existence, the lead crystal clock on my desk said it was almost three and I was, as usual, bored. I had wrapped up another deal, a big one too! I should have been feeling pretty good about things, but the fact was that I was not feeling good about anything all. I had been brooding over a morose mood all day. Even my assistant had commented on my mood as I grabbed my coat and headed out the door. It was late afternoon and a walk in the park would do me some good. Maybe it would let me air out some of that self loathing I was so fond of.

Something was seriously nagging at me; I couldn't quite put my finger on it consciously, yet subconsciously I knew exactly what it was that was eating at me as I walked down the blustery thoroughfare that was Broad Street in the financial district of Manhattan. It was Brady pure and simple. Brady the philanderer. Brady the wife beater. Brady the stupid son of a bitch who couldn't figure out when it was time to quit until it was too late. I've seen a lot of selfish people in my day, (My father being one of those who earned their way towards the top.) but this guy took the cake. Brady was so ensconced within his own misery that he never even considered the effect his early check out would have on his wife and darling little girl, not to mention his afterlife, but if I had to be honest, that was only a sliver of what was gnawing at me. The real crux of vexation was the glaring fact that I could have pulled the plug on Brady's bullshit a long time ago, but I was too caught up in making the money. Dialing up the green backs. Raking in the cash. I knew better; I had a conscience back then. The writing had been on the wall and I had chosen not to look in that particular direction, but in my defense, he was just too easy. No, really! All I needed to do was to point him in a particular direction and off he went. Don't get me wrong, I was no thief. He made money. Lots of money. The problem was the more he made, the worse he got. I guess that made me the enabler to some degree and awarded me some measure of culpability in this mess.

Now allowing for the fact that I rarely (albeit hypocritically) include myself in my opinionated meanderings, I have never been able to understand wasted talent. Brady was a natural when it came to investments; a borderline savant, if you will. His initial investment capital was just under $7,000 and by the time he checked out, he had amassed and blown over $4,000,000! If I would have had my shit together, I would have done my best to bring him on board at R&S so we both could have made so much more. Yeah, if only…

I stopped into The Emporium, a conundrum of a name if there ever was one. When I think of that word 'emporium', I think of a warehouse type establishment with all kinds of wares, foodstuffs, and more square footage than you could visit in a day's time. This Emporium as it was called, was actually a small room no bigger than a typical office. It was wedged between a dry cleaners and an old deli. The place was circa 1962 at best with its old school shelving, beige flecked tile, an aging cooler with a sketchy glass door, and the constant buzzing of the overhead fluorescents. Overall, the Emporium was jam packed with the requisite sundry items that the blithely existing have to have available at a moment's notice. The cooler was colorfully jammed with beverages, snack foods, sandwiches, and other snack-type items that fueled us on. As well, they had a decent selection of candy, nuts, newspapers, cut rate medicinals, cigarettes, and other impulse buys that sometimes, you just had to have.

Aziz, the owner, stood behind the counter His stubbly head bobbing to some form of ethnic sound that he liked to call music. I compared it to being trapped in some bad Indiana Jones remake, but he was a nice enough guy and his smile was genuine even on his worst day. We exchanged nods as I made my way over to the candy isle. Now, I am not really a sweets kind of guy, more of the  meat and potatoes type actually, but I always loved my Beechnut gum from childhood. Aziz carried it just for me. I grabbed my requisite 5 packs as I usually did and a copy of the Times as I got in line. There were maybe a half dozen or so people in front of me, which tends to make me a little impatient. I’ve never been one to wait in line without become annoyed or increasingly anxious. It probably comes from my childhood somewhere. I just closed my eyes as my head unconsciously moved to the beat of the Egyptian or Indian music that blared from Aziz's 80's style boom box.

Got a nice rhythm that you can dance to, doesn't it? a voice growled, startling me out of my Zen moment. I turned to see a man of maybe 40 odd years standing behind me. The hair on the back of my neck pricked up instantly as a frosty chill washed through my bowels at the sight of this man. The guy had a long, unkempt, stringy blonde mane that hung in loose ringlets and cascaded over his shoulders. There was a particular odor that emanated from him as well that bounced from sickly sweet to all at once foul, but that wasn't what caught my attention though. It was his eyes. The man’s iris’s were colored a shade of blue that was so light, that it gave him the appearance of having virtually no color at all! Just a milky white orb with the spooky looking black pupil seemingly providing the only color. He wore a crooked smile as he looked at me as if waiting for a comment to his wry wit.

Um, yeah. I muttered. Dick Clark would be proud. was the best that I could muster.

It's nice that someone actually gets that reference. the unkempt man offered with a surprised look that seemed genuine. Do you mind if I cut in front of the line? he asked as he stepped past me and walked up to the counter without waiting for a reply. My eyes widened in horror as he drew out the largest handgun I have ever seen. One moment the man was empty handed and the next, the gun was in his hand. He pointed the thick, black, semi-automatic skywards and pulled the trigger. The resulting boom was deafening, as one of the fluorescents shattered from the impact and rained down glass and other debris on those closest to the front. I couldn't hear anything aside from a steady ringing in my ears for a few seconds. As if on cue, everyone (including myself) hit the floor A woman up in the front of the line started screaming hysterically. Aziz reached under the counter and pulled out a sawed off shotgun, but he never had a chance. Before he could bring his weapon to bear on the stringy haired man, the man’s big gun erupted once more. Now, I am sure you have seen the movies where someone who has been shot dramatically flew back and splayed themselves against the wall, or the blast threw them over the hood of a car, or they simply became airborne and soared backwards ten to fifteen feet. In reality, they simply jerk a little and depending on the caliber of the gun, they may begin to bleed soon after or in this case immediately as a torrent of blood erupted from the freshly made, fist sized hole in Aziz's chest. Aziz slumped lifelessly below the counter and out of my view with an almost comical look of surprise on his face. Cigars, cigarettes, and other items rained down and around his newborn corpse. The hysterical woman began screaming even louder now. That is, until the robber roughly shoved the barrel

Reviews for Mr. Mann - The Afterlife and Times of the Devil's Acquisitor ad Infinitum

[Sterling · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

So very creative - I've never seen a trip in Hell in such wonderful detail. The audiobook, read by Todd McLaren, is magnificent. I've listened to this one 3 or 4 times. Excellent. I'm old and I've read a million books and THIS one stands out. I do wish John Byron would 1) write a lot more and 2) put in an initial like John Z. Byron to distinguish from the OTHER John Byron.