The Devil's Detour

By Michael Egan

Ann Savage is a prostitute with a great arse, big titties, and a very bad attitude. She lifts a wallet stuffed full of crisp one-thousand-dollar notes from a punter. What she doesn't know then and soon finds out is that whoever steals this wallet unwittingly inherits a demonic curse.

Ann picks up Frank, a world-class pussy hound, and dirtbag. On their first drug and alcohol-fuelled night of crazy sex in a cockroach-infested city motel, the curse kicks in, and Ann transforms into a vicious demon. Frank kills Ann only to have her turn up the next day with not a mark on her and no memory of the crazy shit that went down the night before. And the kicker is, Ann is pregnant, and her unborn child is the second coming of Christ.

Soon, Ann and Frank cross paths with the wallet's owner, the sadistic demon and Devil's vice-regent on Earth, Nybbas, who has come to deliver Ann and her unborn child to the Devil, during the blood moon eclipse two days hence when the Prince of Darkness will return to Earth for the first time since 33AD when the first JC took one for the team.

If Ann fails to defeat Nybbas, the Devil will remain on Earth for a thousand years. It’s Armageddon. It’s the End of Days. It’s not good.

"A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous. Ann savage is neither."
Coco Chanel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Egan
• Release date: Apr 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463661536

Michael Egan

Michael Egan lives in the Paddington suburb of Sydney with his wife and a small menagerie of animals. He produced and directed the independent Australian romantic comedy Love in the First Degree. The film played many film festivals around the world, including Worldfest-Houston, where it won a Gold Remi. The Brisbane Courier-Mail called it "a welcome change for moviegoers tired of depressing drug dramas set in grimy parts of Sydney," and ABC-TV's At the Movies said it's "a film that deserves enormous kudos." He has also written and directed a number of short films, including the award-winning short The Gift, which played at several international festivals (Palms Springs, Uppsala, London), and Not Quite Tarantino (Sitges). In 2019 he published his first novel, The Devil’s Detour. His feature film script, The Chef And The Critic, was a 2022 Roadmap Writers Greenlights Challenge finalist. Heartless Bastards is his second novel.

Book preview

Part 1

Who is a liar but he that denieth that Jesus is the Christ? He is Antichrist, that denieth the Father and the Son. John 2:22.

Fair warning. This book is filthy.

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE DEVIL'S DETOUR

First edition. April 9, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Michael Egan. All rights reserved.

Written by Michael Egan.

Print ISBN: 978-0-646-83784-0

eBook ISBN: 9780463661536

Cover design by Lavinia Hartney

Editing by Jay Pillay

ONE

Chesty Morgan, AKA Liliana Wilczkowska, sits at a Marcel Breuer’s tubular steel desk, typing at one hundred words per minute. Yes, a typewriter, a 1936 Olivetti Studio 42, designed by Bauhausler Xanti Schawinsky. Hell hasn’t gone digital yet.

Inscribed on a brass plate behind Chesty’s desk is:

HELL IS A FUCKING GREAT PLACE TO BE!

For those that don’t know, Chesty Morgan is stacked, and then some. Chesty starred in a 1974 exploitation film Deadly Weapons, in which she smothered men to death with her huge boobs. It also starred Harry Reems, who famously starred in Deep Throat two years before.

The top button of Chesty’s shirt is fighting a losing battle with her 73-inch boobs. Something has to give. And it does. The top button pops and flies over the desk into the lap of Nybbas, sitting quietly on the other side of the room.

Nybbas is a demon, not your average run-of-the-mill type demon, but the baddest motherfucker demon ever was. At first glance, you wouldn’t know Nybbas is a badass demon. He looks like your old pervert grandpa, the old goat who stinks of cabbage and drops food on his shirt and farts all the fucking time. And, if given half a chance, gropes your arse. Grandpa is gross!

Nybbas is old, really fucking old, three thousand years older than your pervert grandpa. The Dictionnaire Infernal, written by Jacques Auguste Simon Collin de Plancy in 1818, states that Nybbas manages visions and dreams, is regarded as a buffoon and a charlatan, often depicted as smiling and is of the inferior order, high upper gallery of Hell. In short, he is a very, very bad motherfucker.

Today he is wearing a rather natty Brooks Brothers three-piece navy-blue suit, white shirt, red tie. He looks like he works for IBM. He smiles at Chesty, who is attending to her wardrobe malfunction. Those 73-inch boobs desperately want to escape the confines of her shirt.

Can I help? he asks with a pleasant smile and a cheeky wink.

Chesty casts him the death stare; Fuck off, pervert!

Just asking, Chesty. Don’t bite my head off, babes.

When I want help, I will ask. In the meantime, sit there and shut the fuck up, bitch, and don’t call me babes; in fact, don’t call me anything, don’t speak to me ever, got it?

All good, Chesty. Zipping the old pie hole right this minute. Chesty gives him the finger.

A twenty-foot-high steel door swings open, and Lucifer is standing there rocking it Sonny Crockett style. He puffs on a cigarillo and looks hot. He’s the Devil; of course, he looks hot.

Hey Nybbas, long time no see. Lucifer high-fives his old buddy, moves to the desk, and shoves his tongue down Chesty’s throat. As he does, he grabs a handful of her right boob. Coming up for air, he exhales a plume of smoke. Hold all my calls, babes. I’m in a meeting with my main man, Nybbas.

Nybbas gets all proud, ‘my main man,’ not too shabby, eh?

Chesty flutters her eyelashes, No worries, Boss.

Lucifer puts out his cigarillo then kisses Chesty again. Don’t call me, Boss. It’s Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, or Al-Shaytan; not a favourite, though. The Prince of Darkness works for me.

Sorry, Boss, she gets nervous and starts stuttering, I mean Prince…of dark…ness.

Settle down, Chesty… it’s just little ol’ me. Nothing to get anxious about, back to work.

Yes, Boss.

Lucifer rolls his eyes at Nybbas, then holds his hands up, ‘What am I going to do with her?’

Chesty slams away at the typewriter, her boobs bouncing this way and that, threatening to give her a concussion at every key stroke.

As Lucifer leads Nybbas into his lair, the steel door behind them closes with a loud clang.

Nybbas casts an eye over the décor and nods his approval, which is a smart move, don’t you think?

Nybbas thinks so.

He continues with a bit of demon-style brown-nosing. You’ve redecorated since I was last here, Lucifer. It looks amazing.

"When was the last time, Nybbas?"

Around 1901.

It was all Louis the 14th shit, then, Fauteuil a la Reine, Fauteuil en confessional, give me a fucking break. I had a brain spasm and went mad for Bauhaus style.

You’ve always had great taste.

"I didn’t call you down here to suck my dick. I called you down here to give you an assignment. An important assignment. A very fucking important assignment. Probably the most important assignment since I told that dope, Adam, to eat the apple. If only it were that easy all the time. Lucifer opens a leather folio, removes a picture of a muscly-looking dude, and places it face-up on his desk; rosewood with a sculpted cast aluminium base, designed by Herbert Hirche. Very stylish indeed.

Lucifer taps the picture. This motherfucker’s name is Frank Marshall, a shocking pussy hound. He places a photo of a woman next to Frank’s. This slag’s name is Ann Savage. Savage by name, savage by nature.

Nybbas gets interested, Great tits!

Lucifer starts shouting like Al Pacino, a man who loves to shout. I don’t need you to tell me this bitch has fantastic tits, Nybbas; I’m a tit man. I know great tits. They’re great tits. He calms down slightly. I want you all over these two like stink on shit. I want Frank and Ann hooked up and her pregnant when the portal opens in three days.

Why three days?

"That’s when I make my triumphant return to Earth. Can you do that for me, Nybbas?

I serve the Prince of Darkness at his pleasure.

Lucifer puts his arm around Nybbas’s shoulders. If you do this right, Nybbas, my thousand-year reign over Earth begins. Fuck it up, well, let’s just say I’ll be disappointed.

I won’t disappoint you, Boss.

Good to know. Lucifer slaps Nybbas on the arse. Get the fuck out of here and get it done.

On it, Boss.

Lucifer rolls his eyes as Nybbas scuttles out of the office. Lucifer follows him out and sits on Chesty’s desk. He lights a fresh cigarillo. Babes, if Nybbas does fuck this up, transfer him to new arrivals.

For how long, Boss?

Until all Hell freezes over.

They both have a good laugh at that old chestnut.

TWO

A super full moon hangs in the bluest of blue skies. A soft breeze blows dust around the car park of the Clown Motel. It’s on a highway in the middle of butt-fuck, nowhere. A skinny dog mooches in a pile of garbage. The neon sign buzzes on and off. The joint reeks of desperate sex and dirty deeds or dirty sex and desperate deeds; take your pick, it’s all good. The ring of a cell phone drifts in and out on the breeze

A bashed-to-shit Chevy Pick-up roars into the car park and skids to a dusty halt beside a flashy, bright red Mercedes-AMG C-Class Cabriolet. On the tailgate are two stickers: My Dick Is So Small It Takes Up Four Parking Spaces. & Due To A Price Increase On Ammo Don’t Expect A Warning Shot! Sorry, But Times Are Hard.

Nybbas climbs from the Chevy and douses himself with Macho Musk Oil, his favourite cologne. Macho Musk Oil is for men who want to exercise their natural powers. Nybbas. Tick. Macho Musk Oil is for men who are demanding about everything that comes into their life. Nybbas. Tick. Macho Musk Oil is mucho macho. Nybbas is mucho macho every day. Macho Musk Oil, mixed with a faint waft of sulphur is cat nip to the ladies.

For this particular visit to Earth, Nybbas has chosen to dress like Hunter S. Thompson, a hero of his; guns, booze, drugs, pussy. He was a party all day, kinda guy. It was a bummer he killed himself.

Nybbas is wearing Hunter’s trademark; yellow glasses and a white Stetson topped off with a corroded rusty brown leather jacket, Snake Plissken style, and a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots, his favourites.

To quote the great man, When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

Nybbas sniffs the air, I smell, he inhales deeply and grabs his junk, Pussy, big pussy, little pussy, smelly pussy, wet pussy, lovely pussy.

The sound of a ringing phone drifts in and out on the breeze.

Nybbas sits on the front guard of the Chevy. He removes a Cohiba Robusto from an inside pocket, strikes a match on the sole of his boot, and lights up. He takes a long, satisfying drag. Aaahhh. Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this is the sheeeeeeeeee-it.

The phone continues to ring. For fuck’s sake, Frank, pick up the phone, he grunts.

Inside room four, and oblivious to the ringing of that cell phone, is a naked chick. She’s face down on the bed, saliva drips from the corner of her mouth, one fake eyelash dangling, and BABS is tattooed on her butt. She’s mid-forties and has had a shit-ton of work, breast implants, 44DD (greedy bitch), cosmetic eyelid surgery aka blepharoplasty, tummy tuck, liposuction, facelift, eyelid lift, neck lift, brow lift, labiaplasty, clitoral hood reduction, monsplasty, and vaginoplasty. Her bleached blonde hair matches her bleached blonde pubes, matching collar and

cuff as Jane Mansfield liked to say.

Frank lies on the floor next to the bed. He’s naked and snores like a bastard. His left hand is hanging onto a colossal boner; it’s his security blanket. He’s not tall, five-ten, thereabouts, but he’s ripped, done plenty of gym time, and has loads of tattoos. His chest is waxed, but the hair is growing back. He wakes with a start and reaches for the phone, checks the caller ID. It’s his old mate Eddy. Eddy is married to Babs, the naked chick on the bed. Babs, the woman with whom he has just had ten solid hours of carnal pleasure. Eddy will not be pleased. Frank declines the call. PING! An incoming text. It is all in caps, which they say, is shouting. I don’t get it, but there you go. This is what shouting via text looks like.

I KNOW YR FUCKIN HER. YR DEAD CUNT.

Frank is officially in deep shit. Frank rolls onto his knees. His balls swing free, and above them, his arsehole is on full display. Nasty. The blood vessels in his head throb. He barfs. The first of many regurgitations today. He gets to his feet. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuccckkk! He jumps into his jeans and rips the zip upward. The skin of his now limp dick gets caught in the tracks ‘Something About Mary’ style. His eyes water as he brings the zipper down, S-L-O-W-L-Y and very C-A-R-E-F-U-L-L-Y. Phew! He frees the trapped pubic flesh. Zips up, pulls on a ‘Wish You Were Here’ Burning Man T-shirt, a 90’s black patchwork leather vest, and biker boots, then moves to the bedside table and rummages through Babs’ Hermes Birkin handbag and helps himself to assorted coloured pills and a bag of coke. He wets his finger to scrounge the coke residue off the bedside table, rubs it into his gums. He sees a muted porno playing on the idiot box, the Gonzo classic ‘Ass Bandits.’ It’s a three-way gangbang, and Frank is suddenly in no hurry anymore.

He scoops an almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the floor and chugs the dregs while he watches the final moments of the gang bang. Finished, he slaps Babs’ bare ass in farewell. She pukes without regaining consciousness. Frank dry retches; he manages to hold down the lumpy stuff. She’s all yours, Ed, he says as he throws a toothpick into his mouth and exits the room. Outside, Frank stares upward at the super full moon hanging low on the horizon. It’s so beautiful. So serene. So gay.

Frank touches his throat, then runs back inside to fossick amongst the mess on the bedside table. No luck, he scans the floor, looks under the bed, then the bathroom, and there, on the basin, is a silver locket; Frank kisses it in relief, puts the chain over his head, and walks outside.

Nybbas is in the driver’s seat of the Chevy and has ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ blasting out at maximum volume. As Frank passes the driver’s side window, he pukes, and as always, there are carrots and tomato skins mixed in with the puke. Why is that? Go figure.

By the way, thanks for buying this book; let’s face it, you could have purchased some lame Michael Connelly or James Patterson book, but you didn’t; you took a chance on the new guy. God bless your cotton socks. Hang in there; you’ve got some thoroughly sick shit coming your way.

To be fair to Billy Ray Cyrus and ‘Achy Breaky Heart,’ perhaps it wasn’t Billy Ray that caused Frank to puke. As I have a strong feeling, it was the gut full of booze, two-dozen Quaaludes, and four grams of coke he’d pounded down with party girl Babs. A moot point. But he did puke. And that’s all we know for sure.

Frank staggers past the Chevy, pukes once more, then, with his head pounding like a motherfucker, weaves toward the highway.

Soft cock, Nybbas grunts, then opens a copy of Hustler. He scratches the advertised highlight, has a good sniff, then throws the magazine down in disgust. Larry Flint, you’re a jip, that smelt nothing like pussy!

THREE

It is six-thirty in the morning, and the sun is already scorching hot by the time Frank reaches the highway. A jackhammer pounds inside his head. Flies buzz around his mouth and eyes. Sweat drips from his nose and chin, and his T-shirt is soaked. He pukes again. More carrots.

In the distance, a late model, black Audi sedan heads his way. Frank sticks his thumb out, pukes, wipes his mouth with the bottom of his T-shirt as the car pulls up.

The driver, a friendly-looking middle-aged guy, pokes his head from the window and asks, "Are you all right, mate?

Once I get the fuck out of this shithole, I will be. Frank climbs into the passenger seat. And don’t call me mate, it’s Frank.

Sorry, Frank, I’m James. He holds his hand up to shake.

Frank ignores his hand; he leans back in the seat and closes his eyes. The cool air from A/C feels nice on his face. Was Babs worth it? A smile creeps over his face. Visions of the debauchery last night with Babs floods his brain. His dick twitches. Fuck yeah! Babs was so worth it, but now he has to deal with her mad husband, Eddy, a roided up, homicidal maniac. Still worth it!

Frank is having a lovely daydream utilizing all three of Babs’ orifices, which are open for business as it were.

Smoke? Asks James.

What the fuck! Frank wakes with a start.

James holds up a pack of ciggies. Smoke?

Frank points to the toothpick in his mouth, Just quit. When I did smoke, I was an unfiltered Camel guy.

Good for you. Quitting. It’s hard. James lights up and draws deeply; in between coughing, he squeaks, I wish I could quit, smoking’s a filthy habit, but I just can’t quit for longer than three days. On day three, I’m a crazy man, and I crack. One day, you’ll quit. Just keep trying. Frank closes his eyes. A moment later, James coughs loudly. Frank opens his eyes. Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. Like I said, smoking is a filthy habit.

At that moment, unseen by either man, a flock of crows dive into the ground not far from the car, and a kangaroo jumps at top speed into a tree. James grips his left arm.

You okay? Frank asks.

It’s nothing. James gasps. Comes and goes. I’ll be tickety-boo in a few minutes. James clutches his chest and slumps forward, foam streaming from his mouth. The car swerves.

Frank grabs the wheel, pulls the handbrake on, the car slides to a stop on the other side of the road. Frank jumps out and whips around to the driver’s side. He opens the door, James falls out, hanging from the seatbelt two feet from the road and oozing green slime from his nose and mouth. He’s dead as disco.

Frank’s cell phone rings. He yells at the ringing phone, Stop fucken calling me, you cunt! Frank throws the phone across the road. "I gotta get the fuck out of town and some serious miles between me and that maniac. Frank pulls James’ limp body from the car and drags it behind a bush. He goes through his pockets, gets the car keys and a money clip with a decent wedge of notes. He throws up a fist pump. Things are looking up, Frankie, my boy. He pockets the notes, pegs the money clip. He gets in the car and goes. His discarded phone, lying in long grass, starts ringing…and ringing…

FOUR

Back in room four, Eddy, Babs’ maniac hubby, a beast of a man, looks a bit ethnic, in fact very ethnic; back in the pre-PC days, he would have been called a wog or a filthy wog cunt.

Eddy wears a tragic bright green mesh vest and matching Lycra shorts; his junk is well and truly on show. Actually, with all the steroids he takes, Eddy has no balls and a tiny dick. What is on display is a rolled-up sock. Pathetic, isn’t it? Eddy is on the phone calling Frank; his face is bright red and covered in sweat. Behind him on the bed is Babs, dead as disco. Her face is black and blue, her eyes, bloody sockets, and her head