Mister Dreyfus' Demons

By Peter Dabbene

Mr. Dreyfus Demons is the story of Fred Dreyfus, an average individual who is thrust into a most unusual situation. Waking from an office party the night before, he discovers a door that leads straight into the infernal realm of hell.

Condemned to hell on a technicality, his only chance of escape lies with the scruples of three random New Yorkers, or his own wits. As he is introduced to the scheming characters who inhabit the netherworld, Fred realizes that his best hope for escape lies within himself.

Seizing opportunities as they present themselves, Fred forges tenuous alliances in a plan of escape born of necessity and constantly shifting with the political tide of hell.

What people are saying about Mr. Dreyfus Demons:

"Not how it happened at all." - Adolf Hitler

"Peters perspicacious pastiche prevents pigeonholing, plowing past perfunctory potboilers and providing a premier, potent primer on politics and propaganda. Printed with precision, peerless and penetrating, passionate and patient, the puissant prose pesters for promotion and propagation." - The Spirit of Spiro Agnew Weekly Newsletter

"Reading this book gave me a good idea of what hell must really be like." - Anonymous

"Oh yeah, this is a good book. Real good." - The Sarcastic Times

The best foreword I ever wrote." - John Rapacciuolo

"Excellent font work." - The Font Fount

A Bippy Spiffs Book Consortium Alternate Selection

Winner of the Bippy Spiff Certificate of Appreciation for Middlebrow Literature

Peter Dabbene has also written Prime Movements, a collection of short stories, and The Invisible Book, a nine hundred page novel about marketing fraud.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 10, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469117331

Peter Dabbene

Peter Dabbene has also written Prime Movements, a collection of short stories, and The Invisible Book, a nine hundred page novel about marketing fraud.

Book preview

PART ONE

Each of us bears his own hell.-Virgil (70 BC-19 BC)

Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris

(Misery loves company)—Latin maxim (apocryphal)

attributed to Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593)

CHAPTER ONE

One Hell of a Party

The first thing Fred Dreyfus noticed was the darkness. It was no ordinary darkness, but instead the all-consuming, shutting-your-eyes-as-tight-as-you-can-in-an-already-dark-room type of darkness. It was quite dark, indeed.

Fred desperately tried to recall where he was and how he’d gotten here, but his efforts were rewarded only by a dull ache in his brain. It didn’t feel like a hangover, he thought—this was more like the feeling he sometimes got after reading too long in a bad light. Mom had always warned him about that.

He tried to look down, for lack of any better ideas, but his neck refused to comply. Instead, he achieved the desired result by rolling his eyeballs as far downward as they would go. From what he could tell, everything was still intact.

Attempting to move an arm, he found that the rest of his body protested any action as well, preferring to remain as it was, useless.

Fred began to panic. He was too young for a stroke, wasn’t he? What if someone had slipped him something? He knew of the effects simple chemicals could have on the human body when properly (or improperly, depending on point of view) administered. What if …

Breathing deeply, he collected himself, governing his normal healthy level of paranoia.

He flexed his meager muscles as best he could, in an effort to restore circulation and mobility in his limbs.

Could he be in the office? The insurance office! It was coming back to him now. He last remembered being alone in a room at the hotel, after a party of some sort. A Christmas party? It must’ve been one hell of a party. The memories poked at the borders of his brain, but could not completely penetrate the dense fog within. What had happened next, and where was he now?

He felt the blood in his legs returning to its usual rounds. Sensation was restored in strict order from bottom to top, rather than larger limbs to smaller as he would have expected. Little by little each part of his body came back to his control—toes, calves, thighs …

Wait a second.

There was a bit too much breeze down below, he realized. Except for what felt like a cheap tericloth bathrobe, the type hotels make up en masse for their customers to steal, and a similarly thin pair of slippers on his feet, he was naked. New York was certainly living up to its reputation thus far.

He felt inside the robe, found a pocket, and was momentarily comforted by the feel of the small one-sheet Best of the Bible summary he’d found in the night table drawer in his hotel room; it was something real, in contrast to the surreal nature of his current sartorial straits. Apparently somewhere along the missionary road, the Gideons had become more cost-conscious. Unfortunately, as Fred pulled his hand from the pocket, the thin paper stuck to his skin and came along for the ride. Once exposed to open air, the flimsy sheet was seized by a current and drifted away.

As he reflected upon the flimsiness of his current attire, he realized this put an entirely different spin on the situation. Whereas a moment ago he was hoping, almost praying, for someone to come and rescue him from his predicament, now he wished just as fervently, like a hospital gown wearer fallen on his stomach, that no one would discover him just yet.

His body still slightly numb, he knelt to run a hand over the floor. It was not the thinly carpeted sheen of a hotel suite, as he expected. Instead, his touch was met by a hard, rocky surface that served to unsettle him even more. Amid the pebbly covering, he detected a smooth line, about an inch wide, running from his current position to … where? It certainly had to lead somewhere, which was infinitely better than being here, wherever that happened to be. Disoriented and effectively blind in the darkness, he decided to trace the path of the line. Hopefully it would lead someplace where things seemed more familiar, or at least made more sense.

His motor capabilities had returned, and he felt relatively normal physically, with the exception of a slight buzzing in his head. The fog in his brain had begun to disperse.

When he reached the end of the path, Fred had traveled what he thought to be about ten minutes’ time. His sense of time was never very good, though, and especially now, he doubted himself on this estimate.

Up ahead there was a door. It seemed somehow larger than life, and reminded him of the door of his old bedroom back home, in the way the light penetrated the cracks at the bottom and sides, framing its rectangular shape.

Light implied answers. This is a good thing, this door in the middle of black nothingness, Fred thought. At least that’s what he hoped to convince himself.

There was no apparent wall surrounding the door to either side, only the same darkness that permeated every corner of this place. He could see nothing beyond the horizon of the door, nor could he pass his body beyond its invisible parallel. It was as if the door had been painted into the landscape and made real. Memories flashed of Bugs Bunny as the omniscient animator and architect of destruction in the old Looney Tunes cartoon, with Daffy Duck playing the comical and unwitting pawn in a world designed solely to lead him from one stream-of-consciousness pitfall to the next. Fred had seemingly been drafted to fill the role of Daffy in this surreal reprise. Fred had always hated Bugs Bunny …

Regardless of what obscurities the current situation brought to mind, it was obvious to Fred that if he wanted to see what was beyond the door, he would, at some point, have to open it.

Understandably cautious, Fred decided it might be wise to peek inside before fully opening the door and announcing his presence to whatever awaited within. There was no keyhole to look through, no opening whatsoever save the thin beams of light which escaped from its borders.

He laid himself prone and pressed his head to the stony ground in an attempt to peek under the crack at the door’s base. He was successful only in acquiring a number of tiny indentations in his face. From his cheek he brushed tiny rocks, reminiscent of suburban driveway gravel. He reached up and grasped the doorknob. It too reminded him of the door to his childhood bedroom, in the way its heft filled his palm.

Here goes, he thought.

He pulled the door open toward him and immediately fell backwards, floored by a blast of hot air and light exploding from the other side.

Fred raised himself and stood dumb for a moment, amazed at the pyrotechnics before him. The light and heat had pushed him well back beyond the threshold, back into the darkness, but had then stopped, as if consciously choosing not to advance any further. The forces had promptly retreated back to the other side of the doorframe, as if bound by some unseen limitation. Fred could still see the light, feel the heat, but they were plainly being held from crossing the barrier, somehow. The door was wide open, but with the overwhelming brightness, he could not see inside. With no better alternative, he braced himself, lowered his head and resolutely stepped across the border.

As he tried to look toward the root of the light, his eyes briefly registered three distinct dark shapes, before those images were replaced by multichromatic spots and other assorted lights which defiantly continued their display on the insides of his eyelids well after he had closed them.

He spun his head toward the ground to flee the light’s powerful rays and put first his hands, then his arms, over his eyes to shield them. He fought urges of curiosity, fear, and adrenaline in equal measure, and impatiently waited until his eyes adjusted to the weird brilliance. He could not look directly at the source yet, but he could tell that this radiance was no ordinary phenomenon.

The air was acrid and damp with a slightly stale and nauseating quality about it, similar to many caves he’d entered as a tourist or hiker.

Questions flashed through his brain. What were those three dark shapes? Are there people here? Where the hell am I?

His panicked curiosity was temporarily assuaged by the sound of a cool male British voice puncturing the silence, reverberating and echoing throughout the cavern.

Welcome. Do come in, if your eyes have recovered, it said sweetly. There was a dark undertone to the voice that made Fred slightly fearful.

Fred put his hand to his brow and squinted in the direction of the voice. He was able to judge its source—it looked like a man … no, there were three of them—the shapes he’d seen earlier, when he first entered. The figures gradually became distinct. They were seated at a small round table about a hundred feet away, and they appeared to be in the middle of a game of cards. They were speaking among themselves now, softly enough to prevent Fred from hearing what was being said.

Fred noticed a hooded figure to his side. The tall and mysterious silhouette proceeded to silently close the door behind him, while leaning heavily on a staff. The proximity of the hooded being made Fred uncomfortable, and he stepped, uncertainly, closer to the three card players ahead of him. He decided not to look back at the doorman.

I’ll raise you two corrupted ex-youth counselors.

One of the … men? stopped talking to his colleagues, and looked up toward Fred. The other two finished their discussion, then also fixed their sights on Fred. Fred noticed that they all sported mirrored sunglasses, the annoying kind that always made him self-conscious when he saw his own distorted face reflected back at him. Luckily they were now removing them, presumably to gain a better look at their visitor.

They laid their cards face down on the table, nearly simultaneously. The middle figure, he of the British accent, complained bitterly.

Can’t you buggers use the front door like everyone else?

Step closer! one of the others ordered. The voice was very different from the first he’d heard, gruff and unaffected. Not wanting to make enemies just yet, and certainly not ready to ask any intelligent questions, Fred fought back his fear and did as commanded. He considered himself lucky he could even think straight, given how bizarre all of this was.

Name? the same voice asked. He recognized that it was coming from the man on the left. But was it a man? Now that he was closer, Fred got his first clear look at the three beings.

They were all human, or at least human-like, and yet, somehow, they were not like anyone he had ever met. They picked up their cards, as if they had finally judged this intrusion not worth the bother of delaying the game further.

Now they all seemed to be ignoring him, even the one who had just spoken. Instead, the man concentrated on the cards now held before him. What appeared to be poker chips, or some reasonable equivalent, were adjusted as each took a turn and determined the strength of his cards.

The middle man stacked his chips in neat piles, but those of the other two were carelessly strewn about the area before them. There were three upturned cards on the table, and Fred noticed that none was from Hoyle’s standard. The silhouette of a monstrous-looking creature was depicted on the card closest to Fred. He couldn’t tell what the pictures on the others were supposed to be.

I raise you one excommunicated Catholic, came the challenge, at length, from the Briton.

The one on the left, who appeared to be shorter and heavier than the others, played a card from his hand, bending it as he placed it on the table so that a loud ‘snap’ could be heard. High stakes, friend, he said icily. Match your excommunicated Catholic and raise you one disillusioned Mormon missionary, and one militant Muslim terrorist.

Fred tried to identify the card, but he could not. The prominent color was black, which made up the borders, with a centered picture in yellow. There was also some small writing in yellow, Fred noticed. Before he could discern the text, a slender golden hand sliced through the air and slammed the table, turning the cards upside down and scattering the chips. Fred’s eyes traced the arm back to the Briton, who began to yell furiously at the stout man on the left.

You, my dear friend, are what is known in the common parlance as a boob! he screamed. You obviously have no understanding of the game!

What are you talking about? the accused responded. There’s nothing in the rules against mounting a Temptress on top of a Slayer. You’re just a lousy player, it’s that simple.

Of course you can mount a Temptress on top of a Slayer—provided they are from the same circle! He pounded the table again in frustration, then looked at the other figure, to Fred’s right, and complained, No use. It’s like explaining the finer points of backgammon to a tree.

Fred noticed that the person on the right was female, contrary to his previous assumptions.

Then why don’t we play a simpler game, like Go Tempt? she said.

Simple, simple. I do believe I’d get a better game against a barrel of monkeys!

Probably be more fun, too, the Briton’s pudgy antagonist muttered.

The female spoke up now. Ah, it’s no fun anyway, playing for souls that we haven’t even got in the first place. There’s just no incentive, you know? She sighed deeply.

I’m wasting my abilities in this assignment. I’ve got to get out of this place. She looked around with an air of obvious disgust.

The Briton answered this complaint. I know exactly what you mean. I’m planning to make a move sometime soon as well.

Good idea, the leftmost said. Make it someplace far away, will you? He turned his attention to Fred, as if he had finished with this discussion and was finally ready to address less important issues.

So how are things at the front? You must have had quite a trip to arrive back at this entrance.

The front?

Realization transformed the faces of all three. You’re not from here, are you? the heavy one said slowly.

Well, I don’t really know where here is, but … no.

You’re from the surface, aren’t you? the woman on the right blurted out, ravenously leaning over the table.

The Briton leaned over to the heavier man, whispering in his ear at length, occasionally eyeing Fred as he did. He then turned and repeated the process with the female.

The heavier man now spoke again. It was obvious to Fred that he was attempting to speak in as calm and composed a manner as he could. It was equally obvious that he was not particularly successful in this attempt, and Fred realized that the arrival of an outsider was not part of the normal daily chain of events.

Name, please?

The use of direct address revived Fred from the dreamlike state he’d fallen into. Now he carefully scrutinized each of the three in turn. Fred looked first to the leftmost man, since it was he who’d just spoken, and since, being American, Fred was accustomed to the habit of left to right, both from reading and crossing the street.

The man was partially hidden behind a mountain of papers of assorted shapes and sizes, this in addition to his unevenly arranged piles of betting chips. He wore a rumpled, old-style black single breasted suit, with black shoes and tie to match. The tie hung loose from the open collar. His white shirt hung sloppily outside of his pants and offered some contrast to the overwhelming blackness of the suit. The combination of colors made him look like a cross between a banker and an undertaker. His tired face and disheveled appearance gave the impression that he’d been sitting in this room a long time, the bags under his eyes symbols of his dedication, twin gold watches hung from the eyelids. He looked to be in his fifties, and was generally unremarkable except for one feature, surprisingly well disguised by his thinning hair: a narrow rift down the center of his forehead, beginning at the top of the skull and reaching down to a couple of inches below the hairline.

From a distance, the cut appeared to be merely a widow’s peak. upon closer examination, however, it seemed more like an ax cut, albeit an extraordinarily clean and precise one.

Fred’s preferred explanation for all of this strangeness was that he had merely wandered into some strange New York hot spot. This theory was now dealt a heavy blow, since as he stared at the man’s head, Fred could actually see part of the wall beyond, clear through the man’s skull, indicating that something not completely natural was at work. After all, it may not have been unusual to see a man with a cleft head at a New York nightclub, but it was unusual to have an extended conversation with him.

The man waited patiently while Fred analyzed him at length. Then, after a few moments, he made a disgusting throat-clearing sound to rouse Fred from his reverie, and asked again, more belligerently:

Name, please?

Fred lowered his stare from the gash to meet the man’s waiting gaze. The man’s pale blue eyes had a steely, faraway, no-nonsense look that made direct eye contact unsettling. Fred blinked twice, then responded. Uhhh …

At this, the man settled back in his spindly chair and released a deep, long sigh. He leaned forward again and, resting his elbows on the table, slowly rubbed his eyes. He tilted his head up and cupped it in his hands. Looking directly at Fred, and with an exaggerated exasperation, he spoke.

Let’s try really hard now, okay? I know it’s tough, but … what—is—your—NAME?

Fred cringed as the fat man reached the end of his crescendo, these last words echoing loudly throughout the cavern. He recovered as quickly as he could, not wanting to think about what the brute might do if properly angered. The thought of offering a false name was dismissed after brief consideration; Fred had no desire to learn the possible consequences if such deception was discovered.

The man reminded Fred quite a bit of his Great Uncle Jonas, a beer-guzzling relation whose life consisted of alcohol, sports on TV, and time in between. The only differences were that the man before him now didn’t have any beer (Fred wished he did), and he did have that extremely disturbing breach in his cranium (which Fred wished he didn’t).

Frederick P. Dreyfus, Fred finally answered the lingering question, as politely as he could. Then he added cheerfully, And may I ask who you are? Fred had a talent for turning on the charm when needed; it was one of the reasons he’d been moderately successful so far at his latest job. Unfortunately, he found that his charisma often disappeared entirely when he spoke for more than a few minutes at a time, overtaken by a blunt honesty that invariably led to trouble. It was sometimes possible to pinpoint the exact moment when his charm failed him by observing the reactions on the faces of others.

This time his magnetism failed from the get go.

With an amazingly evil and ugly stare, the fat man looked at Fred, then went back to his list. I just don’t know why you people can’t use the regular entrance, he grumbled.

Fred saw he’d made a miscalculation, and quickly looked away to the Briton, who had been quiet during this entire exchange. From the smirk on the taller man’s face, Fred figured he’d been enjoying this repartee.

The Briton, though taller and leaner than the other man, was dressed similarly. But where Divothead wore his collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled back, the Briton was the very picture of gentlemanly neatness. His hair was slicked back, neatly cropped around the ears, off the collar. His skin was tanned, but smooth, not weather-beaten; he looked as if he’d never seen actual sun, and had merely painted on a more natural and convincing variant of the classic George Hamilton pallor.

Fred’s attention was drawn to the Briton’s necktie; it didn’t look quite like a tie, really. It was a thick pinkish thing, clipped to the collar with a pair of large gold pins. It took Fred a moment to realize what the object truly was—a tongue.

The taller man had been watching Fred closely during all of this. When he noticed Fred’s inspection of his unusual chest decoration, he smiled, evidently taking pleasure in his observer’s obvious repulsion.

Like it? he asked. The British voice emanated with a singsong, relaxed delivery. I ripped it out of a rather debauched aspiring poet, and decided to keep it as a trophy of sorts. I guess you could say I’m currently a little tongue tied. The man laughed deeply and loudly, slapping Fred on the back in a down-South style that didn’t keep with the rest of his image.

Ordinarily, such a questionable pun would appeal to Fred in a strange and perverted sort of way, but under these circumstances, it was a more than a little disconcerting. The man’s polish and sophistication did not ease Fred’s discomfort; he felt even less at ease than with Divothead, who was definitely the all-business type. In addition, there was something unusual about the character of the Briton’s accent. It might be nothing more than rampant imagination on Fred’s part, but it seemed an affectation, disappearing periodically as he spoke.

Divothead gave a shrewd and impatient roll of the eyes at his companion’s attempt at humor. He seemed to