I work in a third rate devil hunting agency, and my life choices has been a long chain of catastrophic enthusiasm. I slumped deeper into the particleboard surface, feeling every inch of cheapness soaked into it by whoever had used it before me. At least I wasn't bleeding today. For a Monday, that counted as a minor victory.
My uniform still smelled like microwave popcorn, even though it was also a little singed from whatever tried to nibble on me last shift. Beige was supposed to be neutral, but on me it just looked poor.
Intern Devil Hunter. The title sat on my badge. I was too unskilled to hunt anything worth a paycheck, too broke to walk away. So, I sat there, filling out forms in triplicate and praying my wandering mind wouldn't accidentally summon a devil.
This was my life. I tried not to think about it too hard, for everyone's safety.
"Intern. Are you still breathing?"
I heard the familiar rasp of Ivan before I bothered to turn my head. He sounded like those stereotypical villains that the hero first lost to and later shat on much to the reader's delight. In short, his voice was annoying as fuck.
I glanced toward the doorway and there he was, framed in fluorescent light. One look at his eyes and anybody could guess he lived on black coffee and had a fuck ton of resentment bottled in him, which, to be fair, was probably true.
I straightened so fast my spine made a noise that definitely wasn't medically approved. "Alive and thriving, Boss. Just appreciating the psychological warfare embedded in Form 3 B. Truly a masterpiece of human suffering."
Ivan walked in with a grunt and dropped a leather bound folder on my desk. It landed with a thud that made the particleboard wheeze. "Appreciate it faster. We got a call. A Waffle Devil is causing trouble at the Sunny Side Diner. Breakfast shift is in meltdown. They need it dealt with."
I stared at him. "A Waffle Devil. Boss. Last week it was a Sentient Sock Devil. At this point I'm starting to think the universe is pranking us."
He pinched the bridge of his nose like he was in physical pain. "The Waffle Devil is dangerous. It weaponizes the syrup. High fructose, five hundred PSI. Customers are getting glued to the floor. Management is threatening to unionize over this. Sometimes I wonder if they are cursed by the Lobotomy Devil, their first thought should be to call hunters not unionize."
A full body shiver ran through me. Sticky syrup ranked right under demon bile in my personal hierarchy of horrors. "Boss, you know I don't do sticky. Sticky is how intern fatalities happen."
Ivan sighed. "Congratulations. You're learning. Now grab your gear. The longer you wait, the more people are going to be fused to linoleum."
I stared at the folder like it might sprout teeth. It would fit right in here.
"Uh, by the way… Protocol 7 Delta, right? Neutralize by… consuming the threat?"
Ivan's roar practically shook dust from the ceiling. A pigeon outside took off like it had just seen its life flash before its eyes. "No, you idiot. You capture it. We need the demon core intact so we can sell it on the black market. This is your third last chance, Chron. If you mess this up, I'm sending you to mop duty in the basement where the Spongemonster lives."
My blood ran cold. The Spongemonster smelled like old bathwater, even worse than the bathwater of that Onlyfans model that Ivan gave me as a welcoming gift. I swallowed hard. "I won't fail, Boss. I need this job. I need the money for… for my sandwich."
He stared at me like I had sprouted a second head. "Your what?"
"My Legendary Pastrami, Pickles, and Provolone on a Pumpernickel Rye Sandwich." I whispered it like a prayer. My eyes probably reflected the same awe holy men reserved for miracles. "It is sold only at the Old World Delicatessen and costs seventy five bucks. It is the peak of human culinary achievement. I have been saving for months. I just need this one bounty to cover the artisanal mustard tax."
Ivan pressed his fingers to his temples. I could feel the disappointment radiating off him. "Just go. And remember to take Mister Fluffernutter."
He nodded at the shadowed corner of the office. Something small and fluffy shifted. Then it stepped into the light. Mister Fluffernutter. A white cat with sorrowful blue eyes.
He hopped onto my shoulder with the grace of a seasoned assassin. He had a paralyzed larynx, courtesy of his technique which made his voice incredibly deep. "Mrow," he said. One could hear the testosterone in his voice.
"He is still crying," I muttered, adjusting the tiny noise canceling headphones secured over his fuzzy ears. "He hasn't stopped since the Sock Devil incident."
Ivan shrugged with the resignation of a man who had given up on logic. "He feeds on everyday misery, Chron. The Sock Devil was too silly to keep him nourished. He is depressed. Now get moving. Bring me a sticky waffle core. And try to feel a little more despair along the way so Fluffernutter can snack."
"You'd think being near me all this time would make him a fatso, but nope! He doesn't consider me to be miserable at all!"
…
..
.
The Sunny-Side Diner was pure, chaotic spectacle.
A hulking, eight-foot-tall construct made of perfectly square, checkered waffle batter stood in the center, slowly rotating. It had large, vacant eyes made of melted butter, and its 'mouth' was a constantly oozing stream of golden, viscous syrup. Every time it moved, it let out a sound like a wet sponge being torn: "Squiiiish."
Its victims, a dozen terrified patrons, were either stuck to the floor, immobilized by syrup splatters, or were desperately trying to use forks to scrape themselves free.
"He's beautiful," I breathed, pulling a dented, rusty machete out of my windbreaker.
Mister Fluffernutter, perched on my shoulder, let out a tiny, hiccuping meow.
"Don't worry, buddy," I whispered, patting the cat gently. "We'll find some existential dread soon. I'm sure someone here is regretting their life choices."
I approached the Waffle Devil, dodging a spray of syrup that instantly glued a nearby newspaper stand to a traffic light.
"Alright, Waffle Devil!" I yelled, brandishing the machete. "I'm here to tell you that this breakfast ends now! I have a high-value deli meat procurement goal, and you're standing between me and my destiny! Prepare to become… a slightly sadder waffle!"
The Waffle Devil paused its assault. It turned its buttery eyes toward me. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, it picked up a carafe of coffee from a nearby table.
The Devil poured the entire carafe of lukewarm diner coffee over its own buttery head. The liquid sizzled as it hit the waffle batter, sending up a puff of steam that smelled faintly of burnt toast. Mister Fluffernutter let out a mournful "Mrow," a single tear rolling down his fluffy cheek. The coffee seemed to amplify the Waffle Devil's misery, making its syrup-spewing even more erratic.
"You're just making it worse for him, Waffle Devil!" I shouted, dodging a thick, sticky stream that narrowly missed my head, instead gluing a potted plant to a passing bus. "Don't tempt a dying cat with deliciousness!"
I darted forward, my machete glinting in the diner's fluorescent lights. My target: the Waffle Devil's "core," presumably somewhere in the gooey body.
I swung the machete, aiming for a leg of the colossal waffle-being. The blade connected with a thwack that sounded less like slicing monster flesh and more like chopping a particularly dense block of cheddar cheese. Bits of crispy, slightly stale waffle flew into the air, along with a gush of maple-scented goo.
The Waffle Devil shrieked, a sound like a dozen griddles scraping, and retaliated by unleashing a concentrated blast of syrup directly at me. I ducked, sliding on a patch of butter-slicked floor, barely avoiding being entombed in a sweet, sticky tomb.
"This is ridiculous!" I grumbled, struggling to regain my footing. "You're a waffle! Why are you so good at ranged combat?!"
Suddenly, a voice, surprisingly high-pitched and filled with dramatic despair, cut through the chaos.
"Oh, hell no! Not like this! I am NOT dying alone at a Sunny-Side Diner!"
I glanced over. Pinned to the floor by a particularly potent syrup puddle, a scrawny teenager with bright orange hair and a face full of acne glared at the Waffle Devil. He looked to be about seventeen years old, currently using a plastic fork to try and pry himself off the floor.
"You oversized breakfast pastry!" he shrieked, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and burning indignation. "I just started my 'learn to knit' hobby! I haven't even had my first relationship! I was going to find a girlfriend, fall in love, and then we could die together a heroic death after battling it out for 3 days and nights on the bed!"
"Finn, shut up…" someone said beside him, probably his parent.
Mister Fluffernutter perked up slightly at Finn's outburst, a flicker of something almost like interest in his blue eyes.
I slipped, momentarily distracted by his anxieties. I landed hard on my backside, my machete flying from my grasp and embedding itself in a nearby stack of menus.
The Waffle Devil saw its chance. It lumbered forward, its buttery eyes fixed on the prone me. A massive, syrup-coated "hand", really just a large, flat slab of waffle, began to descend.
"Oh, this is it!" Finn wailed. "This is how it ends! Syrup-encased, single, and with a half-eaten blueberry muffin in my pocket! No one will ever know my burgeoning knitting skills! I'll be a cautionary tale for future generations of lonely nerds!"
I scrambled backward, desperately trying to grab my machete. The Waffle Devil's hand was getting closer. I could feel the faint warmth radiating from it.
Just as the waffle-hand was about to flatten me, Finn, having managed to wiggle his upper body partially free from the syrupy puddle, reached desperately under the overturned table beside him. His hand closed around a stray, steak knife that must have fallen off the dish cart.
Fueled by the pure, terrifying realization that he was about to die without ever getting laid, Finn wound up and threw the knife with a desperate heave.
"You won't ruin my dating prospects, you breakfast-themed fuck!" Finn shrieked, his voice cracking.
The steak knife tumbled end-over-end, its trajectory completely random, but thanks to the laws of dumb luck, it struck the wall before it embedded itself directly into one of the Waffle Devil's buttery eyes.
The Waffle Devil shrieked again, a high-pitched, surprised sound. It recoiled, shaking its head, sending bits of butter and syrup flying in every direction.
"Eat shit!" Finn yelled, completely free from the syrup now.
I looked at the scrawny teen, genuinely stunned.
"Whatcha looking at unc?!" Finn scowled.
"Unc? Bitch I'm 24!" I screamed at him.
"Yeah, and my dad's 18!"
The Waffle Devil, blinded in one eye and briefly forgotten in the face of this generational slight, looked like it was preparing for some big moves.
What do I do…?
Then, the vague, often-ignored Devil biology lecture Ivan forced me to watch clicked into place. The core of a carb-based entity, due to its stabilizing effect on the amorphous batter, was almost always located... in the center mass.
The Waffle Devil, which I'd mistakenly thought was gearing up for a big move, now looked more confused than threatening. For some reason, it was lumbering sideways like it had forgotten how to walk.
"Shut your virgin mouth, jackass!" I shouted at Finn. "Step back and see how the professionals do it!"
The Waffle devil took a swipe. I rolled, ducking under it and running straight up the Devil's butter-slicked arm, using the very syrup meant to ensnare me as an unstable grip. I dodged its other hand as it tried to swat me away.
"Die!" I screamed and jumped.
The Waffle Devil, in one final, desperate move, focused all its remaining internal syrup pressure and sprayed a concentrated stream directly upward, aiming for my face.
I narrowly dodged it with a twist mid-air. It cut open the ceiling. Damn, it would have cut me in half if it hit.
Now perched right on the Waffle Devil's chest, I raised my machete. I brought it down with all my might, aiming for the center square of its body. The blade sank deep, and this time, the sound was not cheese, but a disgusting, squelching pop.
The Waffle Devil immediately went limp. Its buttery eyes dissolved, and the entire massive construct began to rapidly melt down, leaving behind a steaming, checkered puddle of slightly burnt waffle batter, a lot of syrup, and one small, glowing, perfectly intact Waffle Devil Core, a crystallized, sugar-cube-shaped rock.
"I hope I get a good bonus after this…"
But no sooner had I thought that than the ceiling gave way. The last syrup spray tore through the building, cutting it in half. Fuck. There goes my bonus...
Triiing!
My phone buzzed. It was Ivan. How does this guy always call me the second I finish the job?
I answered and Ivan immediately said, "Good job, Chron! Is the building still standing?"
"Well about that…"