Werewolf the Podcast: All Plans go to Hell. (Episode 252)

The planning meeting for the attack on hell. 

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Transcript

I considered my drawing room to be one of the finest rooms in all of England.

No, I did not consider it.

Look at it!

Oh, you can’t.

But if you could, you would have to believe me that it is utterly wonderful.

No simple vanity from myself.

It was simply a matter of objective and architectural truth.

The Edwardians had understood rooms. They could not cope with a woman's ankle. That was too much, but a room. 

They really knew how to cope with rooms.

Not the modern utter bollocks of ‘spaces,’ 

Spaces...

Spaces... which are essentially large grey-walled boxes containing uncomfortable furniture and utter despair.

No, the Edwardians did... rooms.

Rooms with rich panelled walls, with deep carpets, towering bookcases, and fireplaces large enough to properly threaten a violent winter and roast a full-sized pig.

Not a hog.

I went to a hog roast recently.

It was a pig.

Not a hog.

When did it become a Hog roast?

Anyway.

No more distractions from my perfect English room.

I stood in the centre of the magnificence. hands on hips, not in a camp chaps hands on hips manner.

No.

In a manner that a proper English gentleman would take to admire the space.

Although I do not judge the camp, gentlemen. 

I know many British camp gentlemen and do not undervalue them.

Many had died with me in fights and wars  of different kinds around the worlds.

Just because they were a friend of Dorothy did not mean they were not capable of being an utter bastard. 

Often, the camp gentleman is better than most at being an utter bastard.

Or maybe a bitch.

Are bitch and bastard synonymous these days?

Words develop new meanings far too quickly. 

Again... Off track there.

I was just describing my stance for those listening, so they could better understand my manner.

It was a manly stance.

Anyway. 

Moving on. 

The fire burned beautifully in the grate.

It was burning great in the Iron Dog grate.

My wit, as you can also see, was utterly on point. 

The flames played around the logs in exactly the civilised manner one hoped for from a well-built fire. 

Not hellfire. 

No... Not yet.

That may be later.

Which was a rather disparaging thought.

The genuine Persian rugs were genuinely clean and genuinely laid straight, their sides perfectly aligned or adjacent to the walls around them.

The chairs, more comfortable seats and sofas were positioned for conversation, not for the best view of the television. 

There was no television in this room.

That would be utter insanity.

Desecration.

The air was Edwardian in itself, holding that faint scent of woodsmoke and polished oak, suggesting intellectual conversation and possibly mild academic rivalry.

‘Yes,’ I murmured to myself with utter pride. ‘Utterly perfect.’

Behind me, Vaughnt drifted silently through the room carrying a tray of glasses.

Vaughnt was my housekeeper and home defence system in one Gothic guise or maybe disguise?

Who knew.

She was also a Werecat.

What else would you expect in stories such as these? 

I had rescued her some years ago from a tense situation in the Carpathians.

I will not go into the details.

If you want them.

Please refer to Episode 207 for the full unadulterated story.

It is worth the listen, I promise.

Okay... How to describe one such as she? 

Hmm!

At the moment, she wore what could at best be described as a Victorian housemaid outfit interpreted by someone who had recently attended one of those rather vulgar death-metal festivals she attended to... mosh... At.

Whatever mosh is. 

Mosh.

I know a little about death metal festivals because of Vaughnt's abhorrent taste in that particular genre of... 

No, I can not say it... music.

I can’t call it a music genre.

I know that some would describe that noise as such, but I, for one, cannot.

Anyway.

Vaughnt wore a black-and-white, ripped lace apron.

A skirt so short that it was really not even a belt.

It... ahem... left... ahem... nothing to the imagination.

The Edwardians would have been... at the least, perplexed at the sight she offered. 

On those shapely legs, ripped fishnet stockings and heavy black Dr Martens dropped from mid-thigh to the floor, laced their full length and in a much more complicated, strung manner than was required.

It must take an hour or so to attach those things to her limbs.

Her arms and body were covered in tattoos, sigils, occult geometry, and also something that appeared to be a small demonic octopus holding a teacup.

Her hair rose upward and upward in even what an old fuddy duddy such as myself could recognise as a magnificent black mohawk.

Her head was shaved to the skin and tattooed on either side of the magnificent peak.

I had once politely asked if the hairstyle interfered with transformations. 

Vaughnt had signed me her answer, 

‘No. Makes the aerodynamics better.’

I had accepted this explanation.

Why would I not?

Trailing behind her with unwavering devotion was Dave.

Dave, the household Chupacabra.

Another rescue from another operation

Dave possessed the physical characteristics of a small-scale nightmare, but negated this flaw by displaying the lovable emotional personality of an extremely optimistic spaniel.

Currently, Dave was following Vaughnt with intense focus, making hopeful little chirps every time he approached her with the hope that she would either pay him attention or give him some sort of tasty treat.

Vaughnt pretended to ignore him.

Dave tried to bother her.

Vaughnt ignored him then... properly.

Anyone watching this interaction could see that the truth was that they utterly adored each other.

The werecat, in her human form, moved with a dancer's... erm... stompy grace?

Her huge boots stepped neatly around the little monster between her feet without looking or causing injury to him or her.

Dave chirped louder.

I laughed as I watched this and excitedly arranged the final element of the evening's preparations.

The cheese board.

It was utterly magnificent.

A Stilton of excellent pedigree. 

A wedge of Comté that had required a very stern email to Fortnem and Mason's special cheese department to obtain.

And a small goat's cheese that appeared to be actively plotting something unpleasant.

I now turned to and picked up the hallowed bottle very gently.

I could not disturb the port. 

You should never disturb the port. 

A disturbed port can be devastating. 

I held it as I imagine a man would hold his firstborn for the very first time. 

The pride I felt was so much more than any man in that situation. 

Which is something I know and I know I should not say, but honesty when it’s necessary is a good thing. 

I teased at and then unwrapped the neck's foil. 

Must not disturb the Port.

The bottle was trying to seduce me.

It felt special in my hands. 

After carefully placing the foil and wax on the board, I began decanting the beautiful, clear liquid.

I left the sediment at the bottom of the bottle undisturbed and whole.

After this, the most important moment of my evening.

I really hoped.

I poured myself a glass of port from the decanter carefully. 

Then added another glug, which I deserved for a job well done, and stepped back to admire the arrangement and the Port.

The evening ahead involved Lucifer, a werewolf with extremely questionable hobbies, and a retired RAF officer who carried holy water in a hip flask.

But the cheese... the cheese was impeccable.

The Port... The port divine. 

Behind me, Dave attempted a small leap toward Vaughnt's tray, which now held some small hors d'oeuvres.

She calmly extended one big black boot and pushed the creature gently back onto the carpet without breaking stride.

The cowed Chupacabra made a disappointed squeak and sat down amongst its own spiky spines, licking its, erm, clawed paws. 

A Chupacabrian self-calming behaviour.

I smiled again as I wafted the glass below my nose.

Oh, the aroma was utterly sublime.

I then sipped at this, the purest of ports, with utter satisfaction.

Civilisation, I reflected, was essentially this: good fire, good cheese, and staff who could effortlessly manage minor cryptids.

A voice spoke from the sofa behind me.

I was...

Content.

Then not so.

‘You know, Simon, I do admire how you’ve kept the place so delightfully Edwardian.’

‘Ah, marvellous,’ I said out loud and with far too much of a sarcastic tone. 

It should not have been said out loud.

It definitely shouldn't have contained any sarcasm.

She had spoiled the moment.

The devil tends to do that.

I closed my eyes briefly and turned.

Lucifer was sitting comfortably on the sofa by the fire as though she had been there all evening.

She had one leg tucked beneath her, a glass of my port in her hand, and was examining the cheese board with an insipient interest.

I won’t describe her because what I would describe and what you would see would probably be two very different things.

Basically, what you would see would be what you lust for.

She was accompanied by the little black, evil-demon, green-eyed bitch of a cat, which was sitting at the other end of the couch as though it owned it. 

More important than the horror cat was that she was drinking my port.

That hurt a little.

It was my Port.

I knew I had to share.

But...

She was drinking a glass of Port that I was almost certain I had not poured.

‘Ah! Good evening, Lucifer,’ I said, raising a glass with the resigned politeness of a man whose home was frequently visited or was it invaded by entities older than civilisation.

‘You’re delightfully early.’ I lied.

Lucifer smiled warmly.

‘I like to arrive before the werewolf. It’s quieter.’

Then Dave noticed her.

The chupacabra froze mid-wag and stared at the Devil, trying to work out how to get a treat or a pet.

Luci looked down at him, trying to hold back a laugh.

The cat on the sofa faded as it hissed at the little monster.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said to Dave, almost cheerfully, who immediately rolled onto his back on the carpet in complete existential surrender.

Lucifer laughed.

Vaughnt walked past the sofa, carrying a feather duster and gave Lucifer a casual nod of acknowledgement.

Lucifer waved back.

‘Evening, Vaught.’

An over-toothy canine-filled smile was shown, and the Werecat winked at the now almost invisible cat. 

I drank some more port.

‘So,’ I said.

‘You’ve come to discuss Wil.’

Lucifer leaned forward and carefully selected a piece of the goat's cheese.

‘Yes.’ She said, delicately placing it in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully before finally nodding in appreciation of the taste and texture.

‘I’m sending him to Hell.’

A simple sentence that contained so much horror.

I sighed.

Of course, she was.

Luci settled back a little more comfortably into the sofa.

She wiggled as she established an acceptable position, and that wiggle did things to parts of my brain that I had spent a long time trying to ignore, and the devil was clearly pleased with my uncomfortable reaction to her gaining her comfort.

‘I do love these little planning meetings,’ she said, indicating the room.

‘Now we just need the Wing Commander and that homicidal maniac Wil and his wolf soul to arrive.’

Dave remained upside down on the rug.

Lucifer glanced down at him again.

‘Oh, relax,’ she said kindly.

‘I’m not here for you.’

Dave remained upside down anyway.

He spent a lot of time like that.

I couldn’t entirely blame him.

The doorbell rang with the sort of calm, polite chime normally associated with visiting clergy or a neighbour returning borrowed hedge trimmers.

Sadly, mainly due to my experience, it usually meant something far worse.

Vaughnt stomped silently from the room, leaving the double doors open so we could see down the hallway.

As usual, she covered the distance between us and the Manor's front door instantly and opened the heavy oak portal to the outside world.

On the step stood Wil.

Wil looked like a man who had spent the evening enthusiastically arguing with alcohol and had won on points. 

His coat was half-buttoned, his hair was doing something geometrically improbable, and he was grinning in the relaxed way of someone who had recently consumed a heroic quantity of beer.

Beside him stood the Wing Commander, upright, dignified, and faintly radiating the quiet military disappointment of a man who had just escorted a werewolf out of a Wetherspoons.

‘Good evening, my dear.’ He said to Vaughnt, properly doffing his cap and giving her a slight bow.

Somewhere between them padded Fenrir, Wil’s invisible wolf soul.

Fenrir could not be seen by normal humans.

This did not stop him from immediately trotting into the hallway, sniffing the Persian rug, and then, apparently delighted, attempting to chase Dave the chupacabra, who could absolutely see him and responded with ecstatic shrieking.

Dave bolted across the drawing room like a small scaly rocket.

Fenrir chased him enthusiastically.

The Wing Commander grappled with the cap in his hands, with the weary dignity of a man who had once scrambled fighter jets and was now watching an invisible wolf play tag with a goat vampire.

The Wing Commander walked into the drawing room, followed by Vaughnt.

‘Good evening, Professor,’ The Wing Commander said calmly.

From the sofa, Lucifer raised her glass.

‘Oh, good,’ she said cheerfully. ‘The chaos has arrived.’

Wil wandered into the drawing room, spotted the Devil, the chupacabra, the cheese board, and the Edwardian furniture, and nodded his approval.

‘Lovely set up, Simon.’ He announced.

Then he squinted vaguely at the sofa.

‘Oh, Luci.’

He paused, giving her an awkward nod.

‘Wait… are we starting the Hell journey thing tonight, or after the cheese?’ He asked.

‘Let’s start again, shall we?’  

Hello, Simon. Lovely to see you.’ Luci began.

‘Eh?’ I tried to rally.

‘Luci. Yes, hello. I would ask to what I owe the pleasure, but, um, I.. um.’

‘What’s the matter, Simon?’

‘Cat got your tongue?’ 

‘Come on, man, it’s not like you to struggle for words’

‘Indeed, quite so. And yet, I don’t want to talk out of school as it were.’

‘No, absolutely not. I mean, you wouldn’t want to drop anyone in it, would you?’ She said her full-powered sarcasm was on point.

I ignored the sarcasm.

‘Well, exactly that, I suppose.’

You’re trying to tell me you knew I would be here, aren’t you?

‘Yes, that’s it.’

‘And that someone in this room told you I’d be here, didn’t they?’

‘Well… umm…’

And they told you why I’m here, too, didn’t they?

‘You seem to be across this rather well, actually.’

And, mes amis, that someone was not the butler, or in your case, the werecat in the corner, I mean, she doesn’t say a darned thing to anyone about anything. No, mes amis, it was not the butler, but it was, in fact, Mr Bruce Banner, over here! Is that not right!

Monty: ‘Bruce Banner? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

‘Oh, come on, Montgomery, you know, Bruce Banner, AKA the Incredible Hulk.’

Monty: ‘But he’s… I mean, he’s in America, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, for the sake of all that’s unholy… Wil… I’m talking about Wil!’

Wil: ‘Eh, what? What have I done?’

Monty: ‘Oh, yes, I see. Got you. Makes perfect sense now. It was Wil who spilt the beans to Simon about you being here tonight and the secret, not-to-be-disclosed mission you have for him, not Bruce Banner, AKA the Incredible Hulk. I should have got that. I mean, he told me as well. Very good. As you were, dear lady.’

Wil: ‘Oh yeah, that’s right. That was me.’

Monty: ‘You also told two of the barkeeping staff at the Weatherspoon’s pub, I believe, did you not?’

Wil: ‘Were there two of them? I was so shitfaced I thought I was seeing double.’

‘See, Simon? Nothing to worry about, we’re all on the same side here. We have no reason to hide anything from each other, do we?’

‘What? Hide… anything…? No, absolutely not.’

‘Good, that’s very good. So, what have you brought for me?’

‘Brought for you? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

‘Well, let’s see, shall we?’

‘You knew that I’d be here, and you knew that I had a special secret mission for Wil.’

‘You also knew that said secret mission was to take the express elevator from here, directly down to Hell, and go and kick the ever-loving shit out of my second in command, whom you know to be one of two… thingies… who are both hoping to usurp me.’ 

‘And you have an office at work that’s full of things that might come in handy on such a mission, don’t you? ‘

‘So come on… what have you brought to the party?’

I didn’t know what to say at first. But after a brief moment, I slid my bastard sword from its sheath and dropped to one knee.

‘I offer my bastard sword, and my heart, my lady.’

I could not see her face, but I could feel her confusion.

The fire crackled.

The clock ticked.

‘Well, that’s lovely.’ 

‘A heart that’s as dark as a David Lynch movie, and a sword whose parents weren’t married.’

I looked up to meet her eyes. She looked away in what looked like disappointment. 

‘I’m sure both of those things will be most useful to Wil and Fen as they engage in mortal combat with the Arch Duke of hell. What about your soul, Simon?’

‘My soul?’ Fear sparked in my head.

‘Yes, you mentioned your heart, but what about your soul? Can I have it?’

‘My soul, my lady, belongs to another… as you well know, in the dragon’s den, it was the path of penance and salvation that I chose.’

‘My penance demands of me that I defend those who cannot defend themselves, and that I actively engage in maintaining the fine balance between good and evil.’ 

‘Once I have completed two millennia of said task, my soul is for the Saviour. It’s not mine to give.’

Luci returned my gaze to me and yawned to show how bored she was with this... what she deemed... nonsense.

Wil: ‘I’d have chosen Luci personally.’ He winked at her.

‘Good boy, Wil.’ The wolf's smile disappeared as she purposefully belittled him. 

I suppose she was a rare thing.

Something that Wil could not harm and something that could belittle him.

‘You see, Simon, he knows which side his bread is buttered on.’

‘Now, you have brought your blackest of hearts, and your silly little sword, but these things traditionally come in threes, you know, I’m thinking of gold, Frankenstein, and… the other thing. Olly Murs? That was him. So, what else have you brought for us, Simon? This is a team game, after all.

‘Monty will bring us luck, even though I don’t like that green-eyed bitch luck particularly.’

Monty coughed and harumphed.

‘Wil and Fen will bring a level of ultraviolence that would put Jack the Ripper off his din dins.’ 

‘So what else you got?’

‘Three things for the devil, my dear.’

‘Aaah! Why, may I respectfully ask, do they?’ I nodded at Monty and the Werewolf. 

‘Why do they get to bring just one gift to this party thing, as it were, and I’m expected to bring three?’

‘I’ll ask the questions.’ The beautiful devil smirked as she dismissed my enquiry.

‘Yes, I’ll ask the questions if you don’t mind, Professor.’

She knew I could not mind.

What could I do if I did mind? 

‘Now, where is my third present?’ She spat. She seemed to be behaving like a spoiled child, expecting a gift. 

‘I... I, I’m really not sure what you’re driving at, Luci. I mean, the Port seems to be giving you pleasure, and you are taking sustenance from my cheese collection, would that cover it?’

She was not amused. There was a moment when the devil's disguise partly fell. 

Not such a beautiful thing was exposed for a millisecond before she regathered herself.

A forced calm.

‘You’re holding out on me, Simon, and I don’t like it. We’re a team here, and we don’t keep secrets from each other. Wil, for instance, told me just before you arrived that he had a slightly runny poo in your offices en suite, and deliberately didn’t use the toilet brush. Isn’t that right, Wil?

Wil: ‘Did I?’ He looked confused.

Wil: ‘Erm... Absolutely. I put it down to the eight pints of Bass and the greasy kebab I got from that caravan outside the pub.’

‘What the actual fuck!?! My en suite? You utter bastard!’

Vaughnt dropped her silver tray. 

It bounced on the floor tolling like a plague bell. 

Which, to her, it represented.

Her face was a mask of horror, and she shook her head in revulsion as she backed away from the thought that she might be asked to deal with the results of Wil’s actions.

Luci looked at her, shook her head, and quickly signed something to her, which stopped the young woman from retrieving the tray and probably wrapping it around Wil’s head.

‘Don’t change the subject, you know what I’m talking about. The Ring, Simon. The Ring! The Ring of Summoning is just what we need for an occasion like this, and I happen to know that, after you told that nice little policeman, Benjamin, to make sure the Ring got lost. That the only thing he lost was his nerve, and that he had it couriered to you at work. So… where is it? Hand the bastarding thing over. Now!’

Oh dear

‘Ah, yes, about the Ring. I – I’m glad you asked, actually. I mean, there might be a small technical hitch in provisioning said Ring for the upcoming mission.’

‘Do explain… and keep it simple, Simon.’

>Luci laughs<

‘Simple Simon… do you see what I did there?’

Trudure: ‘Yeah, simple Simon, that’s him alright.’

I beg your pardon!

‘Simon… the Ring!’

‘Well, I can’t let you have it.’ 

‘It’s not that I don’t want to, although placing something that powerful in the hands of someone as… as ludicrously overpowered as yourself would represent some sort of an act of reckless abandon.’

Wil: ‘And that’s usually where I come in, right?’

‘Yes, exactly, Wil. That’s usually your particular niche. However, I digress. The Ring. It seems it may in fact have been…’

‘May have been what, Simon? A hat, or a brooch, or a pterodactyl?’ 

‘No – no, it’s worse than that. I’m afraid it’s been stolen. And even worse, it’s been stolen by Belphastus.’

‘Belphastus the unclaimed?’

The very same.

‘Oh… oh, I see. Well, that does make things a bit fiddly, doesn’t it? I mean, we were going to use that Ring to help Wil survive the fight with Astaroth, and hopefully even come away with a win. But you have instead delivered it directly into the hands of the one human being on Earth who not only knows who Astaroth is and appears to be in their employ… but also has designs on overthrowing the kingdom of hell himself. Is that a fair assessment?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it in quite those terms myself… but yes.’

‘Our secret weapon, the one thing powerful enough to summon me, Lucifer Morningstar, from wherever I may be, whatever I may be engaged in. The only thing in existence that can not only resist my will, but can actually overpower me by making me pop up anywhere at any time, on command. Are those the kind of terms you had in mind?’

Trudure: ‘Go for it, boss lady. Kick his butt!’ 

‘Thank you, Trudure. I believe I can handle this one off my own bat.’ 

‘I’m sorry, Luci.’

‘Sorry? Sorry? Is that the best you’ve got? ‘

‘Wil may be the closest approximation to a friend you’ve ever had, and you’ve just sentenced him to certain failure and almost certain death at the hands of a demon from hell, and probably an eternal existence of misery and regret at the feet of Astaroth as he sits upon my throne!’ 

Wil stopped mauling the cheeseboard and licked his fingers clean as he raised his eyes now in interest.

Wil: ‘What? I mean, all things considered, maybe we should postpone the mission for a couple of days, track this Belphastus bloke down, I, you know, tear him a new arsehole or something, get the Ring back, and you know, then go and beat up Astaroth.’

‘Excellent plan, Wil.’

Wil: ‘Thank you, Luci.’

‘Unfortunately, that’s not how I roll. Is it, Trudure?’

Trudure: ‘No, sir-ee ma’am. You make a deal with the devil, and you gotta stick to it. No change of  orders, no addenda, no delays. No matter what.’

Wil: ‘What?’

‘Yes, it’s true. Those are in the standard terms of the agreement.’

Wil: But I didn’t sign an agreement.

‘Oh, Wil, what do you think this is, the dark ages?’

‘No, we did away with paper contracts when we did our digital transformation.’

Wil: ‘Digital transformation?’

‘Oh, yes. We partnered with one of the Big Four for that project. KPWC, or whatever. No paper anymore. Our contracts are formed instantly now, merely by intention. It’s way more efficient.’ 

Wil: ‘It sounds it. But if we made a deal, what was I supposed to be getting out of it? I mean, you were going to get your mate killed, but what was in it for me?’

‘You? You? It’s not all about you, Wil. Blimey, you sound like a whingeing little Gen-Z cry-baby. I thought you were supposed to be my champion. Are you still my champion, Wil?’

Wil: ‘Erm, yeah, I – I suppose so. I mean, I do like the word Champion.’

Fenrir: ‘Aye, proper champion.’

‘Good, then that’s settled. I’m sending you to Hell tonight! And when you get there, Monty will bring you luck, and Simon shall be your squire?’

‘What? Wait a bloody satanic moment, squire? Squire? I’m the sixth Earl of Leicester, not a bloody squire! And in any case, Wil might have been stupid enough to do a deal with the devil without thinking about it, but I’m not, and I never agreed to any of this.’

‘Good point, Simon. M’lord, let the record show that Lord Simon de Montfort, 6th Earl of Leicester, did not intend to defend the balance of good and evil as set in place by his very maker himself, and is therefore quite happy to see hell under the control of someone who is not one of God’s children. And is therefore breaking the terms of the penance that were set for him in the presence of… your good self.’

‘Ah, now hang on, I did not say that, you’re twisting my words, Luci. Of course, I intend to defend the balance of good and evil; it’s my bloody job as well, you know. Didn’t I just bloody say that five minutes ago?’

‘You did indeed, Simon. And I’m very pleased to hear you are so committed. Very pleased indeed.’

‘Pleased? I don’t get you…’

‘Because in the context of this conversation, you just agreed to my terms. Whether you like it or not, Simon, we have a deal.’

Wil >laughs his socks off<

Wil: ‘Oh, that’s brilliant. Not so bloody clever now, are you, you pompous bloody prick! Oh.. oh.. Wil might be stupid enough to make a deal with the devil, but I’m bloody not… Ha ha ha, well, it seems I’m only about as stupid as you are yourself, you top dickhead.’

Monty: ‘Erm… Luci, I don’t think I ever agreed to go with them…’

‘You? Umm… wait a minute, are you feeling lucky?… oh yes. Guilty by association, I’m afraid, Monty.’ 

Monty: ‘Oh well, guilty by association. Lucky me. Count me in.’

‘Right… right… Well, that’s us all fucked then. Wil, Fenrir, Monty, it’s been nice knowing you… Well, it’s been an experience anyway. Vaugnt. Before Luci sends for the elevator, would you prepare a packed luncheon for three? And… if you’d be so kind… let’s use the good Wensleydale, it might be the last chance I ever get to taste it.’