Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

There is a word for every year
Syllables for things you hold dear
The poem of your life gets longer
As the count of your years is stronger
Until you run out of words to rhyme

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When allowing intolerance is virtue
As “giving both sides a say”
When Nazis are openly marching
With counterprotestors turned away
When “we can’t guarantee your safety”
But “it’s their right to have their own way”
Hatefulness in every news cycle
While righteousness fights for its say
When “taking a knee” is a treasonous act
But Confederates openly march all day
One has to wonder, will our country endure
Or will it be going away

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“Ughhh, my head,” moaned Randy. “What was in that stuff we were drinking? I feel like my eyes are swollen shut.”

“Mmmf,” groaned Nuby, jostling against Randy. “I don’t know what we did, or how many times we did it, but it looks like our wager is a tie. Now quit hogging the covers, I’m freezing.”

Randy stirred, feeling rough, cold objects give way and tumble beneath him. “I don’t think there are any covers,” he said. “I think we may have fallen asleep on a bed of coins.”

“If this is what you get up to all the time, I’ll stick to more evil and less chaos in the form of partying from now on. And there’s no way these are coins. They’d have warmed up by now.”

Randy finally managed to pry his bleary eyes open. He saw that he and Nuby were both submerged waist-deep in a large hot tub full of ice. Nuby, curled up opposite him with her wings drawn tight around her like a blanket, had an ugly scar sutured on her back. In a panic, Randy felt the same on himself.

He looked up at the rest of the expansive bathroom, which had a fine crystal mirror on one wall. On the mirror, written ether in lipstick blood, or some unholy combination of the two, was the following message:

“Foolish demons. Never trust an Erinyes, much less go to bed with one. Your kidneys will fetch a nice price in the markets of Baator. Don’t worry—they’ll grow back. Eventually. Hearts and stars, Wynter.”

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“Look at you two,” the woman said, her short dark hair bouncing about as she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “You call yourselves seducers, temptresses, paramours, sluts? Frankly, I’m embarrassed for you.”

Nuby looked up, her eyes a bit bleary from the half-shotgunned glass of ‘Ole Demogorgon’s Insanity Pepper Ale. “I most certainly am not imagining pulling out and roasting your meaty bits for this insult,” she said.

“Leave us alone,” said Randy, slouched next to Nuby in the corner booth. He was on his third stein of Gowron’s #178 Triple Fermented Bloodwine, 45020-vintage. “You’ve done enough terrible things to people who just wanted to paint the town bright, bright red. I think.”

The woman kicked a chair out from the table, spun it around, and sat on it wrong way round, resting her chin on the back. “Well, maybe next time you’ll read a girl’s body language and see that she just want to enjoy her drink in peace. Demon or not, that’s just common courtesy.”

“You knew?” said Nuby. “Just playing dumb? Oh, you sultry little minx!”

“You can call me Wynter,” the woman said, “and as the name suggests, I’m usually a cold customer. But I’ve seen enough demons in my time to know them for what they are, even when their wings aren’t showing.”

“So you just baited us for fun, then?” said Randy. “That’s almost admirable in a way. Almost. Until it harshed my good vibe.”

“Well, now I feel sorry for you, if that makes you feel any better,” said Wynter. “And I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m listening,” said Nuby, “albeit with very angry ears.”

“What say you we continue this little wager of yours upstairs?” Wynter held up a hand before either could speak. “Yes, I know all about that. Use your inside voices next time, kiddos. I Also know a little place at the inn up there where no one will bother us, and whichever of you is more…successful…we can declare the winner.”

“All right then!” said Randy, excited. “I’ll go first!”

“First?” said Wynter. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Incubus. This isn’t a tag team, it’s a race. And racers all run at the same time…on the same track.”

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“I apologize for my friend,” said Nuby. “Not the sharpest fellow, though he does like a good time.”

“Yeah, they aren’t very cleaver,” the woman said. “A bit on the dull side.”

“Yes, he’s best at polishing his own knife, using a dry rag and grease,” Nuby said.

“Hm,” said the woman. “Even the best, hardest knives lose their edge with misuse anyway.”

“Listen,” Nuby said. She leaned backwards onto the bar, elbows hooked onto it. “I think it’s pretty clear that this place is too little for what you and I can bring.”

“Oh?” said the woman. “It looks plenty big to me.”

“Think of the hell we could raise with a real night on the town,” said Nuby. “Sirens. Running from the cops. Graffiti. Glorious, glorious freedom, fueled by whatever poisons we want to put in the tank. I can tell you’re up for it.”

“Oh, I don’t know about all that,” said the woman with a faint, sarcastic smile. “In these heels, I don’t think I could beat the cops around here. They do squats, don’t skip leg day, and take a dim, dim view of the havoc you’re proposing.”

“Hmph,” Nuby said, cocking an eyebrow. “I know you’re yanking my tail, but trust me, I can get us out of any consequences we encounter.”

“No consequences?” The woman cocked both of her own brows. “For a rich man you sure clean up nice.”

“I have a wide buffet of magical powers,” said Nuby. “One kiss from me, and you can share in one of them for a day.”

“Hmm, powers you say? Like what? Perhaps a taste of real magical power will let me do what I have to do in order to get things done…unless you’re not talking out of that sculpted ass of yours.”

“I have a wide variety of magicks at my disposal, mortal,” purred Nuby. “Charm, detect thoughts, ethereal jaunt, suggestion, greater teleport, vampiric touch, dominate person, even summon a big nasty demon…all perfect ways to get out of trouble.”

“Dominate person, you say?” The woman looked up, locking eyes with Nuby. “Show me.”

“But of course.” Nuby leaned in, wrapped her arms around her quarry, and let loose with her most passionate soul kiss. The woman seemed to reciprocate, so rather than letting her otherwise lethal smooch take its course, Nuby let the magicks leave her and enter their new host.

“Wow,” the woman said. “You weren’t kidding.” She wiped her lip, licking a spot of blood left there.

“Let’s go cause some trouble,” Nuby replied, eagerly.

“No,” the woman said. “We’re not raising any hell.”

“N-no,” Nuby said, the words spilling out, compulsively, despite her best efforts to the contrary. “We’re not raising any hell.”

“You’re going over to the other end of the bar to leave me in peace.”

“I’m going over to the other end of the bar to leave you in peace.”

“Attagirl,” the woman said, mock-punching Nuby on the shoulder. “Now get lost.”

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“Oh goodness!” Randy said, as his ankle rolled melodramatically. His drink—normal alcohol this time, rather than the Abyssal Snoworm Tequila Slammer he’d been drinking earlier—sloshed messily out of its cup and onto the dark-haired bar patron.

What looked like an accident was in fact as accurate as a laser-guided missile. Randy had practiced that trick for five hundred years with everything from bloodline to snail juice, and on everything from orcs to celestials.

“I am so sorry, darling!” cried Randy. “Oh, let me find something to sop that up, right away.”

To his surprise, the woman didn’t move, even as the liquid was cascading down her top and rapidly soaking into the expensive fabric. “If you want,” she said coolly.

Randy grabbed a rag from the bar and began dabbing vigorously. He was a dab hand at this maneuver—a little strategic sensual massage under cover of rag was usually the first chink in the target’s armor. “I swear,” he laughed, “I’d lose my own head if it weren’t screwed on.”

“Well, I can see that there’s no seam on your neck since you were kind enough to remove your shirt,” the woman said, still regarding her own beverage. She delicately tucked a short strand of hair behind one ear. “However, I refuse to believe that you haven’t been screwed on.”

Randy laughed musically. “Oh dear,” he added, still dabbing, “this isn’t coming off.”

“Why do you think I’m not dabbing at it myself? I knew from the smell that your drink would stain and that it’d set. This is a job for a tailor, or a washer, not a barfly.” The woman glanced down at her torso, where Randy was sensuously dabbing an area that was not wine-soaked. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you can stop.”

“Please let me buy you a drink, to make up for my clumsiness and your bill-to-be,” Randy cooed, delicately withdrawing his hands.

“If you must,” said the woman again. “But if you spill it on me again, I might just have to see if your head unscrews after all.”

Randy, reading his target’s body language, called for the bartender. “A Reman ale for me, and a Regellian brandy for my friend here.”

The woman laughed. “Are we recovering from surgery or something?” she said. “Two Styx slushees with fermented Erinyes tears!” She barked.

“I’m not familiar with that one,” said Randy. “But I like a woman who can hod her liquor. What do you say we drain these glasses, order some seconds, and see where the evening takes us?”

The drinks arrived, misting and frosty. “Of course,” said the woman. “After you.”

Randy, grinning, took a meaty swing of his beverage. He looked up a moment later, confused. “What were we talking about?” He said. “I seem to have forgotten.”

“You were just leaving,” said the woman. “Thanks for the drinks.” When Randy had tottered off, she dumped her own mug into a nearby plant, which promptly forgot the last ten minutes or so.

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“Randy the Betrayer. Oh, it is most certainly NOT a rude surprise to see you here, on the prowl,” the woman cooed, sidling over to the attractive and strangely topless man at the bar.

“Nuby the Temptress,” said Randy. “Oh, goody. Here I was hoping for some fun, and now you’re going to try to put me to work wreaking havoc and chaos with mortals.”

“Tut-tut, Randy,” said Nuby. She growled an order in High Abyssal to the bartender, who returned, pale and trembling, with a snifter of something orange and fuming. “Even succubi have standards. What are we if not seeding evil and chaos amongst mortals? It’s for that very reason we were forged in the Abyss from the runoff of a million frustrated souls.”

“Succubi have standards. Incubi have incredulity. Incredulity at this straitlaced world of mortals in which we find ourselves. These masses live in a monogamous cult culture, they need to be liberated, and I am their savior, with a little fun as the grease to make it all work.” Randy snapped at the bartender, who brought him a frosted mug filled with dark blue liquid in which tiny shapes swum vigorously, fearfully. “What could be more chaotic, or more evil–from their point of view, anyway–than that?”

“Oh please,” snorted Nuby. “The most evil thing you’ve ever is try and convince a couple to become swingers so you can propose a foursome with the first thing that comes along on two legs.”

“TWO legs? My, picky, aren’t we,” said Randy. He took a swig from his mug and crunched thoughtfully on the denizens thereof. “You and I may not be wearing out wings tonight, Nuby, but I think we are serving the same goal in different ways. Burning the candle from either end, as it were. My end is forbidden frolicking and fun, while yours is film noir adulty leading to a quadruple homicide.”

“Why, thank you,” Nuby said. She downed her entire fulminade in a single gulp, belching a white-hot jet of fire before setting the smoking lump of glass that remained in her hand onto the bar, with which it immediately fused. “What do you say to a little contest, then, of our two approaches to tempting mortals?”

“What do you have in mind?” said Randy.

Nuby nodded at the end of the bar, where a statuesque woman with ear-length raven-black hair, sat quietly reading. “That hunk of ice hasn’t cracked all night, despite all the picks that have tried. First to get her to do something unbecoming wins?”

“Wins what, Nubes?” said Randy. “I’m not sure I have anything you want.”

“It’s a gentlewoman’s bet,” said Nuby, grinning. “Whoever wins gets the gentlewoman.”

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It’s a simple leather chair, deep brown and luxuriant, padded for both comfort and style. There’s no magical aura about it, no seemingly hidden evil about it, other than one thing.

The chair only appears in places that will result in chaos.

It might manifest on a distant and hostile plane of fire and brimstone, its mere ordinariness causing confusion, hostility, and even bloodshed. It may appear before a weary band who cannot agree who should sit, or beneath a tyrant to tantalize any who might unseat them.

Men have killed over it. Swords have been unsheathed, bows drawn, orders shouted, fellowships ended.

It is the Chair of Ultimate Entropy, and it will see the planes unmade without popping a stitch.

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I am your gift, and your curse.
Sometimes a memento set aside, rarely used, honored but gathering dust.
Ofttimes interpreted as a challenge, a mission, with waste as the enemy.
Both equally valid, for I am the same to everyone.
Short or long, happy or sad and all shades inbetween.
I am all.

I am your gift, and your curse.
You count me, divvy me, scribe me on papers, light me in pixels.
Every moment spent in measuring, its own grain through the hourglass.
Am I the more potent for being measured, or for slipping away?
The answer is always the same: neither.
I am all.

I am your gift, and your curse.

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Ora Nightstealer, also known as “the Puppetmistress” for her delight in manipulating people to do her bidding, is one of the more powerful night hags from the Grey Waste of Hades. She was a renowned wheeler and dealer in souls, amassing immense power by trading for favors with some of the most vile evil creatures on both sides of the Blood War. When she is not hard at this gruesome work, Ora is known to be a lover of illusions, often using particularly devilish ones as a form of gatekeeper – ensuring that only visitors she finds sufficiently interesting are allowed to meet her.

Legend has it, however, that she is also deeply unhappy.

The tale goes that, while pursuing her own goals on the prime material plane, Ora encountered a princeling from a noble house. Whether she was on that plane on a mission to steal souls or simply for her own amusement, the troubadours do not record. But as night hags can easily assume any shape they please, Ora appeared there as a comely maiden. And, for reasons that remain obscure, she fell in love with the princeling, and he loved her in return, so far as anyone could see.

And then, Oda chose to reveal herself to her lover in her true form as a night hag. Horrified, he turned her away. While most night hags would have strangled a mortal to death for such a transgression, by all accounts Oda left the princeling alive. But the experience broke her heart, and tens of thousands of mortals owe centuries of torment to her shattered feelings.

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