The Demon in the Details

Donald was a demon. He couldn't remember how it all started, how he started, but he knew he had always loved his job. He was a low rank demon, which suited him just fine. He had no interest in possessing people or exacting grand schemes that crippled countries and ended civilizations. From his perspective, that was too much of a long play. He was more of an adrenaline junkie; a quick hit for a quick release. He preferred possessing a fly in order to deliver bacteria that would end in an annoying, but non-fatal bout of acute gastroenteritis. That was the realm of low-level demons and he thrived on releasing imagined injustices into their fragile lives. The thrill came from watching them obsess over the minor stumbles until they crested at an emotional frenzy.

Demoning had changed a lot over the millennia. As humans had moved through the ages, so had their idea of inconvenience. There were so many more options now! Early man had been consumed with survival; food, shelter, and clothing needs were all they had time and energy to focus on. The technologies available in current times gave humans more time to think, to develop distractions that led them to take for granted the magical ways medicine and science secured survival for a majority of the population. True, there were many who suffered and understood what struggle could represent. To Donald, that was more proof of involvement by the upper demons. Humans would have more than enough for all if they put the priority on survival instead of status. If humans did that, Donald and all his fellow demons would have a much harder time of it, so he was deeply grateful for the status quo.

In his current form, Donald served as a barista at one of the faceless corporate coffee empires. Every day he spent his time surrounded by people who were absorbed by money, status, beauty, power; some elegant casserole of these traits plagued them all. The thing that gave Donald the most joy was the utter lack of self-awareness these humans had. They were akin to drones in many respects; single mindedly gathering materials for the Queen. Their fixation was such that anything could throw them off. Donald would tweak reality to trigger a minor disruption and watch it crumble an entire day. Sometimes he’d cause a broken nail in an expensive manicure for someone who fancied themselves a hand model. Every once in a while, he’d use cream instead of oat milk and watch the consumer struggle with a bout of stomach upset on the day they had a major presentation on the books. One of his all-time favorites was causing someone to spill their coffee; he always made sure it involved a white article of clothing the owner had gone over budget to secure. The kaleidoscope of emotions that played over their face ranged from horror to rage, and it was glorious!

Artwork provided by AR Clark

When Donald wasn’t working, he’d spend his time in public watching people. He could use his powers there, too. Causing shopping bags to break, shoes to catch on uneven parts of the sidewalk, minor collisions that people would talk about to anyone willing to listen to the injustice of their plight. That was the true magic; humans’ unwillingness to note the experience and move on. Instead, they pulled it around them like a shroud, making it the pillar of their entire existence. A key aspect of that was their stunted sense of time; they truly believed that they never had enough time. As a result, humans were all carrying massive amounts of unnecessary stress. Donald had to chuckle at the absurdity of it. If humans could just take a lesson from their self-aware ancestors, how different things could be.

Yes, Donald had a great manifestation. Endless potential and entertainment. There were exceptions, though. Some humans were unshakably grateful. For these folk, even major inconveniences barely registered. These types were the epitome of content. They had food, shelter, clothes, and their health; everything else was gravy. There was one customer of his who served as a challenge. He came to the shop once, maybe twice a month simply for the atmosphere. He would buy a simple cup of plain mild roast and sit at the corner table in the back, quietly sipping his beverage and watching the world go by. He carried a small sketchbook with him and spent his time watching, smiling and doodling as he slowly savored his brew. Hundreds of customers did that same thing in any given week. The difference with this customer was that he viewed his environment through a lens of reverence. To him, every sensory stimulation represented the gift of existence.

At first, Donald had suspected this guy might be one of the angel class, but he didn’t tinker with reality. Angels did that, too. Rewarding people they felt “deserved” it, whatever that meant. Angels were an aggravating bunch. They always assumed their morals were the way. They didn’t care to acknowledge that suffering and serenity were in the eye of the beholder. Donald’s customers were a good example of that; the grateful artist saw the beauty where the majority of his fellow humans saw only the bleak and broken. That fact equally thrilled and frustrated him and was the core reason he chose to stay on Earth with the humans instead of exploring the universe. Begrudgingly, he mused that humans might have the potential to teach him something, despite his eons of existence. Many lessons could be taken from the chronic push and pull of perspective.

Thankfully, he was a demon and didn’t have to worry about that. Existentialism came easily to him; he made his purpose from tormenting others. As an added bonus, his job was made easier and more entertaining by the fact that the objects of his attention frequently tormented themselves. A crafty grin spread across his face as something dawned on him; his despised customer might actually be doing him a favor. The other customers were bound to see Mr. Bright Side sitting there all easy and relaxed, and no doubt, would immediately wonder what he had that they didn’t. Envy would rear its ugly head, and a grain of sand would lodge itself in their brain, doing Donald’s job for him. Donald laughed out loud at his next thought; he could work his magic after Mr. Bright Side made his mark to cause some serious rage and irritation.