Chapter 7

Chess Chapter 7 

Chess may be the sport of kings, the intellectual cat and mouse. The glisten of the fish roe. But checkers was every man. Checkers was sweat. It was the sweat of capture, it was quick, direct, and easy. It was push and shove. Chess was for nobles with too much time on their clean hands. For the frivolity of monarch and garrulous fools. Issabella hated it. Checkers. No hidden moves, no hidden motives. Jump, capture and take. Straight to the point. She’d like to see a bishop or a rook last on that board. Or even the Knight, the noble horseman with his tricky shuffle-move, a good checker would hop-scotch his ass.

Issabella sat cross-legged on the floor with Hunsy the demon, teaching him how to play the old board game.

“Hunsy will jump Izzabellaaa’s checker.” His words were slow and heavy like a cart being pulled through jello.

“You can only jump me diagonally.” 

“Hunsy will jump you hori-zont-ly.”

Issabella laughed. “You can’t, that’s not how it works, watch this.” Her hand soared, then plunged over one of his checkers. “There, notice what I did? I captured your man, and that means—”

“Waaaiiittt… Hunsy do this”—He moved his checker, jumping over one of hers, then another— then another! Much like a frog happily navigating a lagoon via lily pads; Hunsy landed on her side of the board. “Kiiing meee.”

“Holy shit!”

“Hunsy play game before, now Izzabellaaa have to strip.”

“You bastard”—she smacked his chest with the back of her hand—”you knew how to play!”

“Maaaybe… now take bra off.”

Issabella unhinged her lacey bra and dispatched it to his face. “You were fucking with me!”

“Hunsy want too.” Peering through the sheer tulle draped from his heavy crown-like forehead. “Hunsy like dis game.”

“And I thought it was beginners luck when I took the sweater off.”

“O.K… I will let Izzabellaaa win.” He resigned with a low moan.

“No! You won’t.” She raised a finger in the air. “You let me win, and you’re dead!”

The finger landed, planted squarely on his chest, the gauntlet had been thrown down.

Ten minutes later, she was naked.

“How did this happen? Fuck. I’m naked. And you were only wearing one piece of clothing the whole damn time!”

Hunsy laughed, it was deep and rumbled up from his rock tight stomach. He chuckled with a rare mirth, the type seldom heard by a creature from hell. This continued till Issabella abruptly climbed up to him and slid down onto his lap.

“Oh really… now”—she stared straight at him, cocking an eyebrow—“who’s captured who?”

She felt his bulge grow from under the towel and push against her clit.

“Hunsy still got kinged.” He smiled.

“I’ll Queen your ass.” She reached down grabbing the towel—

Suddenly Issabella’s phone went off to the tune of “Is This Love” by Whitesnake. There was dead awkward silence as the music spiraled through the room.

The awkward silence persisted till the ring-tone was replaced by the voice of a nervous man.

This is Mr. Schmitz, I came home and found my wife tied to our bed—

“Where dat voice coming from?”

“Shhhhh—”

She was naked,” the message continued. “She told me she had been tied up by a demon… and the demon had sex with her, wild kinky sex, for a long time. I found your number on the internet.”

Issabella reached down between them and grabbed her phone, “Hello? Yes… OK… Give me your address and I’ll be right over.”

The call ended, and the address was rapidly stabbed into her contacts. “Hunsy, we will continue our board game at another time.”

“Hunsy go with Izzabellaaa.”

She hesitated. “Hunsy, how do I say this? Ummm… you will scare people.”

“Hunsy don’t care.”

“Hunsy… if normal people see you, they will freak out. And if they find out I am friends with you… oh my god—”

“Hunsy like friends. Special friends. Izzabellaaa is MY friend.”

“For shit’s sake.” She got up to pace the room.” Friends don’t have to tell the world, they are friends! Because they are ALREADY friends and WE know it.”

The demon thought for a moment, then words slowly poured from his mouth. “Izzabellaaa ashamed of me.”

“What? Stop it. Don’t be stupid”—she grabbed his shoulder—“look, you saved my ass, and we had sex, and I really liked it. Also, I could use some help around DH headquarters. For that, you get: Room. Board. And the chance to experience a real life. You DON’T have to live in stinky old Hell.” She looked into his eyes. “Besides that, I kinda like you. Would that be OK?”

The hulking figure sat as silent as a big brick wall while mulling.

She stared, burning a hole through her lacy brassiere that still lounged on his forehead. There was an answer swimming around inside his brain somewhere. She waited. She waited like an angler waits for a nibble. 

Then, his mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Yes?” Issabella hunched forward, still watching, still waiting. She could almost taste the words that should come from his lips. 

A moment later, “You make my wiener hard.” 

He had spoken. 

“Oh my god”—Issabella tried to fight off laughter, but couldn’t help herself—“Hunsy, you stay here, I have work to do”—she walked to the door, then turned around—“and maybe, when I get back, you can show me what you can do with that delicious weiner of yours.”

“Hunsy can use as a towel rack.” He grinned.

Issabella smirked and shook her head. “Good, I’ll be needing a long, hot, steamy, shower.”

………………………………………………………………..

Case number 338 unfolded with the dull thud of her knuckles on Mr. Schmitz’s head when he opened the door too soon.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I thought you were wood.”

Mr. Schmitz was not made of wood, he was flesh. Flesh wearing an old sweater with patches on the elbows, a cap on his head, and a long-face that twitched with anxiety.

“Are you the demon hunter?” He whispered nervously.

“Yes, did you order one?”

“I did.” He smiled and pulled her into the house like a vacuum pulls in a sock.

Middle-class America laid out around her. The coffee table by the easy chair, the kitchenette, family pictures, the beige-colored carpets, the off-white orange peel walls; the hallmarks of a humble house. This was the type of house to be wary of, no personality. Often, a boring house would hide the true colors of its inhabitants.

“I came home and found my wife tied to our bed. Naked.” Schmitz rambled anxiously. “She told me a demon had sex with her. She likes reading those erotic paranormal romance novels—”

“Oh, I like those too.” Issabella smiled.

“I don’t care for them—”

“Which one? Currently?”

“Golem in my hole. Same author as “Shape Shift Inside Me.”

“I haven’t read that.” She noted.

“I didn’t either. But, Dr. Felicia hypnotizes and seduces her friend Rosina from the coffee shop and has kinky sex with her. But unbeknownst to them both, the Golem has been watching. Of course, the Golem—he’s already all heated up, because he’s a… a Golem; they are made out of pottery—”

“Yes.”

“—anyway it gets pretty saucy. He makes mad passionate love to them both—”

“But you didn’t read it—”

“Oh no…”

Issabella paused from Schmitz’s incessant chatter and looked around the house. There was a black bra hanging from the stairway rail. “So what happened?”

“Well after the Golem had sex with Felicia and Rosina… they both got pregnant and had baby clay pots.”

“No! I meant what happened here!?” 

“Oh! Sorry…” He cleared his throat and took his cap off. “I came home, found the wife upstairs tied to the bed. She said she was ahhh… sexed up… by a demon. Then she started moaning like she was possessed. Also, Huntress, I noticed the bedroom window left wide open.”

“Oh? Did y—”

“and her panties were on the floor in the hallway.”

“I see.”

“Yes, and then I discovered a rolled-up newspaper on the bedroom floor.”

“Wait,” Issabella reasoned. “Slow it down. Your wife is upstairs, tied to the bed… naked… a rolled-up newspaper on the floor… and I see her bra is hanging over there, by the door…”

He pointed a long finger to the lingerie draped over the stair-railing as if it were a big black spider. “I spotted it as I sat in my chair reading the paper.”

She glanced over at his chair in the next room and was not surprised at a small stack of demon romance books. “Yes, it sounds like a demon alright. A demon who delivers lust.”

“That’s what I thought! I told her she shouldn’t read those books!”

“Umm… how old is your paperboy?”

“Boy?… He’s in college, why?”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Mr. Schmitz seemed a little odd, Issabella thought. Though older, he had kept his age well. Tall and lean. The faint smell of French roast and a working-class cologne pursued him as they climbed the stairs. It followed them, then gathered, roosting when they stopped outside the bedroom door.

Issabella whispered. “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Geisla. But you’d better be careful. She might be possessed by that demon.”

“Geisla?” Her soft voice called through the door the way one might hover over a child. “I’m here to check on you.”

“Vu can come inz.” A very German sounding female voice came from the room.

Issabella looked at Mr. Schmitz and his eyes shot nervously from side to side.

“Let’s go in.”

Issabella cautiously pushed the door to find an older woman, mostly nude laying in bed with her hands bound to the bedposts by rubber bands, and a newspaper; the local insert, covering her pussy.

“Geisla, are you OK? I’m Issabella, Demon-Huntress.”

“Ein devil hadt his schexual vays vith me.” She spoke as if mesmerized.

“You see?” he whispered. “A demon had his way with Geisla.”

“I am not Geisla, I am Klaymanz the Gol—eh, Demon! Mmmmmmmm…” She let out a long, slow growl that trailed off into a moan.

“Oh my god, I told you.” His forehead glowed with the cold perspiration of anxiety.

“Ja, I haft been pozezesd. Arh!” She squirmed in bed.

Suddenly he grabbed the newspaper from between Geisla’s legs and yanked it away like a magician pulls a table cloth from a buffet.

“Look!” He pointed to her bare skin, to a bat-wings tattoo below her navel.

It looked fake. Like a temporary tattoo.

“Ah! The mark of the devil! You see?” He hedged closer.

“Vu zee, I am pozezesd. Arh!”

“It looks like Batma—”

“I am alvays doing zings I schouldn’t do. Badt zings—”

“She masturbates on the living room furniture.” Mr. Schmitz eagerly added.

“That doesn’t sound evil—”

“Without the armrest covers.” 

“Holy shit.” Issabella attempted to looked aghast, but knew full well she was guilty of this as well. So now, she thought, the vanilla house did have secrets.

“Yes… yes…” He continued, “and sometimes she will turn on the battery-operated coffee grinder and put it between her legs.”

“Ja zee viprazions driffe me vild! Ha haw ha ha hawww!”

“And now we have so much French roast I don’t know what to do!?”

“Ja ja.”

“And once, she tried sticking a smooth carrot up my you-know-what.”

“Oh my. Well, did you get it out?” 

“Thank god for our pet rabbit.”

“OK.” Issabella put her hand up to stop further words from Mr. Schmitz. “That’s enough.” 

“Only vu can releaze zee demon py haffing schex vith me.”

The words rose from Geisla’s mouth like a sleeping volcano emitting steam, then hung silent in the air for a few moments. 

She looked over at the nude woman laying in bed. Issabella had suspected there was something fishy going on. Now confirmed. Demons were doubtful. At best, a horny newspaperman and a willing subscriber. Perhaps two subscribers. But was this checkers? Or was this chess? The Schmitz’s were conmen, trying to run the game board. They had revealed their cards. But Issabella knew that knowledge equals power, and sometimes it was best to play along… to sacrifice a piece to the greater gods of the game.

“Yes, yes you are obviously possessed.” Issabella feigned shock. She had discovered that demons enjoy that sort of thing. “Well, it seems… I will have to take my clothes off and sex that demon right out of Geisla.” 

These two were getting the rune of abeyance, and yes; this was, very clearly, chess. Issabella hated chess. Too many tricks. Soon she would turn this King and Queen into her pawns. Though, she had to admit that Geisla, or the demon that inhabited her looked kinda hot, especially for an older woman. Her bosom was like two halved footballs, with valve-stems pointing north.

Play along, play along,” she told herself. “It’s just a game.”

“Oh Geisla you have such a sexy body I can’t wait to rub my moist pussy on yours. Oh, and you Mr. Schmitz, you must watch us, because that will… ummm… help, assist with demon removal.”

His brain spun like a hamster cage, any faster and his eyes would light up and a lotto ticket would pop from his mouth. And then it did. “I should probably be naked as well.”

Just a game.” She continued silently. “Wait for the pawn to come.

“Now before I start, I will need you”—Issabella turned to discover that Mr. Schmitz had already removed his clothes—“ah… come over here and sit next to… Geis—ah, Klayman…demon.”

“Yes, Huntress.” He jumped up from the corner. His shaft eagerly bounced around hitting his thighs till he sat on the foot of the bed.

“Now, both of you look at me,” She commanded.

They watched as Issabella drew the Abeyance rune sign in the air, their eyes turned to glass. She knew these spells were only temporary, much like Geisla’s demon mark.

“I will require one hundred dollars for a house call.”

“Yes Issabella,” they answered as if they were golems.

She spied the book, Shape Shift Inside Me on the bedside table. “Oh, what have we here?”—she smiled, picking it up and reading aloud.“The handsome shaman arched back, sliding his hard wand inside Priscilla. At first, he seemed average, then his delicious cock morphed and changed within her. It grew large, it shrank, it fluctuated, it wiggled and vibrated. The princess moaned in the most erotic way when suddenly tiny tentacles appeared. They rubbed Priscilla’s clit, till one engaged and began sucking. She was so taken by this forbidden romance that she started to yodel… she yodeled at the top of her European lungs when she climaxed.”

Issabella thought for a moment. “OK. Both of you DO chapter nine, page five of Shape Shift Inside Me.”

The couple fell back onto the bed, then began acting out the explicit scene.

I am the Shaman Dirk Steele from the Chlambreaux Valley, I’ve come to heal your grasslands.”

Take off your mask vu studt.” Geisla moaned.

She heard them recite in the background as she grabbed the money from the dresser and headed toward the door. “Oh, and if the paper man shows up, let him join in!” She called back and giggled. Another job, gone astray but none the less, still profitable. She put the wad of bills into her purse and headed downstairs.

On the way, she noticed the black bra still lounging like a Grecian goddess on the stair rail and the stack of steamy paranormal books by the chair. Middle America. There was always secrets. Kinky secrets. She reached out to the front door. Just as her finger tips landed on the smooth metal knob, she heard the defiant switch of metal against metal. The door had locked itself. Issabella stepped backward and the room went black.

“What the F—”

“What the fuck is right.” Came a loathsome voice from the void.

She felt her hands tremble and closed her fists.

The voice came at her from a different direction, “I love when I make a strong woman weak. It makes me feel all warm and gooey inside like an egg, broken… and the chick still inside.”

“Who are you?” Issabella pushed.

“We are the demon makers, the breaker of dreams. Your little wanton ways… your little one-trick amateur sex-show with my boys will stop.”

His timbre cut like a cold jagged finger incising her spirit. “I.. I—”

“How do you like our little game so far? I see you… YOU don’t see me.”

“You’re probably not worth looking at.” She called nervously into the darkness.

With an immediate flash of anger, he appeared. Issabella gasped, gunning air into her lungs. Her adrenaline rammed, and she held tight, afraid to exhale. Time decelerated. The temporal moment strung out like dangling toys on a mobile. The white face makeup, the black bleeding eyes. It was him. The devil from her nightmare. Her viscera clenched hard, and the present expanded, horrifically. A pentagram was scarred onto his chest, self inflicted. Long dark hair poured like blood spilling onto his shoulders. Tight leather work jeans. Her body pulsed, arrested. His lips were full, his intent, vile. Running out of air, she could see herself writhing, writhing in his soulless glare. He was evil incarnate. She gagged, her demeanor finally broken, then air. The long expectoration poured out into a scream.

 The demon pushed her to the floor, violently. “Now you see me!”

She crawled backward, her elbows rowing against the hard floor till moored by a wall.

“My name is Asmodeus. I’m the one who killed your Great Uncle.” He follwed her. “I didn’t like him. A great demon dies with a modicum of class. Your great uncle Constantine went out like a coward.”

“You lie!” The taste of righteousness suddenly swirled in her mouth.  

“You weren’t there girl.”

“He died of old age after putting down hordes of your kind!”

Honesty tasted good, it was the courage of the foolish. But be damned, if anyone questioned the merit of her Great Uncle Constantine, Issabella would swallow at all odds.

“I can pin your heart in place like a collector sticks a bug to Styrofoam. Are you having trouble moving?… Little Issabella?”

Issabella could move, but slowly. Almost rooted against the wall. She tried to speak but her mouth became leaden. Her body was heavy, and her fists lay on the floor, balled up like anchors.

“Good. While I have a captive audience, let me tell you what this is really all about.” He drew in the surrounding air with a drag, then returned it with the heathen tobacco of his soul. “There used to be a place where the seven sins ran rampant… and lust and sodomy consumed the land. Our kind ran wild and free, spreading hate and disease— and the lies, turning your kind against each other. Propaganda. It used to be so much fun, and so easy.”

His words crawled inside her, followed by visions of a past history. Of darkness and hate that plagued mankind like rotting leaches draining vitality. She saw incitement, and murder; where creatures not only drew from these acts, but helped create them. A mass of achromatic men, the cardinal sins, pissing and pouring innocent blood in clear streams. Issabella was horrified. Her mind was a blank wall for his scrofulous slideshow.

“Enjoying my pictures?”

“Gehttt ouutt…” She tried to speak but her words were like birthing cannon balls.

“Don’t bother, just enjoy.” He smiled with a sickly decadence.

She watched a man hang from a tree. His body twitched and a small group of men laughed. Back in her Great Uncle’s time, they’d swing you from a tree because you were different. You did not belong to their club and they wouldn’t let you join anyway. Someone’s husband, someone’s father; their death on the hands of malevolent anonymous. 

It was in the unknown, in the blackness as Issabella’s mind grew heavy. A tier of perception cracked open. She was a plaything, she was a chip on the game board. She had fucked sexy male demons, she was ridding the community of pests. She had the chops of seduction down to a science. That was her game. Charm, jump, take. Just like checkers. Sure, there was always random issues, the overly testoreoned, a demon with a differing docket. But in the end, they would all wind up inside her… then, aspirated into her little black purse. It made her feel strong, and worthy. Worthy of the title from her Great Uncle Constantie the Demon Hunter.

It also proved to be a great way to spend a Saturday night.

But the vision of laughing men flashed in her head again. Like the man hanging by a rope; they too were held by strings. She was a peon, a pawn in the blood sport of Kings. Her life-giving smoothies… her silly rock songs that got her through the day, were nothing. They were accessories, accoutrements to embellish the lifestyle she spent inside her plastic box. Outside, a greater scourge was growing, again. Hate. Hate, like the gangling roots of hostility that grew in soft minds. Hate spewed by smiling righteous. Hate that would slam her protective wrapping against the floor and shake her world. 

Then truth shot like a dart, If images could be forced into her mind, then surely ill words and actions, could be forced into other’s mouths and bodies.

“You do understand, little Issabella.” The devil called, then turned to walk away.

“Fuck you,” the words rang clear in her head, but came out like trash clogged in a drain pipe.

“And we will start with your home, Clark County, a local petri dish experiment”—he spoke to the opposite wall quite tenderly—”the birthplace of your great uncle.”

Issabella struggled, dragging her fists against the floor, quietly drawing them behind her back. It wasn’t easy, pushing her thumb and forefinger, trying to unhinge the clasp of her purse. A little more… harder. Then, there it happened— the telltale snap, like the crack of a twig in a deadly silent forest.

“Stop right there!” Asmodeus quickly turned toward her in anger.

Suddenly the purse clamped onto her finger like a steel trap cutting her flesh. Issabella tried to scream.

“Again, do you like this game? I’m not one of your boy-toys.” He walked toward her. “Should I put you in a deep sleep like you did my creatures? Perhaps I should rip your panties off and fuck you?” 

At that moment Issabella realized this was not checkers, this was most definitely chess. An evil fucking chess. Asmodeus reached down and grabbed her sweater, her security blanket with arms; then brutally hauled her up the wall to his eye line. He pierced her with the most wretched stare, and she hung there, helpless, like a body dangling from a tree.

“Checkmate bitch!” 

His voice echoed throughout the room as a strong gust of wind slammed her hard back onto the floor. Issabella became unconscious.