He meets The Devil
After about an hour, Zippy awakens out of his first set of unsettling dreams. He turns to find a man standing in the aisle directly next to his two seats.
And while, at first, he doesn’t like it, when he looks at the man’s face, Zippy suddenly doesn’t mind so much, although he cannot fathom why, given not only the unwanted intrusiveness of the man’s presence, but also his rubber-stretched and elongated masklike head and face. The jaw is long and jutting, almost like a Habsburg, while the forehead is narrow, high, and sloping, forming of the head in profile something like a backward letter S.
“I hope you don’t mind, as I won’t keep you very long,” the man says quietly, civilly. “Zippy, is it not? Zippy… Zamazda? Did I get that right?”
Thick, straw-colored hair, parted down the middle, forms serpentine curves about his temples and stops just above his thick, bristling eyebrows, whose shade of blond is starker and brighter than the head hair, which Zippy finds off-putting, unpleasant, and hard to look at. Nevertheless…
“Ye… yes… but… um, how did you know? Who… who are –”
And the man is very tall, thin, and generally gaunt in appearance, though with shoulders that are almost disproportionately broad as compared to the rest of his build – or maybe that’s just the work, or a trick, of the jacket. For he is dressed casually, but expensively, if one is a good judge of only the double-breasted, navy-blue blazer he’s wearing, featuring buttons made of gold.
“I’m quite a fan of your work; I’ve actually followed it for a while: the Kyiv Poster, where you were chief editor… and now, the column you write for the irregular online newsletter published by the Kyiv-based boutique investment firm, Fire-Breathing Capital – well, I must say, with those politically savvy and insightful commentaries, at times, just astounding… In fact, I’d recognize you from a mile away, even without that fedora. What a great idea that personal brand promo was! No doubt, you thought of it yourself. Absolutely brilliant!”
Zippy is greatly flattered – to the point of being speechless, and can only manage, “Oh!” He drops all apprehension of the man and suddenly finds him quite a reasonable, intelligent, and personable fellow.
Taking Zippy’s pleased reaction as an invitation, the man sits down next to him. Zippy notes a book on his lap: “The Things We Put Our Things In – Illustrated Tales of Giving and Generosity for Children”, by Ana L. Roome and Annil M. E. Gai; A Publication of Black-n-Blue Ball Fantasy Comics.
A gold card case appears in the man’s hand, seemingly pulled out of the blazer, though Zippy does not catch it. The business card presented to Zippy from the case reads:
“Nicholas Scratch Hiss-Elf, Esq., PhD
Headquarters: Paris, France
Operating Worldwide”
“You can just call me ‘Mr. Nick’.”
“But there’s no numbers on it,” says Zippy, having taken the card. “I mean, um, Mr. Nick, if I wanted to, how would I be able to reach you?”
As a mark of his confusion, Zippy pushes his fedora further back on his head; a dirty forefinger scratches inside thick black hair that by now has turned both oily and flaky.
“Oh, no need for numbers, my friend. Just say the first letters of my name and titles together – you see… N-S-H-E-E-P-D, pronounced ‘ensheeped’, speaking directly into the card, and I’ll know it’s you. It’s got nanotech-based microfibers that pick up the vibrations, and I know the voice-recognized message sender right away. I should be with you in no time – relatively speaking. At the very least, I’m very good about getting back to people who need me right away.”
“Wow, Mr. Nick… But… what would I need you for?”
“On the card, the ‘Esquire’ stands for attorney, as you probably well know. I specialize in the Napoleonic Code. There’s no one better at it than me. Know it inside and out. I can have your case moved to Louisiana, New Orleans, no matter what it may be. Never miss, never lose. Works every time.”
“Well, I don’t think so, but thanks, anyway. What about the PhD?”
“The French Revolution, with an emphasis on the Jacobins.”
“Oh… oh… um, and what about those stories, Mr. Nick? Any good? Are you reading them to your kids?” With a short, fat forefinger featuring a small, filthy, uneven and untrimmed nail, Zippy points dumbly and uncouthly to the illustrated “children’s” book in Mr. Nick’s lap.
Mr. Nick stiffens in the seat and suddenly looks annoyed, upset, perturbed. He smolders for a very long second or two, as though suspending time, and then without a word, as if he hadn’t heard Zippy’s question, abruptly gets up and returns back to his own seat – wherever that is…
For but a moment, Zippy swears, a whiff of sulfur – and then it’s gone.
‘That kind of thing happens all the time,’ Zippy thinks. ‘Especially when you’re tired. Just my ’magination…’
Filed by Saint Stephan, May 7, 2025