The Demon King's Customer Service

Chapter 2: The First Complaint

The voice on the other end of the line didn’t just scream; it modulated through three different octaves of pure, unadulterated entitlement before finally settling into a jagged, high-pitched wail.

"I was told there would be a buffet! A literal, all-you-can-eat buffet of my favorite childhood memories!" the caller shrieked. "Do you know what I’m looking at right now, Niran? I’m looking at a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal! There’s not even cinnamon on it! This is a breach of contract! I want to speak to your supervisor! I want to speak to God! I want to speak to whoever is in charge of the spice rack in this dump!"

Niran leaned back, his eyes tracking a slow-moving river of lava outside his window. He didn't even blink.

"Sir, I hear your frustration, and I truly do," Niran said, his voice a smooth, calming balm that hid a razor-sharp edge. "But I’m looking at your file here—Mr. Henderson, right? It says you spent forty years as a health inspector who specialized in shutting down family-owned bakeries on minor technicalities. Does that sound correct?"

"What does that have to do with my oatmeal?"

"Well, Mr. Henderson, per the 'Ironic Retribution Clause' in your standard Damnation Agreement, your afterlife diet is strictly regulated by the very same standards you enforced on earth. This oatmeal is perfectly sterile, grade-A industrial mush. It is, technically, the safest food in the multiverse. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I wanted a donut! Just one donut!"

"I’m afraid a donut would be a cross-contamination nightmare, sir. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have a queue of four billion people waiting to tell me the pits are too 'pointy.' Have a terrible day."

Niran tapped a glowing rune on his desk, cutting the connection with a satisfying pop. He let out a long, weary sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Is it always like this?" Niran asked the empty room.

"Actually, that was one of the polite ones," a voice squeaked from somewhere near his left knee.

Niran jumped, his chair spinning around. Standing there was a creature that looked like a pug had been merged with a very nervous gargoyle and then stuffed into a polyester waistcoat three sizes too small. He was holding a stack of folders so large he had to peer around them with one bulbous, yellow eye.

"Who are you?" Niran asked, his heart—or the spectral memory of it—thumping.

"Barnaby, sir! Lesser Demon, Grade Four, Filing and General Nuisance Department," the creature said, dropping the folders onto Niran’s desk with a thud that shook the floor. "Lucifer sent me. Said you needed a 'lackey with no backbone and a high tolerance for verbal abuse.' I’ve worked in the Infernal Tax Office for six centuries, so I’m overqualified!"

Niran stared at the stack of papers. "What is all this, Barnaby?"

"These are the Priority One 'Contractual Grievances,' sir. The big ones. Not just the 'my bed is made of nails' stuff. These are the legal snafus. People who think they found a loophole."

Niran pulled the top folder. "A loophole in Hell? Isn't the whole point that there are no loopholes?"

Barnaby let out a wheezing cackle. "Oh, you’d think so! but humans are crafty, sir. They spend their whole lives practicing how to screw each other over, and then they get here and try to do it to us. It’s a mess. The demons usually just eat them when they start quoting law, but that just leads to 'Indigestion Appeals,' and those are even worse."

Niran opened the folder. His brow furrowed as he scanned the messy, blood-inked parchment. "Wait. Is this real? A guy sold his soul for a ham sandwich?"

"Oh, Gary," Barnaby nodded sagely. "Yeah, Gary’s a classic. He’s been sitting in the 'Limbo Waiting Room' for three days, refusing to go to his designated pit because of a 'Failure of Consideration' claim."

"A ham sandwich," Niran repeated, deadpan. "Barnaby, get Gary on the line. No, actually, send him in. I need to see the man who valued his eternal essence at the price of a mid-tier deli lunch."

Barnaby snapped his clawed fingers. A puff of sulfurous smoke erupted in the center of the office, and when it cleared, a man in a stained 'I Heart Omaha' t-shirt was sitting in a wooden chair, looking incredibly annoyed.

"About time!" Gary shouted, jumping to his feet. "Are you the guy? Are you the manager? Because I’ve got a bone to pick with your sales department!"

Niran adjusted his obsidian headset. "Sit down, Gary. I’m Niran, Head of Infernal Customer Service. I see here you’re disputing the 'Pumpernickel Pact' you signed with a crossroads demon named... Kevin?"

"Yeah, Kevin! That little snake!" Gary slammed his hand on Niran’s desk. "He told me it was the best sandwich I’d ever eat! He promised me a culinary experience that would haunt me! And you know what I got? I got a cold ham and cheese on white bread. Not even toasted! The lettuce was wilted, man! Wilted!"

Niran leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. "And you feel this constitutes a breach of the infernal contract?"

"Darn right I do! If I’m giving up my soul—my eternal soul, Niran—I expect a sandwich that’s at least worth ten bucks! That thing was a three-dollar gas station special at best. I want a refund. Give me my soul back, or at least a voucher for a better afterlife."

Niran looked at Barnaby, who was shivering with a mix of fear and excitement. Then he looked back at Gary.

"Gary, let’s look at the fine print," Niran said, flipping through the pages. "Clause 4, Subsection B: 'The quality of the requested item is subjective and based on the availability of local ingredients at the time of summoning.' Where were you when you called Kevin?"

"I was at a rest stop on I-80," Gary muttered. "It was three in the morning."

"On a Tuesday?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Gary, you summoned a demon at a Nebraska rest stop on a Tuesday and expected artisanal sourdough? You’re lucky the ham wasn't sentient."

"I don't care!" Gary yelled, his face turning a vibrant shade of purple. "The contract said 'satisfaction guaranteed'! I am not satisfied! Therefore, the soul-transfer is null and void! I know my rights! I watched three seasons of a legal drama before I died!"

Barnaby leaned in and whispered, "Sir, if we let him go, it’ll set a precedent. Every guy who didn't like his last meal will be banging on our door. We'll have a riot in the intake lounge."

Niran tapped his pen against the desk, a rhythmic, annoying sound. "Gary, I have two options here. I can send you to the Pit of Infinite Papercuts, where you will spend eternity being filed into a cabinet by a very clumsy imp. Or, I can resolve this right now."

Gary crossed his arms. "I'm listening. But it better involve a refund."

"No refunds," Niran said, his voice dropping an octave. "But, I can offer you a 'Service for Service' adjustment. You claim the sandwich was subpar. Fine. We’ll credit your account for the 'Lost Value' of the meal."

Gary’s eyes lit up. "Wait, really? You can do that?"

"Absolutely," Niran smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a man who had told thousands of people that their internet wasn't working because they hadn't plugged it in. "Based on current market rates for soul-to-sandwich conversion, we’ve determined you were overcharged by approximately four dollars and fifty cents. Barnaby?"

"Yes, Boss?"

"Gary is hereby sentenced to the 'Sector of Minor Inconveniences.' He’ll have a comfortable bed, but one leg will always be shorter than the others. He’ll have a TV, but the remote will only work if he stands in the corner on one leg. And most importantly, he gets his ham sandwich."

Gary blinked. "Every day?"

"Every hour," Niran said. "But since you complained about the quality, we’ve upgraded you. It’ll be the best ham sandwich in the multiverse. Artisanal bread, honey-glazed ham, the works."

"That... that sounds okay, actually," Gary said, looking confused.

"There's just one tiny detail," Niran added, leaning back. "Because you're getting such a high-value item on a recurring basis, the 'Administrative Maintenance F*e' for your soul has increased. You’ll be working in our mailroom for the next ten thousand years to pay off the difference. You start now."

Gary’s jaw dropped. "Wait, what? Work? I’m dead! I’m supposed to be suffering or resting, not doing mail!"

"You wanted a better sandwich, Gary. Quality service costs money. Or in this case, labor. Barnaby, take him away before I decide the sandwich should be made of wasps."

Barnaby grabbed Gary’s arm with a surprisingly strong grip. "Follow me, Mr. Gary! The mailroom has excellent benefits, like 'Slightly Less Fire' Fridays!"

As they vanished in a swirl of shadows, Niran let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since his heart stopped. He reached for his coffee, which was still steaming and smelled like heaven—literally.

"One down, four billion to go," he muttered.

He looked at the next folder. It was a woman who had tried to sue a Guardian Angel for 'negligent protection' after she tripped over her own cat. Niran groaned.

"I need a vacation. Do dead people get vacations? Or do we just get different shades of grey for a weekend?"

Before he could open the folder, the heavy oak doors of his office didn't just open; they exploded inward.

A woman marched in. She was wearing a suit that looked like it had been tailored by a laser, her black hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful. She was carrying a briefcase made of dragon-scale leather, and her expression was one of cold, professional fury.

She slammed a stack of legal papers onto Niran’s desk, nearly knocking over his coffee.

"Niran Tavio?" she snapped.

Niran blinked, adjusting his headset. "Depends on who’s asking. If you’re looking for the 'Complaint Department,' you’re in it. If you’re looking for a fight, I’m technically already dead, so good luck."

"I’m Vespera, Senior Counsel for the Reincarnation Bureau," she said, her voice like ice shards. "And you just violated three inter-dimensional treaties by altering the 'Pumpernickel Pact' without a Tier-7 Legal Review."

Niran looked at the papers, then back at her. "He wanted a better sandwich, Vespera. I gave him a sandwich and a job. It’s called 'Resolution at First Point of Contact.' It’s a very common business practice where I come from."

"Where you come from, people have a life expectancy of eighty years and think 'Cloud Storage' is magic," Vespera hissed, leaning over his desk. "Here, we have rules. We have hierarchies. And you? You’re a mortal upstart who just turned a simple soul-claim into a labor dispute that’s going to take my department three centuries to audit."

Niran took a slow sip of his coffee, meeting her gaze. "Three centuries? Sounds like you guys are pretty inefficient. Have you tried using a digital filing system? Or maybe just not being so dramatic?"

Vespera’s eyes glowed with a faint, purple light. "You think this is a joke? You’re playing with the balance of the afterlife, Tavio. Lucifer might think you’re a genius, but to me, you’re just a clerical error waiting to happen."

Niran smiled, that same soul-less customer service smile. "Well, Vespera, if you have a problem with my performance, I’m sure there’s a form you can fill out. I’ll get to it as soon as I’m done with the 'Ironic Retribution' queue. It should only take... oh, about an eternity."

Vespera opened her mouth to retort, but Niran’s phone began to blink a frantic, neon red.

"Hold that thought," Niran said, pressing the button. "Thank you for calling Infernal Customer Service. My name is Niran. If you’re calling to complain about the lack of Wi-Fi in the Lake of Fire, please press one. If you’re calling to report a demon who isn't stabbing you hard enough, please press two."

Vespera stared at him, her briefcase trembling in her hand.

Niran winked at her. "Now, how can I help you ruin your day even further?"