🚀 go-pugleaf

     Hello.  Today's digression will cover the topic of mystical
accreditation, specifically the heretofore underexplored realm of the
lesser accreditations.
     If you've been reading Superguy for any serious amount of time,
you'll have at least a passing familiarity with the major positions within
the mystic hierarchy...the Sorceress Superlative, the Sorcerer Superfluous,
and so on, and so forth.  See various episodes of CalForce, Radian &
Shadebeam, Scholarman & Ignorantman and various Indu...well, other titles
for more on the big boys (and girls (and things)) of the mystic sphere.
     But just like Baseball is more than just the Major Leagues and their
farm teams, magic is more than the heavy hitters.  There's a whole
substratum of lesser powers, people who have some talent or responsibility
but no real power to back it up.  And while they may not be able to blow
things up (well, the Priest Pyrotechnic can, but he uses explosives), they
do have generally useful abilities, leading to accreditations for them as
well.
     You've already met one of these lesser types, the Shaman Shamus,
Hans Kartoffelkopf [you HAVE been reading Crazy Guy, right? - Ed.], who
has no power but does know quite a bit of Things Man Just Would Really
Sleep Better At Night Not Knowing and has a knack for being in the most
interesting (read: most dangerous) places at the optimum (read: wrong)
time.  And part of the job is not just knowing things, but also knowing
people (and things which try to convince you that they're people).  He
may not have Scholarman's FAX number in his rolodex, but he's pretty well
connected to other minor mystic talents, and probably has embarrassing
photos of mid-level mystics to use as leverage when he needs their help.
     Still, Hans is only one of many diverse semi-pro players in the game
of magic.  Take, for example, Gorbel the Evil....
     "No you don't, Dave.  I have anvils and I know how to use them."
     But I was just going to mention how he'd fit perfectly in the role
of Mage Malodorous....
     "That's it, I'm sending Snippy the Boy Weasel over to live at your
Authorial Demense."
     Er, thus concludes this episode's "I couldn't fit it into the
dialogue" expository chunk.  If anyone needs me, I'll be setting up the
Bofors and activating the anti-sidekick minefield.

Coherent Comics UnInc. Presents:   ___  __   __ ___ _  _   ___   _  _ _  _
         CRAZY GUY #12            /   '/  | / |  /   \/   /   ' /   /  \/
  "Devil Went Down To Newport"   /    /--' /--| /    /   /  __ /   /   /
copyright 1996 Dave Van Domelen `___ /  | /   |/__ _/    `__/  \__/  _/
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

     As Jack's vision swam from the pain, he tried to focus on the ruddy
gentleman who had just addressed him.  Or perhaps his vision was swimming
more from the horrible odor of smelly feet that had suddenly blown in on
the sea breeze.  Either way, he couldn't make the man out as more than a
blur in a suit.
     "S-stan?" Jack stuttered, a trickle of blood from his mouth turning
into a reddish spray.
     The man sighed, and suddenly the pain was gone!
     "Is that better?  I find it so..." he paused as if searching for a
word, "inefficient having to repeat myself several times to someone who's
on death's doorstep.  Oh, make no mistake, your injuries are still there,
you're still in as bad a position as you were before I arrived...you just
can't feel it right now."  He paused to wipe a bit of blood from his
lapel with a handkerchief.  "As I said before, my name is Satan T. Lucifer
Jones, and I believe we can make a deal."
     Jack's brow furrowed in confusion.  "How?  I mean, all right, you
obviously have some sort of powers, or I'd still be writhing in pain."
     Jones looked like he was resisting the urge to slap himself in the
face.  "I guess the missionaries didn't do a very good job in your home
village.  I'm Satan.  The Devil.  Lord of Eternal Darkness and Father of
Lies.  CEO of Hell(TM) Incorporated." [Author's note: While Satan T.
Lucifer Jones may own the trademark on Hell(TM) and can say it without
legal problems, the Author has decided not to risk retaliation in case this
legal immunity doesn't extend to those who quote Satan.  Incidentally, all
of Satan's lines are copyright 1996 Satan, used for the purposes of
advancing the plot.]
     "Oh, so you're the one who owns the trademark on hell(TM), that's got
to be a nice franchise."
     "This'll teach me to read the files more closely in the future,"
Jones muttered under his breath.  "Okay, kid, you obviously didn't get a
Christian upbringing, what DO you worship?"
     "1960s and 70s American TV."
     Mr. Jones's face brightened, if an eternally dark and evil face can
be said to do such a thing.  "Okay, remember the episode of Happy Days
where Fonzie ends up losing his coolness to Beelzebub?"  When Jack nodded,
he continued, "Well, that was one of my agents...although I didn't care for
the portrayal, so I gave Ron Howard premature baldness."
     A look of cold horror dawned on Jack's face, and he was halfway up the
wall before he realized what an incredibly bad idea that was when you have
a harpoon stuck through you.
     "GAH!" he gah'ed.  "You want my soul!"
     "Settle down, Jack," Jones smiled, filling Jack with even more terror.
"You're immortal, barring this little accident.  And if I help you, you'll
still be immortal, meaning I can't get your soul anyway.  Besides, our
accounting department tells me there's a lein on your soul, which could
invalidate any agreement I would make with you regarding its final
disposition in the event of your eventual demise."
     While not exactly calm, Jack was now sufficiently befuddled that he
stopped trying to flee.  "Buh?"
     "Your soul's not yours to sell."
     "Oh.  Huh?"
     "But as I said, your soul is not the matter under consideration here.
I'm here to offer you a job with one of my subsidiaries, and as an advance
on our excellent health plan I offer my services in removing the effects
of that nasty little chi technique should you accept the position.  In
short," he smiled again, "work for me and I won't leave you in the street
to suffer the fate you walked into."
     "That's blackmail!" Jack sputtered.  "Isn't a contract invalid if
signed under duress?"
     Satan raised an eyebrow.  "Indeed it is, but I'm under no obligation,
legal or otherwise, to be a good samaritan and help you for free.  But as
a valued employee, you'd be entitled to certain benefits, including
restoration to mint condition.  After all, I want my workers to be in top
shape for maximum productivity.  Proactive health care is one of the
cornerstones of a successful modern corporation!"  The gleam in his eye
turned black.  "But, of course, you *are* free to go, to seek out some
alternate health care provider...I'll even leave you my painkilling
glamour as compensation for your time in listening to me...but I doubt that
you'll find a cure before the 'God Kill Strike' or whatever she called it
finishes its work.  None could say I acted in poor faith or exerted undue
influence on you, Jack."
     "Why do you want to hire me?  I'm not about to do anything wrong or
evil for you, and you've got to have others who are stronger and more
powerful than I am," Jack said, casting his eyes about to find where his
staff had rolled.
     "Yes, the Legions of Hell (interdimensional trademark pending) are
indeed mighty.  And if I want something evil done, I can certainly find
one among them up to the task.  But...have you ever heard of the phrase,
'The road to Hell(TM) is paved with good intentions?'  Well, sometimes to
serve the greater Evil, some Good must be done.  And if there's one thing
my Hellspawn(TM) are not very good at, it's doing Good.  So I hire the
occasional freelancer or outside specialist, someone who's basically good
and can do things and go places Hellspawn(TM) can't, but who has been
compromised just enough to actually work for me.  Like, for instance,
someone who faces certain death unless he compromises his principles a
little."
     Jack frowned.  "I still don't like the idea very much."
     "Well, that's natural.  But keep in mind you've already worked in my
best interests once before."
     "Huh?"
     "Do you think there's only one infernal realm?  Of course not!  This
is a marketplace economy of evil, son.  And Eng Fan Boi represented a major
talent asset for one of my competitors...by defeating him, you helped me.
Now, while that's not the sort of job I can't do with my own resources, it
goes to show that even if you don't work for me you may find your actions
in the service of good help at least one faction of evil.  Might as well
go into that with your eyes open, eh?  And it'll be one less faction you
have to watch your back against, too."  He pulled out a contract from his
briefcase.  "Here's the contract.  It has an ironclad clause that states
you will never be required to perform an act you consider intrinsically
wrong while working for Hell(TM) Inc., and that aside from cases of being
sent to deal with my competition in the Evil market, every effort will be
made to give you jobs that you can't see the evil side to.  The normal
clause in this case would be 'No evil effects within the signatory's
lifetime,' but obviously that has to by modified in your case.  The
contract is for 5 years, renewable at the discretion of the CEO of Hell(TM)
Inc., as well as breakable at the CEO's discretion.  The CEO being, of
course, me.  In addition to the health package, there's also generous
material compensation and other fringe benefits to the position...trust
me, aside from the occasional extreme danger involved, this is a VERY
plum position.  So, will you sign the contract, or should I leave you to
find your own way out of this hole?"
     Jack said nothing, but glanced at his stomach.  If anything, the
wound had gotten worse since he was attacked.  It certainly showed no sign
of healing.  He took the pen and contract.
     "I already work for a movie studio...I suppose this isn't too much
different."  He held the pen over the contract, then paused.  "What about
my old job?"
     "Well, you're being hired on a freelance basis, so much of your time
will likely remain your own.  If you wish, you can keep your stunt job,
although you won't really need the money from it," Satan pointed to a
rather large number with a dollar sign in front of it on the first page
of the contract.
     Jack let out a low whistle, spitting frothy blood onto the page.
     "Well, that's one way to sign, I suppose," Jones smirked.  "No, no,
go ahead and sign your name as well, it'll be easier to confirm than
running a DNA test on the blood."
     Jack signed the contract, and a sense of well-being replaced the
simple absence of pain.
     "You may wish to pull out the..." Satan gestured to the harpoon still
stuck in Jack's midsection.  "You know, before you heal around it."
     "D'oh!" Jack said, handing the contract and pen over before pulling
the harpoon out with a jolt of pain.  "Ow!"
     "Pain's good for you, Jack, I figured you'd want it back now that
you're not dying," Satan grinned.  "Here's your copy of the contract,
I'll have my people contact you about details and preparations for your
first assignment.  Here's a direct deposit form, fill it out when you get
the time, and W-4's, tax exemption status application...you're not a US
citizen...and a few other forms to look over before Accounting can put you
on the payroll.  Welcome to Hell(TM) Inc.!" Satan took Jack's right hand
in his own clammy, clawed hand and shook it vigorously.  "Good to have you
on the team."
     With that, Jones disappeared in a cloud of brimstone and failed Dr.
Scholls shoe inserts.
     For a minute or two, Jack just stood there, looking at the confusing
and arcane forms, then he spotted his staff behind a garbage can.
     Just as he picked it up, he heard footsteps behind him and whirled to
face whoever it was.
     "Hans!  I was on my way to see you," Jack said.
     "Kid, you just made a REALLY bad career move...."

DID JACK *REALLY* JUST GET HIRED BY SATAN, OR WAS IT ALL A REALLY WEIRD
     HALLUCINATION BROUGHT ON BY PAIN AND BLOOD LOSS?

IS THIS SERIES JUST A REALLY WEIRD HALLUCINATION BROUGHT ON BY LACK OF
     SLEEP AND TOO MUCH CAFFEINE?

DOES THE HEALTH PLAN INCLUDE FULL DENTAL?

IS THE AUTHOR JUST A REALLY WEIRD HALLUCINATION BROUGHT ON BY READING TOO
     MUCH SUPERGUY?

Answers to some of these, on the next...SUPERGUY!

===========================================================================

Author's Notes:

     C-sharp, E-flat.