A little Shrinking story...

[DalekSec]

Part of a series I began some time ago and posted on the Min site under an alt.

If folks like it, I will carry on.

Oculus Inferus 1

“Vae, Portae Inferi oculus aspicit nos tenebrarius tenebris”


“Are you certain this is truly what you want then?” his silky voice caressed her ears to tickle every sense in her body and soul.

“Yes. Oh yes. I am certain. I have never been so certain of anything in my life.” Ira, known by her first name alone for the better part of two decades, felt her right hand twitching as the contract was pushed across the desk.

Already her phone calls were being ignored. Agencies that had lined up outside of her agent’s door now seemed to brush off her messages as unimportant. Injections of Botox and the painful recoveries from various surgeries, aimed at erasing the unwanted signs of maturity, gained her nothing but greater frustration.

At 15, she had been the darling of the cameras. She knew, in her heart, that many of her critics had a point when they expressed their dismay at her willingness to be sexualized in, if not outright pornography, pictures that pushed the limits of the law. Many of her fans then were men of ages far greater than her own and she learned quickly that her looks opened many doors. Her looks, when combined with a willingness to party with her older fans, always gained her the material things she wanted most.

Ira had grown up in the public eye and now, in her late thirties, she felt abandoned, pushed aside in favor of girls so much younger. Nothing about it seemed fair and Ira was not the sort to allow others to take from her what she felt she had rightly earned. Against the lukewarm protests of her now former agent, the call from Mr. Marc Aamon, was like a godsend.

“Then please sign and we may begin the process of reestablishing you in the media,” his smile was so soft as his dark, warm eyes fixed upon her.

As she eagerly extended her right hand to take up the pen that rested upon the contract, his left hand shot out to cup hers gently.

“You do understand the clause we discussed with regards to this firm having complete control of both your public and personal presentations? We will provide you with housing, see to your diet and direct your personal interactions and social behavior for the term of the contract. Your exploits are, shall we say, infamous and this firm will not tolerate such activities. Once you are our client, you will abide by our corporate model and uphold our image just as we see to yours. Am I clear?” As he reiterated for the umpteenth time the strict standards of Oculus Populi, possibly the most exclusive modeling agency in the world, Ira resisted the urge to shake his hand from hers.

“Yes, Mr. Aamon. I trust my doctor forwarded my medical records and made it clear that my past problems are in the past. I took your pee test and let your nurse poke me for a blood sample.” Tempted to push the sleeve of her silk blouse up past her elbow to expose the cotton wad and tape that covered the puncture, left by the needle, Ira found herself almost afraid to reclaim her hand from his.

“I understand the terms,” she continued in a hushed voice, worried that allowing her anger to show might sour a deal that, she considered almost too good to be true.

As his lips drew back in a smile that showed none of his teeth, Mr. Aamon nodded. “Then, by all means, sign.”

Drawing the nib of the pen across the form, Ira’s pulse rate rose. While she had no doubt at all that she still had what it took to be the image of any product, she was rational enough to know that she had made some serious mistakes in her past. The last being her total loss of self-control when a contract that should have been hers, went to a “Fresh Young Face”. Shouting at her former agent as the media recorded the signing was a poor choice. Physically attacking Brenda Solace, the “Fresh Young Face”, had been the tragic result of having a pounding headache from the party that had been held the night before. Ira’s one comfort was that the deep gouges on the other woman’s face would, inevitably delay her big shot at the spotlight.

Dotting the exclamation point after her name, Ira noticed the twinkle in Mr. Aamon’s dark eyes. Taking it as a sign that her name, her presence, still held sway and that Oculus Populi considered itself lucky to have her, she smiled slyly in reply.

“Very good, Ms. Ira. Welcome to the O.P. family and allow me to be the first to say how pleased we are that you accepted our offer. It is always such a privilege to work with talent of your obvious caliber.” His hands reaching out to take hers, she felt his palms seem to grow warmer against her own. “Shall we meet your assistant now Ms. Ira?” he asked in a voice almost too soft for her to hear.

“Yes. Please. And, please, just Ira. I really do not care for the addition of Ms,” feeling her former omnipotence once more, Ira was rewarded with a slight bow of Mr. Aamon’s head.


“Of course, Ira. You are the star after all,” he answered as the deep lines at his temples become more pronounced. His lips curling into a tight smile, Ira enjoyed his innate willingness to recognize her worth to his firm.

Being led down the endless corridors of the main office of O.P., Ira felt as though she was walking to her own coronation. Mr. Aamon made a point of waving to the inhabitants of the various offices that lined the hallway but none of the names stood out as being important enough for Ira to commit to memory. A curt smile and a wave of her hand being sufficient acknowledgement for each of the obvious office drones that she saw.

“Ah here we are. Allow me to introduce you to Ms. Sylvia Patientia. She is one of our best and brightest interns and will be your personal assistant for as long as you are a member of our family. She will see to all of your needs and help us to make sure that you are not only cared for in the manner you deserve but, that you continue to live up to the standards of O.P.” As he patted the short, heavyset woman on the shoulder, her eyes rose briefly to meet, first his and then those of Ira.

Ira, though she would never admit it openly, found the woman’s dark features disappointing. Images of the younger woman’s family sneaking across the border from Mexico or some other Third World pesthole, to further increase the demand for those without blonde hair and blue eyes, such as Ira had, raised her silent hackles. Offering her hand limply, Ira found the woman’s touch annoying at best. As she expected, Sylvia had an accent and she suspected that English was not her native language.

“I look forward to being of help to you, Ms. Ira.” Sylvia’s smile only caused Ira to view her first mistake all the more harshly. Before she could correct the younger woman, Mr. Aamon spoke up.

“Sylvia. You are to address Ira as Ira. She has worked very hard to brand herself and it is our duty to see that her image is promoted and maintained in the highest standards,” his tone, one of authority with a hint of contempt. Seeing Sylvia’s head bow and a worried look come to cover her face, Ira smiled. While she would have preferred to admonish the younger woman herself, she could accept and tolerate the manner in which Mr. Aamon handled the situation.

“Please escort Ira to her new home and make sure that she is comfortable. I have already scheduled the first shoot for tomorrow morning so I expect she will need time to rest and relax.”


Hearing Mr. Aamon’s plans for her, Ira bristled for an instant. Never one to greet the morning willingly, she thought to protest but considered that it might not be taken well on her very first assignment. Soon enough, once she was able to shine and demonstrate what a gem they had in her, she would let him know that afternoons, late afternoons, worked best for her personal schedule. It did not help to keep her opinions in check that Mr. Aamon’s smile, as he turned to her, felt as though it was teasing her sensibilities.

Following as Sylvia directed, Ira stumbled. Her shoes seeming to have grown just a little looser as the heels dug into the deep carpeting of the office. Curling her toes within her shoes, she wondered at the quality of the leather used to construct them. Her natural urge to act out, perhaps kicking them off and unleashing a torrent of complaints about how no one seemed to be able to make, in this case, a decent shoe, began to bubble to the surface. This wave of anger was cutoff by the feeling of Mr. Aamon’s warm palm on her shoulder, followed by a squeeze that was, perhaps too familiar.

“Be a good girl, Ira. So much is counting on your behavior,” he whispered out of earshot of Sylvia who was already holding the elevator door for her.

Nodding as she gave him her best professional smile, Ira then walked slowly to join Sylvia. It would be a matter of an angry phone call to the Madison Avenue shoe store and threats to express her disgust with their products publicly, as soon as she had the opportunity. Promising herself that she would toss the offending shoes into the nearest garbage can as soon as she could, Ira grunted at Sylvia to express her appreciation for her services thus far.

The limo ride, while acceptable, seemed lacking as the bar in the back of the vehicle was empty. Only able to sit and observe the dark little woman who seemed to stare at her all too often, Ira hid behind her darkly tinted sunglasses and watched the city blocks fly by her window. Slipping her shoes off and making a point of stepping down upon them, almost hoping to break the soles, she decided to offer Sylvia her first task.


“Sylvia. As soon as we get to the apartment, I want you to take these pieces of garbage back to where they came from. You can find the store on Madison and 68th. Tell them that if they think they can get away with selling this sort of junk, they have another thing coming. If they want to be a little rip-off place on 14th Street, they should open their store there. Do NOT come back without an apology and a new pair of shoes of better quality. Understood?” Refusing to look at the little drone of a woman, Ira found her answer all the more infuriating.

“Yes Ma’am,” the woman’s voice was smooth and soft.


“I am not a Ma’am. You make me sound like my mother or my grandmother. I am Ira. I assume you have heard of me? I assume you do have magazines in your native country?” Knowing she was pushing the edge of ethnic sensitivity, Ira could not resist poking the woman with the toes of her left foot, as if to emphasize her elevated position.


“Yes Ira,” the woman replied, her tone expressing nothing more than her acceptance of her instructions. Ira found it disappointing that Sylvia did not take some offense so that she could further assert her dominance.


Shrugging as she decided that Sylvia simply had no real sense of pride and would not rise to the overt insult, Ira resumed her staring at the gray streets of the city.





The apartment was decidedly under-whelming in view of what Ira had become accustomed to. While considerably larger than the cramped little home that her family had owned in Hoboken New Jersey, the best that her father’s salary as a bus driver, could afford, a mere 8 rooms and 3 bathrooms would have to do for now. At least the location was admirable, being in SoHo.

Having decided that the poorly made shoes that had offended her so deeply were no longer even worth the trouble of stumbling in, Ira left them in the back of the limo for Sylvia to tend to.

“Make sure to talk to the owner. Everyone knows that managers are just glorified salespeople and not worth talking to. If the owner is not there, tell whoever is in charge to call the owner at home. Think you can handle that, Sylvia?” Seeing the young woman nod silently as she maintained a smile, Ira wanted to scream. While assistants had never lasted more than a month or so for her, she doubted that she could tolerate Sylvia for even that long. “Such a milksop,” she whispered under her breath as she turned the key in the lock of the front door.

Ira liked to think of herself as not only an artist but a work of art. After all, it was her face and body that the camera captured and it was her face and body that the advertisers hired. Being in SoHo, so famous for its artistic roots, seemed only fitting.

Walking from room to room within the converted warehouse that was now an example of some of the highest priced real estate in N.Y.C., she still felt cramped. In light of the parties that she was famous for attending and throwing, this was a considerable step down in stature.

How could her accountant have made such a mess of the finances? How could he have allowed the house in L.A. to fall into foreclosure? While her former lawyer could find no evidence of foul play on the part of the little bean counter, Ira was certain that the books had been mishandled. Hearing the same old speeches about her living beyond her means, an impossible idea as she had seen the figures stipulated in her contracts, only served to grate on her nerves. Considering her former agent’s shifty eyes, she suspected that he was in on the malfeasance as well. All the better that he too, was now out of the picture.

Wiping her feet on the deep pile carpet that stretched out to cover the floor of the living room, Ira was already making a mental list of the furnishings that would have to go. While tasteful perhaps, Ira knew that her sense of style and flair were far better. More matters to raise with Mr. Aamon once she had proven what an invaluable asset she was to his firm.

A quick search of the kitchen confirmed the worst. None of the cabinets contained anything stronger than cans of soup and the refrigerator only offered diet soda, orange juice, milk and bottled water. While she knew that alcohol was one of the many things she had agreed to forgo for the sake of her contract, she hoped that a few, secret indulgencies, now and again, might have been possible. How she was supposed to sleep without a nightcap was a mystery to her.

As she lay on the overstuffed, white couch, wearing only an oversized tee-shirt she had found in the bedroom Ira flipped, impatiently through the countless channels of noise on the big screen TV. Doing her best not to think of the lack of alcohol, Ira heard the door of the apartment open slowly. From the shuffling sound of the steps taken by the person entering, she did not even have to look to know who it was. The hint of some rather cheep smelling perfume, scented with what she supposed might be roses, confirmed her assumptions.

“Sylvia. Come here and let me have a look at what those crooks talked you into taking in exchange,” she called out only to hear those shuffling feet move towards the couch. Seeing the neutral, if pleasant expression on the young woman’s face, Ira felt her own frustration rise. Swinging her legs down from the upper edge of the couch and coming to sit upright, she took the box from Sylvia’s hands. Opening the box, she saw that her assistant had been given a new pair of exactly the same shoes she had returned. “So, those thieves didn’t even think to toss in something extra to make up for their having sold me crap?” Ira muttered as she slipped the right shoe onto her foot.

Feeling how loose this shoe was, worse than the pair she had returned, Ira wanted to spit. “See, this is what you get for being nice to those people. More crap! There is no way on God’s green Earth that these are a size 9!” Seeing the gap at the back of her heel, Ira kicked the shoe off and ignored the dent it made in the hardwood entertainment center.


“I swear, did you even try to talk to the owner?” Ira growled as she swatted at the box, sending it skittering across the carpeted floor. Her blood pressure rising, Ira shook her head. “Make yourself useful and pick me up a bottle of vodka. Make sure it is Stoli!” Seeing the young woman’s head begin to shake from side to side, Ira glared at her. “Look, it’s simple. Just take some money or a credit card, go to the nearest liquor store and ask the man behind the counter for a bottle of Stoli. Say it with me Sylvia. Stoli. STOLI.”

Sylvia stood motionless as she continued to shake her head, refusing the instruction. Her dark eyes never leaving those of Ira, she clasped her hands in front of herself in a pose of innocence. “I am so very sorry, Ma’…Ira. Mr. Aamon was most specific in his instructions. You are to be in bed by 10 PM and liquor is strictly forbidden. Please try to understand.” Her voice, that voice tainted with an accent that Ira could not place, not that she knew all that much about accents, came to sound like fingernails in a blackboard.


“How dare you. How DARE you!” Ira howled as she picked up the TV remote and tossed it at Sylvia with enough force to hit the young woman in the chest with an audible “thwack”. “I am not a child! I can have a drink now and then without you or Mr. Aamon having anything to say about it. I will be in my place with a bright shining face, on time and ready for the cameras. I will…” Her gut tightening as her right hand moved to her tender belly, Ira winced in pain. “See what you have done? See! I can not do stress. My doctor told me stress was bad for me! Do you care? Do YOU?” Ira shouted as Sylvia simply stood silently. “Now I have a headache, all thanks to you. Think I will look my best with my head pounding all night? You are worse than worthless you are..” her voice turning into a hoarse gasp as her stomach seemed to be knotting with every word out of her mouth.


“You really should rest, Ira. Your shoot is very important and I know you want to be at your best and professional for your first assignment. Please go to bed and I will bring you some soup to calm your nerves.” The soft, almost maternal smile that crossed Sylvia’s lips only served to stoke Ira’s rage. “I know how much this shoot means for you,” the young woman continued.

Her fingers curling into a fist, Ira wanted nothing more than to strike the woman who was standing by the couch. The mental image of slapping the soft smile off of her face, made Ira almost giddy. Had she not been in such agony, she was certain she would have acted upon her more violent urges.


“You really are a total bitch,” Ira hissed between clenched teeth. Her eyes hazy with each wave of discomfort that gripped her stomach, made the room spin. Rising slowly from the couch, Ira found that her feet felt numb, as if they had fallen asleep. The pounding in her head teasing the anger she felt for having this absolute nobody point out that her career had hit a temporary snag was, simply intolerable. “When I talk to Mr. Aamon, you are finished. I will make sure that you are not only fired from O.P., but that you never work in this business again. You may think you can get away with behaving like a bitch because of where you come from, but I will show you how wrong you are.” Wrapping her arm around her midsection, Ira limped to the bedroom. Feeling the tee-shirt try to slip from her shoulders with every painful step, she wondered at why Sylvia seemed ever so slightly taller. Dismissing it to her being doubled over, Ira grunted that she would take a bowl of soup in bed if, Sylvia could manage that simple task.

Ignoring Sylvia as she placed the bowl of soup on the nightstand by the bed, Ira wanted to cry. It was all so unfair. Yes, she had made mistakes but, considering the people around her, could she really be held responsible for those missteps? She was not some accountant or doctor after all and that is why she hired people to take care of those annoying matters for her. Sure, she had a temper but she was an artist and didn’t all artists have fits of anger? When she was younger, her temper never seemed to be that big a deal for those around her. She still got gifts. She still got invited to all the best parties. She still had her pick of men who would whisk her off to some vacation spot or another. Was it really her fault that, with maturity, came the ability to discern when she was being slighted?

Curling into a fetal ball upon the bed as the TV on the far wall offered more noise between commercials that featured women who did not have half the talent she did for looking beautiful, Ira sobbed. It was all just so unfair.


Waking to the soft hand of the young woman nudging her shoulder, Ira tried to wave Sylvia off. Having the woman draw back the curtains, to flood the room with light made Ira scream.

“What are you even thinking of?” her voice shrill as she watched the untouched bowl of soup quietly replaced with a steaming cup of coffee. Turning to the angry numbers on the clock by her bed, Ira groaned.

“It’s 7:30, Ira. You need to shower and get dressed so you can be on time for the shoot. Mr. Aamon and the crew are already there and waiting. I hear that our CEO is even going to sit in on this. I can only think he considers this very important as well.”

Sitting up and fumbling for the mug of coffee, Ira found that Sylvia’s voice was, if it was even possible, becoming more annoying.

“I have not forgotten or forgiven the things you said last night. I will tell Mr. Aamon to have you replaced ASAP and there is nothing you can do to change my mind,’ she grunted as the twinges in her belly and head continued their torments. Dulled in comparison to the night before perhaps, but promising what they would evolve into over the course of the day.

“I am not sure that Mr. Aamon is used to being told what to do, except by our CEO of course,” Sylvia offered in a soft and impossibly friendly voice as she started the shower and returned to Ira’s bedroom. Laying out a simple outfit of jeans and a button down shirt along with undergarments, her kindly eyes turned to Ira who, was glaring at her over the mug of coffee at her lips.

“So you do have a backbone after all,” Ira remarked between slow sips of the steaming beverage. “We’ll just see who Mr. Aamon listens to. He knows he got a bargain in me and if your CEO is taking the time to watch the shoot, I think my worth is well established with O.P. already. You, on the other hand, are just another faceless drone who can be replaced with a single phone call. I can find better than you, flipping burgers for minimum wage and I bet some Mc-Worker will keep their mouth shut and pay attention to detail better than you can.”

With a shrug of her shoulders that only made Ira all the more determined to ruin her livelihood, Sylvia took the mug from Ira’s hand and left her to freshen up.


“Just you wait you worthless bitch,” Ira hissed as she resigned herself to a shower with the promise of a nap and a night on the town once she had done the shoot and seen to replacing Sylvia.


Unsteady on her feet as she made her way to the bathroom, Ira discovered that the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands seemed to feel numb. Tingling as they came in contact with the world around her, she managed the shower and then pulled on the clothes that Sylvia had left out for her. Never one to like baggy clothes, Ira chalked Sylvia’s choices up to yet another example of the incompetence the woman exhibited that made it essential that she be replaced. Having to roll of the cuffs of the jeans, Ira felt she looked ridiculous. Finding that the sneakers that some moron had put in a size 9 box without checking their actual size which, had to be, at least a 10 if not 11, Ira scowled at her reflection in the mirror.


For such a supposedly exclusive and upscale company, O.P. had to be one of the best kept secrets as far as their lack of attention to detail. Her measurements were a matter of well known public record, as she discovered when the Inquirer had made mention of her every instance of weight gain or loss and to have Mr. Aamon make such blunders with regards to what size clothing to make available to her, well, yet another issue to take up with the man when she could do so.


Wobbling in the oversized sneakers, Ira followed Sylvia to the lobby of the building and entered the limo that would take them to the shoot. As if to prove that she had her work cut out for her, the studio looked like the basement of some high school, attempting to look professional. Even the catering was cut-rate as limp croissants accompanied Styrofoam cups of coffee that smelled like cheap instant.

The supposed photographer, a sweaty little man who was still fumbling with the lighting when she arrived, was someone she had never met or even heard of. After so many years in the trade, Ira knew everyone with a camera who was worth knowing and he, was not among the A-List to be sure.

Bending over to attempt to tie her shoelaces a littler tighter, in hopes of making the ill-fitting sneakers serve a little better, Ira found she had to roll the cuffs of her jeans yet again.


“Ira! Such an honor to have you with us, my dear girl,” Mr. Aamon spoke softly, causing her to jump at his almost appearing from nowhere, behind her.

“I should think so,” she grunted as she tugged the waistband of her jeans above her hips again which, was becoming another habit of the morning. Thinking that Mr. Aamon was even taller and more imposing than she had recalled, her eyes darted from his chest to see if she could catch sight of the true VIP in attendance.

“Oh, I see you have heard. We have the privilege of having our CEO and host here today. He took a most personal interest when he heard you had decided to sign on with us.” His dark eyes twinkling as his lips held a smile that, once again refused to show his teeth, Mr. Aamon waved to the figure of a man at the far corner of the studio. Obscured by the bright lights that shined all around her, Ira could not make out any more than his seated silhouette. Knowing that meeting those at the top was always a priority, Ira moved to walk to the back of the studio to join the man, only to have Mr. Aamon’s left hand cup her shoulder.

“Time enough for that after the shoot, Ira. He is a very busy individual and most anxious to see how you handle your first test shoot,” his soothing voice leaving little room for argument with its tone of distinct authority.

Nodding as she considered that, once she had demonstrated her skills before the cameras, she would, no doubt, have the man’s full, male, attentions, she could influence his thinking all the better, Ira waved impatiently at Sylvia.

“Where is my wardrobe and where do I change?” she demanded coldly as she decided that, having the young woman fired could wait until after she showed Mr. Aamon and the CEO what an asset she would be to Oculus Populi.

“Oh no, Ira. We are going for a more natural appearance for this test shoot. We want to see you in all of your glory as you are. No makeup, no fancy costumes, just the real and natural you. We can always add to your look later, after all. What you bring to the craft is what really matters.” Mr. Aamon’s words stunned Ira as she had never heard of such a thing outside of amateur porn studios. The sort that seemed to spring up as soon as some dolt bought his first expensive camera and found a dark space in which to use it.

Stumbling back, away from Mr. Aamon, she tripped over her own sneakers. She heard a soft sigh of resignation from Sylvia. Falling backwards to land on her ass, Ira felt a mixture of fear and rage struggle to see which would express itself first.

The cuffs of her jeans covering her feet as they slipped free of the sneakers, Ira kicked and screamed, her hands gradually disappearing into the sleeves of her simple, button down shirt. Waving her arms and rolling onto her front, she first rose to a kneeling position and then to her feet, before trying to run for the exit. Her jeans sliding down her ass and hips to hinder the motions of her legs, she screamed in unbridled rage. Finally running free of the entanglement of her jeans, her bare feet padded along the wooden floor of the studio as the fat and sweaty photographer snapped pictures. His giggling as the camera fired away, never seeming to stop, as it captured every moment of her distress, Ira could only scream and try to avoid Mr. Aamon who appeared to enjoy herding her in various directions with his body.

Now, feeling like a child, looking up at those so much taller than herself, Ira fled towards Sylvia who, out of everyone present, seemed to be the only one with a look of sad concern on her face.

“Help me! You have to help me! Please, Sylvia! Help me!” Ira shrieked as the young woman knelt and rested her hands on her shoulders.

“I am so sorry, Ira. I tried. I really did. Your temper, it was your undoing. I wish I could help but, it is too late for you now.” A single tear rolling down her right cheek, Sylvia bowed her head before rising to walk out of the studio.

“What are you talking about. I’m sorry I was so mean to you. I really am. Please call for help. Call 911. Help ME!!” Ira screamed as even now, she felt anger, rage, wrath, welling up within herself. Watching the young woman walk out without another word, Ira burst with white hot fury. “Fine! To hell with you! I don’t need you! No one does! You are WORTHLESS!” her words seeming to echo as the world around her spun and then gradually grew to enormous proportions.

Engulfed by the simple, button down shirt, Ira struggled. Her arms and legs flailing to win her freedom from the gigantic article of clothing. Nude and covered in dust from the floor as she crawled, the sound of the camera clicking away felt like salt on her shredded nerves.

Seeing the shoe, now the size of a car, come over her body to cover her and slowly feeling it press down upon her, Ira screamed louder. Pounding at the sole of the shoe worn by Mr. Aamon as he laughed, the sound of his mirth rumbling all around her at her size, she discovered that anger, more than fear filled her mind.

“You cheat. You liar!” she shouted in a voice that sounded more like a cartoon mouse than a grown woman.

“Cheat? Liar? Me?” the deep rumbling voice replied as she strained her eyes to focus on Mr. Aamon’s face. “You knew this was your last, best chance to redeem yourself. To reclaim your former stardom. You chose to show anger, rage and wrath instead of gratitude. No one forced you to behave so poorly, you chose that all on your own. You failed for your anger before and now you fail for it again. Goodbye, Ira,” Mr. Aamon replied.

Certain that this nightmare, more appropriate to a bad horror movie, would be her end, she felt the pressure of the sole of his shoe grow in intensity, compressing her body as she continued to struggle. On the verge of losing consciousness, Ira heard a louder, deeper voice yell “Hold”, over the incessant clicking of the camera and the chuckling of Mr. Aamon.

Feeling the sole of the shoe rise to release her, Ira rolled over and scampered, on all fours, towards the louder voice. At her size, she could only make out the cloven hooves that stood before her as her savior sat in the now, gargantuan chair. Craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the rest of the man, a horned head and wide, grinning mouth, filled with rows of razor sharp teeth, greeted her.

From some distance away, or so it seemed to her, she heard Mr. Aamon speak up softly. “Allow me to introduce our CEO. It seems he has taken a fancy to you after all. Congratulations, Ira. I suppose even a poor being such as yourself can serve as a bad example to others, if nothing else.

Her head swimming as it tried to process the multitude of impossibilities, she saw the left hand of the creature before her, move towards her. His long claws growing longer until the sharp tips pierced the wooden floor, causing it to crack all around her. Feeling the chunk of the floor, encompassed by his claws, rise as his other hand slipped under the cage made of his nails, Ira fell to her knees.


“Such a pretty trinket,” the beastly creature hissed between his fangs as those in the studio began to laugh. “ I do so love the defiant ones best,” he continued before the claws that formed the cage around her, detached themselves from his fingertips. “When they learn nothing, they simply renew my faith in the weakness of their kind.” His words followed by a billowing cloud of mist that stank of all of the rot and filth in the world.

As the cage that contained her was hooked to the chain that ran around his neck, Ira saw the six other hooks that seemed to wait for their time of use to come.

Looking into the eyes of Mr. Aamon as his grin was matched by the dog-like teeth that filled the man’s mouth, their CEO nodding approvingly.

“Nothing like the classic sins to make the old man happy,” the photographer quipped as he took the last shot of the night.