text: The original Monkey’s Paw. That was truly a classic, and Azimut was a freaking genius. Also, you know, right place/right time. 1523 was a great year. No Monkey’s Paws today though. We’re necessarily more subtle now, but that doesn’t mean we’re not effective. I like to think it’s no coincidence that our department awards come out the week after Mother’s Day. Second highest rate of suicide attempts of the year! Go team! The awards really should be coming out today, and to be totally honest, I feel like my chances are better this year than ever. I almost had it last year, but *of course* Thalimeth that giant kiss ass took it home. Was *a step stool that causes you to lose half a centimeter in height every time you use it* really award-worthy? Grow up. I’m in early, just like I have been every day for the last month, and I’ve got a feeling that in the current more politicized environment that carries a lot of weight. Not even Thalimeth is here yet. Minute after minute, the rest of them trickle in. I’m just sitting here, sipping my coffee. I wonder idly if they already have the award email written? Are they waiting for the day to officially start to send it? I have two nominations this year. The *glove that flawlessly grips a hammer but that causes every seventh nail to bend,* and, my personal favorite, the *glasses that grant perfect vision but that subtly change the meaning of the text*. So many arguments! So much anxiety! Ah. Phezizael lumbers in last, and while I love the guy, he is just not cut out for this. He’s built like a fourth circle demon, and the cubicles here are clearly made for second circles. But he’s in, every day, cramming his wings and hilariously thick tail into his chair, and coming up with, let’s be honest, pretty pedestrian cursed objects by today’s standards. Trying to be something he just isn't. Nice guy, but wouldn’t want to piss him off. Look at those shoulders! That’s everybody now. Well, almost everybody. A few minutes later, I hear hoofsteps in the hallway, and there he is. “Hail, everybody,” he says. “Hail, Megalesius.” Phezizael’s giant knuckles barely scrape the ceiling when he raises his hand. Honestly, his heart just isn’t in it. I try to put some extra pep into it today, just in case. It can’t hurt. Here’s the trajectory. If I can pull the department award today, next quarter it’s promotion season, and maybe instead of Hailing Megalesius from the floor like the rest of these chumps, I end up with a private Hail in the manager’s lounge. First step into manager territory doesn’t get you the sweet sweet office overlooking the Pools of Tyranny like Megalesius, but you *do* get a window, and if you open it on a good day after lunch you can sometimes hear the screams of the damned wafting over the sulfur flats. Megalesius takes his time settling into his office and eventually closes the door. I have emails stacking up, but I’m not reading them. I’m just watching the subject lines and waiting for the announcement. It has to be today. It has to be me. Twenty minutes tick by, and I’m starting to get nervous. I have a meeting with Production in ten, and I really don’t want to be out of the loop for the next two hours, and especially not with those losers. *We're* the designers here. The creatives. They just follow orders. Four more minutes, and then *bing*. **Subject: An update on the Office of Cursed Objects** Okay, that’s not the way they usually announce it. *Effective immediately, upper management has decided to close the Office of Cursed Objects. It was a hard decision, and we value the input of all of you over the last four millenia. You are like family to us. Rest assured that this has nothing to do with your personal performance, and is part of a larger re-organization. In order to focus more closely on our mission we have decided to put “more thrust behind fewer pitchforks.”* *This action has been cleared with Demons Local 533. Please consult with your union representative for retraining and/or reassignment.* *Thank you, and Hail Satan* “Those sons of bitches!” shouts Phezizael, and his cubicle erupts. He grabs his monitor, throws it right through the wall, and makes a beeline for Megalesius’ office. He’s met by two seventh levels who materialize to block the way, their gray smokey hands wrapping around his arms. “Hey hey ladies,” says Phezizael. “I was just kidding. Just... yeah.” His wings slump, and he casts a baleful look into Megalesius’ window. Nobody wants to mess with the seventh levels. They lead him back to his desk. No award. There will be no award. No promotion. No eventual second promotion when Megalesius gets bored and moves on, leaving the view of the Pools of Tyranny to me. *I* want to throw my monitor too, but I’m not stupid. I’m also not strong enough. Fine. Fine, if this is how they want to play it. One of the seventh levels is gliding around, handing out boxes, one at each desk. “Fill and leave,” she hisses. No use fighting it. I start to pack my things. My hands stop a moment at the little picture frame. It’s me and a bunch of the guys out after last year’s awards, and Megalesius is right next to me. I kept it here, thinking that maybe it would have some subtle effect on him when he would walk by my desk every day. That’s right. We’re friends. Pals. A wild whim takes me, and I pick up the picture. I was never that great at Production, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t whip something up on a moment’s notice if I have to. Kid’s stuff, really. I say a brief prayer and trace the correct symbols on the back of the picture with my finger. A pulse of power flows into it. I take the picture and walk slowly toward Megalesius’ office door. One of the sevens slides into my way. “Hey,” I say. “I, uh, just want to give the big guy something. You know...” She hisses in response, and I blanch. “It’s okay,” says Megalesius, and the door opens. “Let him in.” I look around, and it seems that his office is already bare. He knew. And he doesn’t look upset. I play a hunch. “You moving... down?” I say, suggestively. “So may it be,” he says. “The new Director of Sacrileges and Defilements.” Damn. “How long have you known?” I say. It would have been nice to have been given a friend a heads up. To have let your top performer know so he wouldn’t have to go getting in line in the union shop with the likes of Phezizael. What will Bekorith think? Oh sure, she said she was in it for the long haul, but if I get reassigned to something like cinder duty, or worse, Bone Removal... that wasn’t going to support her lifestyle. “Long enough,” he says. I waited. This was his chance to invite me along. I’d spent my entire post-pupal life in Cursed Objects, but I felt like my skills were more generalized. I’d grown. Surely he could see that. There had to be a place for me in Defilements. “Is there something you wanted,” he says. I feel something inside of me snap. “This is *bullshit*,” I say, and as soon as it's out of my mouth I regret it. But maybe he’s been looking for a show of strength and aggression from me all along, and *that’s* what has kept me in that cubicle for the last four thousand years. I hear the hiss of the seventh level behind me, but see Megalesius shoo her away with a subtle move of his finger. Maybe I *am* on the right track. “Four thousand years!” I say. “We’ve been stealing souls for you for four thousand years, and this is how you tell us? How you tell *me!* Come on, Meg. This is a chump move.” He appears to be slightly smiling. Yes. This is what he’s been waiting for me to do. I let a little smoke seep from behind my ears, to show that I know how the game is played. “We both know that I deserve a shot on your new team. Think about it! You’ve seen me work! I’m a damned genius!” And here his face falls a little. “Yes,” he says. “About that.” He strides the four steps between us, and puts his face right up against mine. “Ideas are a shilling a filling,” he says. “Production is where the real artistry lies.” “Production?” I say. “They’re just a bunch of hacks! Anybody can do it! You don’t even need a fourth degree horn to get on that team.” “And yet,” says Megalesius, “they are the ones who are following me to Sacrileges and Defilements.” Ah ha. Ah hahaha. He backs away and strikes a pose that is both effortlessly evil and nonchalant at the same time. That was rich. Well, that settles it then. He gets the picture. His very own personally cursed object, courtesy of the guy who apparently isn't good enough to come along on his trip to sulfur town. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. “Hail.” “I get it,” I say. “Makes sense. You gotta do what you gotta do, right? Hey, before I go, I wanted to give you this...” I hold the picture toward him. “It’s, you know, us...” “Ah,” says Megalsius, and he reaches toward it. His hand stops inches away. “Why, Uriolanus,” he says, “there appears to be a charm on that gift.” Shit. I feel the presence of the seventh level right behind me. “And...” -- he squints -- “it appears that you were going to give me an object that made the bearer have uncontrollable... what is it?" He sniffs at the picture. "Ah, diarrhea.” Megalesius shakes his head slowly. I want to run, but that’s not an option now. What was I thinking? A thousand things blaze through my head, not the least of which is the actual skill that the Production demons have when it comes to concealing the charms on the things that we design. “Put that away before you hurt yourself,” he says. “Feces? Please. You need to grow up. A thousand years in Bone Removal seems like it would be just the thing for you. Correct those airs you always put on.” I feel the fingers of the seventh level start to wrap around my shoulders. “Hail,” I say. It was all about to be gone. Bekorith. The nice cave down in Hazimath. The two weeks every year on the Styx. “Hail *what*?” says Megalesius. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. I know when I’m beaten. The seventh level pulls me back through the door, and I don’t bother resisting. She guides me back toward my desk. “Oh!” says Megalsius. “Just a second. Please.” He walks from his office, and is swiftly by my side. “You weren’t without talent,” he says. “Thank you, sir.” Was it maybe not too late? “Before all of this happened,” he says, waving his arm broadly about, “we *had* decided on the department awards. Felt it was tacky to deliver them, then, pull this on you all.” “That’s kind of you, sir.” “Anyway, you won.” I won. “Yes,” says Megalesius. “It was the glasses. That was truly inspired. I know it won’t mean much in Bone Removal, but I feel like you should have this. It belongs to you.” He holds out the award. Its coal black, faceted surface reflects only eyes and fire, no matter where you look. It’s beautiful. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. Despite what has just happened, what was about to happen, I am truly grateful. I know that I’m talented. I’ll go to Bone Removal, and start over, and soon I’ll be supervising instead of actually pulling bones, and then I’ll be noticed, and eventually... “Hail,” he says. I take the award. It is cold and beautiful in my hands. Cleaning up my desk won’t be quite so bad now. “Oh, and Uriolanus,” he says. I try to put the award in the box, but it won’t leave my hand. There is a pulse of power from it, and I feel a deep rumbling in my bowels, like flaming eels at war. Megalesius laughs, as only a senior Director of Sacrileges and Defilements can laugh. “The bathroom is on the left.