Dirty Business

Dom Landers - Satan worshipper - towered over the other occupants of the boardroom, his thick grey hair swept back.  He had been talking for hours.  Landers talked a lot - natural for a CEO of his calibre. 

The man seated closely to his left - Gibson - had seen the strange brown cylinder in Landers' jacket pocket, with which he continuously fumbled. 

After hours, Gibson searched Landers' jacket.  He found the brown cylinder and looked at it carefully.  He shook it; it seemed packed full of something.  He popped the lid off and peered inside.  Granules.  He took a sniff and his life was immediately transformed.

Gibson didn't believe in superstition or magic.  So his extreme good fortune following the brown cylinder incident was easily explained.  His hair growing back: strange but not impossible.  The sudden offer of a non-exec directorship: deserved (despite his ineptitude).  His estranged wife coming back: well, that got him thinking.  But, explained by the essential good nature of humanity.

Then there were the dreams featuring Satan.  They would go round together as a pair - on a rollercoaster, crossing an endless desert on buggies, and ... in bed.  That was one he didn't want to remember.

Six weeks later the good luck stopped.  His revitalised hair began to fall out.  His wife became estranged again, using her connections to put his non-exec position under jeopardy.

Gibson knew there was only one thing for it.

The next day in the office he searched, but Landers' jacket was empty.  Then as he turned, the other man was standing in the doorway, holding the brown cylinder up to the light of the projector.

"Looking for something?"

Gibson's jaw froze in indecision.

"The bottle is filled with cemetery dirt, if you must know.  No doubt you know its effects."

"... yes -".

"Of course, I've been watching you.  But only one man may use the bottle.  The last six weeks have been very hard for me."

Gibson was backing off.  Then something urged him to act, and he ran to grab the bottle.  There were cries and blows; tables were upturned. 

Then the bottle fell and smashed.

Immediately, the room lit up as the projector started to play.  Both men looked on in horror.  Upon the screen was a terrible face.  The film was grainy, shaky.  The eyes on the face looked from one man, then to the other.

Then the face rasped "BOTTLE BREAKERS!", and both men fainted.

The next morning, two bodies were discovered far below the open window of the skyscraper.  Suicide was the word on everybody's lips; after all, times were hard in business.  But there was one grisly puzzle: the mouths of both men were packed solid with dirt.