March 9th, 2021


Idol Survivor: "Job Insecurity"

Job Insecurity
idol survivor | individual immunity #8 | ~1750 words
Making Fire


Far, far down in the deepest regions of Hell, there was a demon named Rorkanos whose sole duty was to be the Keeper of the Lake of Fire. It was a position of great importance.

Rorkanos was a short, gray, rumpled sort of demon, who had wrinkled knees and appalling taste in clothes. He liked filthy sweater-vests and porkpie hats and long pointy shoes, and he did not care who knew it. From that standpoint, he was not even the slightest bit unique.

Rorkanos had been in Hell for a very long time, so long that he couldn't actually remember how many years had passed. He had worked at many different jobs and lived in many different places, all of them dreadful. Frequently, the only distinctions in the dreadfulness between them were the details and the matter of degree.

Like many of Hell's inhabitants, Rorkanos had consumed entire centuries of time fixating on pursuing work or accommodations that were slightly better than what he currently had… or on avoiding those that were worse. By Hell-standards, tending to the Lake of Fire was about as cushy as a job could be.

It was a certainly far cry from where he'd begun.

Once upon a time Rorkanos had been a demon without a dental plan, just an ordinary minion tasked with driving the tour bus that circled Hell each day. That had been an awful job. At least one passenger always threw up, and a few more went bat-shit, every single day.

And, AND, there'd been an inspection at the end of every shift. So he'd had to stop by the fueling station behind the WalffenHoof on the way back to the garage, and try to park the bus in the tiny spot next to the free water hose. And even then, he'd never gotten close enough to be able to do more than hurry through a few rounds of mopping, scrubbing, and rinsing with a couple of used Sani-Wipes and his leftover coffee cup.

Rorkanos had tried to plan ahead, but it had never worked, not once. He'd brought cleaning supplies and a bucket along with him, and they'd always disappeared by the end of his shift. Somehow, he'd only ever had just enough time to make that frantic stop at the fueling station and rush back and forth between the hose and the various smears and piles of vomit/blood/balgesyarkt, trying to speed-clean the bus as best he could.

It was terrifying how much he'd hated that job, and he'd probably only gotten it by chance in the first place. Collapse )

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