The Grind(Jason James Parker) Amon awoke feeling somewhat overheated, but then again that was the very baseline to which he’d become accustomed. The unwashed bleeding heart liberals were right after all: the planet was rapidly approaching the temperature of Satan's arse-crack. He blearily dragged his feet from his sleeping quarters to hunt down some grub, scratching his rear end and yawning as he went. Sucking air through his teeth, Amon examined the available culinary options, settling for a meagre breakfast of something that vaguely passed for meat. Somewhere near satisfied, he saw to his ablutions, took one last look at his abode as was his custom and exited into the world to start work.

The commute was as sweaty, anxiety-ridden and awful as ever and Amon fantasized about escaping from the city. He was getting older and the pursuits that once enthralled him were now just an atomic source of ball-ache. Amon clicked his tongue, leering at the shapely breasts of an appealing female travelling in the opposite direction. His thoughts back on the job, Amon shook his head, admitting to himself that the boss would never allow him to relocate in a billion years. That friggin' douche-canoe wanted everyone within pissing distance of the all important client-base and anyone who pushed the issue ended up with their dick in a vice. Best just to resign himself to his fate and get on with it.

Passing an old buddy, Amon gave an insincere wave, secretly hoping the old fella wasn't rearing up for some protracted and gut-wrenchingly dull conversation. Yet another thing fallen prey to the ravages of age was Amon’s ability to fake his way through small talk. There were so many big issues out there – global warming for one – how could anyone satisfy themselves with banal dithering about which Hollywood personality had done what to whom with their genitals this time?

Amon hummed a jaunty tune as he waited for the traffic to shift, hoping it would elevate his souring mood. He soon took to whistling, enjoying himself with growing gusto and nodding his head in time to the melody. His eyes widened suddenly and Amon slapped a hand over his mouth, realizing precisely what manner of ditty it was. He looked around in a panic, only breathing a sigh of relief when it became evident that no one else had noticed his little misdemeanor.

When Amon arrived at his final destination, his complexion paled, his shoulders sagged and his feet dragged. He had to accept the fact that he no longer enjoyed his work; in fact, he detested every second of it. Eyeballing his ‘clients’, standing there in their little clique, exchanging glances and clearly not relishing the experience either, he wondered why a job like his still existed. Wasn’t this the Future? Shouldn’t such mundane tasks be the domain of A.I. or robots? Manual administrative and executive duties were okay back in the day, but ‘bring on the push-button era!’ thought Amon as he pulled his broad axe from the holster at his back and swung it.

His first client was cleaved in twain with minimal effort; the first of the day always was. The two halves peeled away in opposite directions, the resulting eruption of viscera, blood and assorted tissue hissed as it hit the torrid ground. The small throng screamed, puked, sobbed and some even fell to their knees, begging for their immortal souls; even Amon, jaded as he was, loved it when they did that. But, no, he would hack away at each and every one of them; torture them according to procedure, and torment them until they could take no more.

The great demon city of Pandemonium loomed large in the near distance, so beautiful in the flaming, orange glow of late morning. Amon looked about as great herds of sinners were marched this way and that in various stages of degradation and disfigurement. It dawned on him then, as clear in his mind’s eye as the pristine waters of the river Acheron, that he was in the best place there was, doing the only kind of work a being of his skill-set was good for; and that was okay by him after all.

Amon massaged the base of his left horn and stretched his enormous wings as he scanned the area for any sign of passersby, team leaders or busy-bodies. Satisfied, he resumed his whistled rendition of ‘How Great Thou Art’: his one guilty pleasure. At any rate, a pleasant tune always helped him inflict misery that much more efficiently.

And tomorrow, he would do it all again; a mite more happily, perhaps.

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