Werewolf the Podcast: The Death of the Baddy, Sort Of. (Episode 243)

The devil is in the diner. She is trying to have the best Chocolate Sunday in History. Oh, and she should know. No?

Belphastus is trying to work out how to manipulate the best manipulators.

Nicha the poor homeless man is being used as a pawn for the game. 

And the Werewolf watches a stabbing. In comfort. From the car. B@stard.

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Transcript

Lucifer

I was back sitting in Mary Baptistes 1950s diner.

Yep, the same American Diner in the actual 1950s that I introduced you to in Episode 219.

This diner is the home of the best ice cream sundae that has ever been made. 

It is quintessentially oral seduction.

Its creator is the owner.

A fourth-generation witch with Haitian roots.

That does not realise she is a witch, but makes this thing before me. 

This gloriously evilly good thing.

As I say, she has no idea she is a powerful witch.

That magic literally oozes from her. 

Sadly, she never found out she was magically gifted because she never received a Hogwarts letter or its American equivalent. 

Mainly because those teen-filled sexual tension magical education buildings don’t exist, but also because the concept of piling magical users together in the same place as the hormones that are being released at that age would make the critical mass that could end the world. 

She is not evil. 

She is not... a witch. 

She is now the most Christian of Christian beings that there can be. 

She makes Mother Teresa and the pope look like the infamous Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade.

He actually was not that bad.

He made a lot of stuff up.

You know how they do.

Men, I mean.

Oh, and we definitely did not have a thing. 

But still, she makes the most sinful of mouth pleasures, using that old Creole magic she does not know she has.

As I have said before, there are perks with my role. 

Travelling through time and space is one of them. 

Glorious.

I regarded the creation now with the focus of a sugar and choco-holic.

I rotated the side plate that the Sundae glass sat on, raising my spoon as a weapon and looking for the spot that would be the perfect place to start. 

In life, I know I am not alive, but let me have this one.

In life, some things should have time taken on them. 

This was one of those things.

This food feast was unsullied and perfect. 

To sully it -Is that even a word? Sully?-

Would have to be done correctly.

I was just about to take my first damned spoonful.

When something disturbed me.

This is utmost and important in this context. 

One does not interrupt a cosmic being mid-sundae unless one is either very brave, very foolish, or very small and covered in black fur.

Oh, and quite cute to the eye.

Cute to the eye.

If you ignore all your other devil senses that show what is really there.

A ripple moved through the frozen air. 

Not time restarting — nothing so crude — but the faint slip of something transitioning realms badly, like someone stepping off a curb that wasn’t there.

A black cat landed on the bench beside me in the booth in that perfect way; all cats land on their feet, perfectly. 

Yes, it needed that perfect descriptive word twice to tell you just how perfect it was.

She shook herself once, offended by gravity, and sat with the self-importance of a creature who believed herself indispensable.

Which, I have to say, don’t tell her I said this, she is to me. 

‘I am... Trudure,’ she announced, without preamble. 

‘Minor demon of the Third Catalogue,’

‘Personal Assistant to the one true evi...

‘...to me,’ I finished, not taking my focus off the sundae and finally taking the tip of the long-handled spoon and gathering the perfect chocolate sauce to vanilla ice cream ratio.

‘Yes. I know.’ I told her. 

Popping that morsel of wonder into my mouth. 

Her tail flicked.

‘I.’ Oh, she was enjoying herself, thinking she was going to tell me such dangerous secrets. 

‘Have information,’ she said pointedly.

‘I imagine you do,’ I replied. 

‘You always do. It’s why I keep you around. Although I do enjoy the nuzzles.’

She leaned closer after inspecting the diner with those stunning green orbs and lowered her voice despite the fact that every human in the diner was frozen mid-chew, mid-sip, mid-existential disappointment.

I had, of course, switched off time like any good Eldritch being can. 

I would be a physicist's nightmare to explain. 

I would love to show this to Brian Cox, but he has such a good heart that I could not. 

No, not that I would not. 

That I could not, me being the devil, I don’t get to play with the good-hearted.

‘I listened to Belphastus and Astaroth.’ Said the little cat purring in pleasure with each word. 

‘Yes.’ I replied before taking another delicate spoonful and considering when I was going to eat the Cherry that topped the dessert.

‘They believe they are deceiving one another.’ She said, offering a tiny, predatory, toothy grin.

‘Yes, Astaroth has given three tasks to Belphastus and thinks that he cannot complete the third task.’ I told the little demon.

‘Yes.’ She replied with a twitching tail, showing the irritation she had with my knowledge that I already had the knowledge.

‘Belphastus believes...’ She carried on

‘...that if he acquires the ring and uses it to summon Astaroth instead of returning it, he can bind both me and Astaroth to the earthly plane.’ I finished her sentence for her.

I lifted the Cherry on its stalk and bit it in half. 

You can’t rush eating a cherry.

A cherry is a sad thing once it has gone.

Trudure blinked.

Once.

Then again, slower.

‘I was there,’ she said. ‘I heard it,’ the little black shadow told me, her despondency evident in her voice. 

‘I planned it,’ I replied pleasantly.

Completing my cherry eating task and gently kissed clean the fingertips that had touched the delicate fruit.

Her ears flattened.

‘There is also a human,’ she continued stubbornly. ‘A homeless man. Nicha. The Professor...’ she continued.

‘...manipulated him,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

‘He carries the ring unknowingly.’

‘Yes.’

‘And Belphastus told him to... ahem, go fuck himself.’

‘Yes.’

Trudure’s whiskers twitched. 

They were a fairly new addition for her in the cosmic time frame of immortal beings, and she was still very proud of them.

‘This seems… inefficient.’ She said.

I finally looked at her.

‘Trudure,’ I said gently, ‘if demons only ever succeeded by being competent, the universe would have collapsed sometime around the Renaissance.’

She huffed.

‘Then why,’ she demanded, ‘did you send me to spy on them if you already knew?’

I smiled.

Not the smile with teeth. 

The other one. 

The tired one. 

The one you give a child who has just proudly presented you with a drawing of something you invented centuries ago.

‘Because,’ I said, ‘you enjoy feeling useful.’

She opened her mouth to argue.

‘And,’ I continued, ‘because if I left you alone in Hell for more than six hours, you’d reorganise something that does not wish to be reorganised.’

Her tail lashed.

‘And,’ I finished, ‘because it gave you something to do.’

I returned my focus to the important thing in the room.

She stared at me.

Then, very quietly, she said, ‘I could have been napping,’ while licking a paw.

‘Instead,’ I said, raising a finger, but not making eye contact ‘, you were observant, mobile, and delightfully cat-shaped.’

She preened despite herself.

I turned, unfreezing only one thing in the diner.

‘Mary,’ I said. It was a summoning of sorts.

The spoon in the old woman’s hand trembled. Her eyes unfocused, then cleared just enough.

‘Yes, honey child?’ she asked, without questioning why the woman in the booth had horns one moment and didn’t the next.

‘A bowl of cream,’ I said. ‘For my assistant.’ I said, pointing at the cat.

‘For sure, honey.’

Mary nodded, already moving behind the counter and then back again.

Trudure sniffed as the bowl was placed before her.

‘This does not mean,’ she said stiffly, ‘that I was unnecessary.’

‘Of course not,’ I replied. ‘You were essential.’

She lowered her head and began lapping.

‘…Is it full-fat?’ she asked.

‘It’s the 1950s. Everything in this diner is,’ I said.

She purred.

Outside, somewhere very far away, a ring waited for a finger.

Inside, time remained paused.

And my sundae was finally, blissfully going to be consumed uninterrupted.

Nicha

I can feel the cold inside me now.

Not just on my hands or my face—inside.

In my chest.

In my teeth. 

The kind of cold that doesn’t go away when you curl up tighter or pull your coat closed, because it isn’t really about temperature at all.

It’s about being left out.

It isn’t fair, I tell myself.

I’ve said that thought so many times it barely feels like a sentence anymore. 

It’s more like a habit. 

A reflex. 

Like breathing shallow so it doesn’t hurt as much.

I did what I was supposed to do.

I worked. 

I paid rent. 

I didn’t steal. 

I didn’t hurt anyone.

I kept my head down and trusted that if I stayed decent, something decent would come back my way.

Nothing did.

People walk past the alley laughing. 

I hear them. 

I also feel a new feeling.

Hate. 

I hate their ability to laugh.

Laughter assumes the world makes sense and is okay for them. 

It makes my jaw clench.

You’re still here, I tell myself. 

You’ve survived.

Survived what, though? 

Another winter? 

Another week of being ignored? 

Another person pretending they don’t see me?

The Professor’s voice slides back into my thoughts, calm as anything.

‘Nice doesn’t get fed.’

I hate how right that sounded.

I didn’t like him knowing my name. 

I didn’t like the way he looked at me, like he could see the whole stupid story laid out neat and miserable.

But I liked that he didn’t lie to me.

‘Why should I give you money?’ he’d asked.

No one ever asks that. 

They either give or they don’t. 

Or they hurry past like I’m contagious.

I told him I needed to eat.

And he smiled.

Not kind. 

Not cruel. 

Just honest.

That won’t save you.

I feel something twist in my chest now, slow and ugly.

Maybe he’s right.

A part of me—small, tired, stubborn—tries to push back.

This isn’t who you are. You don’t hurt people.

Who decided that?

I didn’t choose to lose my job. 

I didn’t choose to get sick and miss shifts.

I didn’t choose the landlord who didn’t care. 

I didn’t choose the forms that never led anywhere. 

I didn’t choose being looked through like I’m already gone.

I didn’t choose pancreatic cancer for my mother. 

So why is this the one choice I’m supposed to keep making?

The other thought comes sharper this time.

You’re weak.

I flinch at it, even though no one’s said it out loud.

Weak for waiting. 

Weak for hoping. 

Weak for thinking the world would notice if I behaved.

I feel my hands curl into fists before I realise I’m doing it.

The knife that was in my pocket is now somehow in my hand. 

I can feel its weight, solid and reassuring. 

I didn’t think of it as a weapon when he gave it to me. 

I thought of it as… an option. 

An option for me to end my own suffering.

Just once, I think. 

Just once, I take something.

The good part of me—the voice that sounds like I used to—tries again.

This won’t fix anything.

Fix? I almost laugh.

Nothing gets fixed. 

Things get taken. 

Things get lost. 

People like me get forgotten.

At least this would be something.

My heart is beating faster now. 

Not fear. 

Anger. 

Hot and sharp, cutting through the cold like it’s been waiting its turn.

I think about that man the Professor described.

The one who walks through here pretending he’s small. 

Pretending he’s harmless.

Rich enough to defend people who ruin lives and then go home to warm houses.

The one who passed earlier without even looking at me.

But dismissed me. 

My mouth feels dry.

He deserves it, I tell myself.

That feels important. Necessary.

I stand up. My legs tremble, but they hold. I feel taller than I did a minute ago. Heavier. Realer.

This is how it changes, the angry voice says. This is how you stop being nothing.

I don’t argue anymore.

I wait.

Footsteps will come. They always do.

And this time, I won’t step aside.

Belphastus

I am going to burn this place down one day.

Not today—there are procedures—but one day the McDonald’s on the corner of High Street and Moral Compromise is going to become a cautionary scorch mark visible from low-flying aircraft.

My shift is nearly over. 

I can taste freedom. It tastes like fryer oil and regret.

The grill, however, is still dirty.

I am cleaning it badly out of spite. 

I scrape at it with the enthusiasm of a man polishing a gravestone he fully intends to refill.

Today’s customers have been… exemplary, in the way that plague victims are exemplary.

First: the woman who ordered a ‘plain cheeseburger’ and then returned it because it had cheese on it.

Not melted cheese. Not excessive cheese. The concept of cheese.

She looked at me like I’d betrayed her personally.

Second: the man who stood directly under the menu, stared at it for eight solid minutes, and then asked me what burgers we sell.

I gestured vaguely at the illuminated wall of sins behind me and said, ‘Those.’

He nodded thoughtfully and ordered chicken.

Third—and this one may actually be a war crime—the family who let their child press every single button on the self-order screen and then abandoned the machine like a crashed probe on Mars.

The screen now displays an order for:
• 7 cheeseburgers
• No bun
• Extra bun
• No meat
• Meat on the side
• One Filet-O-Fish, add bacon, no fish

And I can’t clear it.

I hate humans.

I scrape harder at the grill. It squeals like it’s being interrogated. 

Good.

I need to focus. 

I need a plan. 

The Ring of Summoning will not fetch itself, and the Professor will not help me unless it benefits him, terrifies him, or makes him feel intellectually superior—which is his main nutritional requirement.

‘Think,’ I mutter.

Behind me, Hal E. Tosis is chewing.

Not eating. Chewing. Loudly. Wetly. With commitment.

He is seated on an upturned milk crate, dining from the waste bin like a raccoon who has discovered capitalism. 

Fries. 

Nuggets. 

Something that might once have been a bun but now resembles archaeological evidence.

Masticate is the word. He masticates like it’s a performance.

I glare at him. He grins, revealing teeth that do not align with Euclidean geometry.

‘You know,’ he says around a mouthful of fries, ‘that grill was definitely still warm. You’re not supposed to clean it warm’

‘I will unmake you,’ I tell him, not looking away from the grill.

He swallows proudly. ‘You already tried that once. Remember? You forgot the stabilising sigil.’

I did not forget. I delegated poorly.

Hal E. Tosis—my sidekick, my error, my punishment—has been given lock-up duty tonight.

Lock-up.

Him.

Which means Karen is gone.

Which should be good news, except that Karen being gone means Hal is technically my superior for the next twelve minutes.

I am an ancient practitioner of dark arts, bound by infernal covenants, personally known to entities that cause plagues as hobbies—and my boss is currently a goblin-shaped manifestation of indigestion eating from a bin.

He jingles the keys. On purpose.

‘I get to turn off the lights,’ he says, delighted. ‘And the ice cream machine. Oh! And write the log.’

I grind my teeth.

Of course the ice cream machine will be broken. It senses joy and kills it on sight.

I scrub the grill one last time, futilely. 

My reflection stares back at me in greasy fragments. 

A dread sorcerer reduced to minimum wage by a Texan witch and a society that rewards incompetence with authority.

Focus.

The Professor. Simon de Montfort. He knows things. He hoards knowledge like a dragon hoards gold, except smugger.

I need leverage.

I need curiosity. 

I need to make the Ring his problem.

Behind me, Hal crunches something that definitely should not crunch.

‘Could you,’ I say carefully, ‘chew quieter?’

‘No,’ he says cheerfully. ‘But I can chew faster.’

I close my eyes.

One more night. 

One more shift. 

Then the Ring. 

Then Lucifer. 

Then Astaroth.

Then no more grills.

No more customers.

And no more Hal E. Tosis with keys.

I open my eyes, smile thinly, and keep cleaning.

Hell can wait.

McDonald’s, apparently, cannot.

Wil

The heater hums softly.

Leather seats. 

Warm air on my hands. 

The Audi’s dashboard glows a reassuring red, like a cockpit designed by someone who expected the world to end but wanted to be comfortable when it did.

I quite like this car. It handles well. 

Solid. 

Reliable. 

It doesn’t scream ancient monster—which is always a bonus.

Fenrir, my wolf soul friend, does not share my appreciation for German engineering.

He stands in the alley, invisible, vast, his presence folding the darkness around him like a held breath. 

I see through his eyes the way I always do—two visions layered over each other. 

Warmth and cold. 

Safety and rot.

The alley stinks and is filled with the detritus of the street.

Human, waste and human waste.

Nicha is there. 

Shaking. 

Angry. 

Cold down to his bones.

Belphastus walks in from stage left.

He does not even know that he is going to be a participant in this scene.

Even from here, I can tell he’s tired. 

Smug, but threadbare. 

The kind of man who laughs because it’s easier than admitting he’s afraid of something far bigger than himself.

They speak.

I can’t hear the words—Even Fenrirs' auditory gifts can’t make out the whispers—but I don’t need to. 

I know the shapes of arguments. 

I’ve lived through decades of them.

Nicha steps closer. 

His shoulders are tight. 

His hands are trembling. 

He says something quietly. 

Something small. 

Something desperate.

Belphastus throws his head back and laughs.

It’s dismissive.

Careless. 

The laugh of someone who has never believed consequences apply to him.

Fenrir’s ears flatten.

Nicha moves.

At first, it looks like nothing—just a clumsy shove.

Then another.

Short. 

Close. 

Ugly. 

Not punches, really. More like… playful touches.

Belphastus is still smiling.

Then he isn’t.

His laughter cuts off like a guitar string snapped mid-note. 

There’s a pause. 

A heartbeat. 

Two.

Belphastus looks down.

So does Fen.

Dark stains bloom across his jacket, spreading slowly, almost thoughtfully, as if the fabric itself is trying to understand what’s happening. 

Small holes. 

Neat ones.

Knife work.

Belphastus blinks. 

Once. 

Twice.

Fenrir watches, utterly still.

Belphastus drops to his knees.

Not dramatically.

Not yet.

Just… surprised.

The alley feels colder somehow, even inside my car. 

I sip my coffee, still warm, still good. 

The contrast is obscene.

Belphastus finally understands.

And in that moment—right before he falls forward into the filth, right before the world shifts irrevocably—I realise something that tightens my chest far more than the winter ever could:

This was fate.

This was prophecy.

This was not just a man who laughed at the wrong person… and didn’t believe the night could bite back.