Time: After Beside A Black Tarn
Place: Amnesia Spaceport
Amnesia got a bad rap in Mac's opinion—not quite the hive of thieves and villains some people made it out to be. Sure. There were thieves and villains, since Amnesia spaceport had an extremely loose definition of law, but there were plenty of honest folks and business owners just trying to make a living. It was also a familiar place where he knew the streets and a place where people understood a simple social contract:
If it doesn't concern you, keep walking.
Which was why he shocked himself by stopping when he heard a frustrated squeak overhead.
He'd just had lunch with his handsome imp, though Heckle had needed to scurry back to the Brimstone for an incoming shipment, and Mac had decided on a window-shopping stroll. Gnawing on a toothpick, taking his own time down the covered sidewalk, he'd let other pedestrians part around him, wavelets to the prow of his ponderous barge of a body, as he headed toward the bazaar. Never knew what to expect there.
The overhead squeak sure as hell wasn't expected. Mac peered up into the support beams of the walkway awning and spotted something glittery squirming up there. A packing crate outside one of the shops made a good stepstool for Mac. Perfect for him, anyone else would've needed a ladder. Someone more or less Heckle-sized had gotten snagged on a jagged edge of one of the beams and Mac carefully disengaged the captured fabric before lifting the small person down.
"Put me down!" Small Person shrieked and hammered against Mac's shoulder with a tiny, sparkly hand.
"Sure. No problem." Mac set Small Person on his feet, so small he only came up to Mac's waist. "Are you all right?"
Small Person shook out shimmering gossamer wings with a disgusted snort and straightened what appeared to be a blue satin princess dress and tiara of questionable quality. A cigarillo clamped tight between blinding white teeth completed the look. "Yeah. Yeah. I'll live."
"I know it's none of my business, but are your wings viable?"
"Vestigial, thanks for bringing up a sore subject, you ass." Small Person straightened his shoulders. "I'm a dentata pseudonymph."
Mac fought against squinting, though it was a struggle faced with such an abundance of glitter. "You're…some kind of tooth fairy?"
"Oh fuck you, nephy-poo." Small Person rolled his eyes. "Like fairies exist. I'm a dental demon."
Mac's forehead crinkled at the childish insult. "Why were you stuck up in the roof beams if you can't fly?"
Not-The-Tooth-Fairy shot him a frown blacker than anything Captain Shax could manage. "Some big bruiser shoved me up there for stealing her box of flavored dental dams."
"Ookay." Mac wondered if he'd fallen out of bed that morning and hit his head. "Why would you steal dental dams?"
"Hello! Dental demon! It's what I do. I steal mouth stuff. Teeth. Fillings. Ball gags. Dentures. Toothbrushes. All that crap."
Amazing how some explanations don't explain one damn thing. "And what do you do with all of it?"
"You sure ask a lot of dumb questions. But you're a nephy, so I guess you can't help it." The dental demon shrugged. "It's what I do. What I do with what I do isn't any of your damn business. Thanks for the hand, but it's not like we're gonna be friends or anything." The dentata demon glared up at him, obviously waiting for something. "Move, you cretinous mountain!"
Mac stepped aside, gaping after the demon who stomped off in a huff of glitter and fluttering shimmery wings. When the demon vanished around a corner, Mac realized two things—his toothpick had also vanished and he'd completely forgotten what he'd planned to do with his afternoon.
Shaking his head, he made his way back to the Brimstone instead. Heck was never going to believe this.
Then again… Mac shook his head at himself. Heckle had seen a lot during his life in Hell. Probably not much left he wouldn't believe, even demonic tooth not-fairies.
About The Brimstone Journals
Extra treats for our Brimstone readers, Brimstone Journals will post every Tuesday. Short scenes from characters' lives before, after or during the stories.
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