Daily Screams

A very unusual collection

"And here," Asthogal continues, "here is where I keep the tongues." He hunches himself inwards, a silly little movement that is both gleeful and self-congratulatory. And altogether ridiculous on a nine foot demon. "I like to categorise them by malice. Oh some will say the only way to organise tongues by aeon. But I find that so frustrating. Take for instance this one -"
He swivels his wrist, pointing one of his many talons to a swollen glob of half-rotted flesh. Possibly the only thing more incongruous than a wrath-demon directing a personal tour around the museum, I mused, was the sight of said demon's garish nail polish. Someone had introduced Asthogal to manicures. And Mary-Janes. I mean, it's not like he's towering over me already; but cutesy little court heels and school-girl straps over the ankles? At least, I assume they're his ankles. They're in the right place and they stick out; sharp burs of dirty-coloured bone, but I think they're ankles.
I realise I've spent this whole time assuming Asthogal is male. Do demons have gender? Somehow the thought of a girl-demon just don't fit right with the wrath-types. Oh succubi and many of the spite-types sure. But a wrath-demon? Da-amn, have you ever seen one of those bastards? Take the really unhappy love child of HellBoy and those nasty looking drooling skeletons from Alien - but take away the drool, wrath-demons don't slime the way glutton-types do - and you're approaching your average wrath-demon.But Asthogal is no average anything.He - she, it, whatever - is the, the, demon responsible for most of the early twentieth century, as well as those pesky Napoleonic wars, the Spanish Armada (not the Inquisition though, that was Gorbulan and Iksne working in an uncharacteristic partnership) and the Conquistadors. Asthogal really is something quite astonishing. He's never admitted it, but I strongly suspect he was behind the Babylonian and Chaldean empires too. Certainly he wasn't just a mere bystander when some of Rome's more crackpot Caesars fancied a turn wearing the laurels, and I know he was behind the M25 and it's longstanding traffic works.
Ah, I appear to have completely tuned him out. It's not that I'm not interested in his little (read freaking bloody enormous) collection of human odds and ends (mostly ends, and some of them are very odd indeed), but there's only so many flayed skins, cauterised limbs, preserved eyeballs, and now apparently tongues, that you can make small talk over. I'm trying not to look, but I'm pretty certain there's a cabinet marked Penile Appendages; Intact, Semi-Intact, Badly Damaged.
I am not going to ask for a look.
Asthogal is actually a pretty good friend - although I'm going to have to get the name of his manicurist, that pink is to die for - in as much as any human-demon relationship is going to flourish. I mean, I'm gonna be decayed to dust long before he realises I'm not around any more. But I can't hold that against him, it'd be like a hamster getting pissed at your grandparents for being old. Still, I'm quite fond of ol' Asthogal, in his dry, precise sorta way. He waves towards another display case and I have to stifle a giggle as I realise the heels have turned his fearsome stalk into a mince. He's got some serious hip-work going too. He turns suddenly, a scowl appearing on his already terrifying face.
"You don't give a blind damn about this, do you?" he asks with wincing bluntness. "I could spend the next twelve weeks showing you my ears and it wouldn't interest you in the slightest, would it?" He sighed, a blast of sirocco heat filling the room. "You humans... I have spent millennia building up my ear collection. Ghenis Khan, Donatien Francios, Niccolo Machiavelli, dear little Vince Van Gogh - only one of his I'm afraid, my darling Little Boots Caligula, Benito Mussolini..." He broke off. "It really doesn't interest you, does it, little one?"
I try a weak smile. Don't make him angry. Don't make him angry. Wrath-demons are absolute divas when they're mad and whilst I'm probably not display material, I don't really want Asthogal making off with my ears or any other part of me.
He stands there, towering over me, one taloned hand on bony hip giving me Beyonce-level sass.
"Um-," I suggest.
"Follow me, mortal." He spins around and makes for the doorway. This is serious, he only calls me Mortal and starts speaking like an extra from Dante when someone is about to be disemboweled. I just hope it's not me.
I trail after Asthogal as he heads through the museum. Passed other displays complied by other collectors; whole bodies, heads, internal organs, puppies. I mean, what sort of sick bastard demon makes a showcase of dead puppies? Even the ghouls avoid that one.
"Behold." Asthogal sweeps back a curtain and gestures me forward. The room, stretching on for perhaps a mile and upwards five storeys, is line with a million shelves. There are glass cabinets and glittering candles, mirrors reflecting the light in all directions. The effect is an overwhelming brilliance that leaves you with the sense of staring into infinity.
I swallow.
"Behold. My shoe collection."


Word count: 868
Prompt: An Unusual Collection

SCREAMS!!! Daily Winner 29/04/21
Weekly Winner 27/04-03/05/21