I stare at the straw in my hand and curse under my breath. I know it’s much shorter than the rest of them without even looking up. The rest of my fellow employees pick up on this, too.

“Hold up! Taylor got the short straw!” one of them says. “You can stop worrying, everyone. Well, besides Taylor that is.”

I give that particular employee a lazy, one-sided grin and throw my straw in the trash. Then someone hands me a fat stack of documents alongside a half-dozen home baked muffins sealed tight in a tin.

Twelve people on this floor, I think. Twelve! And I get stuck with Derek duty. Should I tell someone to send help if I don’t come back within fifteen minutes?

It’s a silly question. Everyone’s been informed to do that no matter what.

“Sorry it’s only some muffins and not some fava beans with a nice chianti,” says another employee seated in the breakroom. “Hopefully Mr. Lecter will understand.”

Oh, the old standby.

Derek, who works in the basement, is just like Hannibal Lecter from The Silence of the Lambs. Well, don’t let anyone tell you office workers are born missing their funny bones. Perhaps they’re merely broken and chipped and in severe need of repair.

“Yeah!” soon chirps Susan near the coffee pot—seemingly more energetic that usual given that she normally drinks only decaf. “Ask him about John Doe while you’re down there, okay, Tay! Maybe he can give you some pointers!”

I pinch my nose while shaking my head. “Jesus Christ, Susan. Those are from two different films.”

“What was that?” she asks, eyeing up the untouched box of donuts next to the coffee pot.

But it’s too late for a response. I’m already out of the breakroom and heading toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

It seems as if even my company’s elevator senses doom.

As I descend from the relatively sunny sixth floor toward the cool basement, the lights overhead start to flicker and buzz. Maybe instead of meeting with Derek, I’ll just get stuck in the elevator for sixteen hours instead and need to designate a piss corner.

Hmm. Meeting with Derek or choosing a piss corner? Still not sure which option is worse.

Sadly, before a piss corner can be declared, the elevator reaches the basement level and the doors part with a metallic grunt. I steel myself and exit.

Our company’s basement can hardly be called a basement at all, considering it consists of a single long hallway and nothing more. Three locked doors sit on either sides containing cleaning supplies, unused computers, printers, and anything else in need of immediate storage.

Technically, only three types of people ever need venture to the basement:

1. Anyone part of the building’s janitorial staff.

2. Anyone unlucky enough to pick shortest straw and be forced to hand things off to Derek.

3. Derek himself.

Only one meter down the hall and already I’m spooked; the sickly yellow lights overhead won’t stop flickering and a faint chill in the air makes itself well-known to my thin dress pants and shirt. Of course, neither of these things compares in the slightest to the steadily rising sound pouring out from the final door in the hall.

“In the town where I was born… lived a man who sailed to sea… and he told us of his life… in the land of submarines…”

I surprise myself with a snort. “He’s back to this old song?”

I’m not sure why I’m talking to myself. Maybe that’s just what people do when they’re alone and unnerved. If I wore glasses instead of contact lenses, I’m sure I could start calling myself Velma at any point. Sure could go for a Scooby snack right about now, I think stupidly.

“We all live in a yellow submarine… a yellow submarine… a yellow submarine…”

A few seconds later, the song ends and starts up again without pause. For reasons only known to him, Derek had grown fond of playing the same song on continuous loop for days at a time. He could have worse taste in music, one could argue.

It takes me a sad amount of time, but eventually I reach the end of the hall. Derek’s door is shut tight and a green-tinged light seeps out from the crack at the bottom. On the door is a single strip of duct tape with “DEREK” written on it in fat marker. What’s odd is that several letters had been crossed out before his name had been successfully printed—almost as if he’d forgotten how to spell it or was too busy deciding what name to finally settle on.

This line of pondering only adds to the chill in the air.

My hand reaches for the knob before pulling back.

The last employee that had paid Derek an impromptu visit got much more than they bargained for when they entered without knocking first. Namely, Derek completely nude and sprawled out on his computer chair.

In Derek’s defense, he had claimed clothes made him feel overall irritable and itchy. He said back home everyone walked around naked. Maybe on the beaches in France, bud. Needless to say, Derek was written up that same day.

I finally give the door a quick trio of knocks and hold my breath. For one wonderful moment, I don’t believe I’ll get an answer in return, so I prepare to about-face and return upstairs when—

“Yes?”

Silky and smooth. If velvet had a mouth and could talk.

“Do I need to explain how to open a door to you?”

If velvet could insult, as well.

I shift my few parcels to my other hand and shove inward; my jittery nerves replaced by a small amount of adrenaline. If I had to blame anything for that, it would’ve been my three completely wasted years of college focusing on psychology with a minor in sociology. It was interesting studying people that behaved oddly. Went against the grain, if you will. And if anyone went more against the grain than Derek, well, they’d probably be in jail right now, wouldn’t they?

When I enter, I feel along the wall for a switch. Finding it, I click it and the single light overhead bursts into twitchy life. Derek had been sitting in the dark with only the glow of his computer monitors to let him see. And I’m sure that’s just how he likes it.

Derek’s “office” is little more than a redesigned closet. Twelve-feet by twelve-feet, there’s room enough for his thin wooden desk and little else. Atop that desk is a trio of monitors: the first one showing game play from the first Rollercoaster Tycoon; the second one with three smaller windows opened on it playing separate TV shows, films, and cartoons; and the third monitor seemingly reserved for spreadsheets and other work-related items.

Derek’s “work” monitor.

My attention switches gear and focuses on the man seated at the desk. Luckily for me, he’s wearing clothes this time around. Nothing from J C Penny, I’m afraid.

Instead of shoes, he wears sandals, showcasing the pair of mismatched socks underneath. Above that are shorts much too short for anyone, and above that is what looks like a full-blown Christmas sweater. I’m positive about that last part, though. Rudolf’s bright red nose is a clear giveaway. As tempting as it becomes to mention that it’s only March, I hold back and remember my mantra at the moment: Get back to the sixth floor as fast as you can.

“We all live in a yellow submarine… a yellow submarine… a yellow submarine…”

The song starts over again.

“Can you, uh, turn that down for a moment?”

Derek still hasn’t turned away from his row of monitors, but I see enough of him from the reflections. He’s thin—almost gaunt. His hair is stark white and messy, perfectly matching the random bits of facial hair left unkempt around his pointed jaw. He has deep bags under his eyes, rarely blinking. I wanna say the last time he had a solid nap of any kind might’ve been around when the housing market crashed.

Derek does me one better and cuts the music off completely. And right away I regret asking him to turn it down. The silence in the room is even worse than the looping song.

“You ever find that one song that seems to speak to you? Directly to you?” he asks. He brings a boney finger to his cheek in order to jab it with. “I still haven’t found it yet, but we’re getting closer all the time.”

I nod along as if I understand. “Like when I first heard The Hamster Dance.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even grin, really.

Derek just lifts the corners of his lips up, revealing a half-row of tiny, heavily coffee-stained teeth. “Oh, yes. Humor. Levity. Frivolity. I used to know all about that particular business back home.” He pauses, and his features relax. “I seem to have forgotten your name, Mr. Funnyman. What was it again?”

This was an old ruse of Derek’s—one most people already knew about. Tell him your name was Alex and suddenly it became Adam. Next moment, it’s Arthur. Then Andrew. Then Apollo. Then Applefritter. And perhaps Anjelica Huston by the time he’d be done messing around with you.

“Trevor,” I tell him as evenly as I can. “We’ve only met the once before, truth be told.”

Derek’s emotionless stare hardens, and his eyes seem to find mine in the reflection of his monitors.

“No, it’s not,” he informs me thickly. “You’re Taylor. Not Trevor. Why would you try to lie to me? Don’t you know that lying to others isn’t all that nice?”

Before I can do a thorough search of the room for any blackened pots or kettles, one of Derek’s speakers comes to life with the blaring sounds of crashing metal and dozens of tiny screams. My heart leaps into my chest… until I find the origin of the noise.

“Ah-ha-ha!” Derek turns his attention to the first screen—the one playing Rollercoaster Tycoon. One of the rides inside his park has crashed, claiming a whole forty-one imaginary lives. Regardless of that, Derek still cackles like he’s being tickled by a feather in the most sensitive of places. “Looks as though the forty-one of you choose rather poorly, didn’t you?”

“Seriously?” I ask incredulously. “This is how you get your jollies? By offing a bunch of digital people in your deathtrap of an amusement park?”

“Deathtrap?” Derek surprises me by spinning around and finally facing me. His unblinking eyes remain glued to mine like some one-sided staring contest. “What fun is there to be had with guaranteed and unavoidable death? No. Chance is much better than that. So is the feeling known as hope. Only one in six rides inside ‘Discoland’ will end in death. After that, the rides are closed and those that survive return home. Safe and sound. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Shampoo and conditioner. Don’t forget the loofah now.”

My mantra of the day pops back into my head.

Get back to the sixth floor as fast as you can.

“Thinking about leaving so soon, are you?” he asks me coolly. “I don’t blame you. I rarely get visitors unless it’s something work related. That is the reason you came down here, is it not, Taylor the Terrible? I doubt you came all this way for fashion tips. Or to spin rumor mills with little ol’ me.”

I’d completely forgotten the stack of papers in my grasp. I glance to them, then set them on a counter in the corner of the room; a counter covered in crumpled balls of paper and what must’ve been literally hundreds of empty candy bar wrappers.

“It’s another assignment from the bigwigs upstairs.” I look away from him and his piercing stare. “Everyone knows you’re the best at number crunching, so…” Something else comes to mind. “I was also told you were late on your last assignment. If you have it done, I could bring it up to them for you.”

“Oh… yes… that.” Derek rolls his eyes and yawns into a fist. “It’s on the same counter beside you. I finished it the same day they sent it to me.”

I pick up the document in question and give it a quick scan; dozens of pages of highly complicated equations and diagrams. Numbers, numbers, and more numbers. “If you finished this days ago, why didn’t you give it to anyone?”

“Why? So that they’d just give me another assignment to do?” Derek points a finger at the tin I have tucked under my arm. “What’s that? More baked goods from the sweet people on the sixth floor?”

“Actually, yeah. Muffins this time.”

I hold out the tin to him… and he makes no attempt at receiving it.

“Any chocolate in those miserable looking muffins?”

“I think they’re carrot.”

His upper lip curls in distain. “Any sugar in carrot muffins?”

“Doubtful. They might actually be gluten free.”

“Then kindly put them in the trash where they belong.”

So I do just that. It’s not like I was going to eat them anyways. Carrot. Come on. You don’t make friends with carrot muffins.

I sigh and place my hand on the doorknob. “Well, looks like that’s all I got for you. So if that’s it, then—”

“What do they say about me?” Derek asks suddenly, cutting my sentence short. “Upstairs, I mean.”

“Oh… you know…” I scratch at the side of my neck, keeping my eyes anywhere but his. The leaky ceiling. The garbage covered floor. The lone HANG IN THERE, KITTY poster tacked to a wall. “That you’re quiet… that you keep to yourself… that you’re a little eccentric, but great with numbers.”

I attempt to emphasize that last point. Like a slice of juicy pickle atop a sandwich made of shit.

Derek barks out a single laugh and uses one of his sandal-clad feet to spin himself around. “I’ve been in this basement for over a year now—crunching numbers, as you will—and have yet to find a single difficult thing about this job. I mastered most forms of mathematics before I was even four hundred and ten.”

And there it was.

That moment in our conversation where I’d be forced to make a choice.

Sure, Derek technically did have the assignment in hand; which left me more than free to return to the sixth floor with several new stories to tell. Yet with all things considered… how could I possibly ignore such a remark? It was like spotting a loose thread on some old sweater that simply begged to be yanked free.

My thoughts then turn to my useless psychology degree again. Who’s to say this Derek fellow wouldn’t make for one bestselling novel sometime down the road? Perhaps titled: “Down in the Dark with Derek the Demented”? Or “The Diary of Deliciously Deranged Derek”? Okay. Perhaps a few too many D-words in there.

The decision seems clear. For the time being, my interest is greater than my fear.

“They say you like to make stuff up about yourself,” I break my long pause with. “They think you’re the one messing around with their coffee in the breakroom.”

If a single one of my words has any affect on him, Derek doesn’t make it visibly known. He merely chuckles to himself as another virtual rollercoaster crashes into a nearby pond, killing all seventy-five riders on board. That’s when I make a mental note never to visit “Discoland” should Derek ever have the chance to bring it to life.

“They think me a liar, do they?” he asks snidely.

“Well, to be fair, you did just say you were four hundred and ten. I had you pegged at late thirties at best.”

I jolt backward as he whirls his chair around. “Did you happen to cram some of those inedible muffins into your ears on your way down here? I said I learned math when I was that age! At this precise moment, I’m three-thousand one-hundred and twelve!”

To this, I say not a word. Truthfully, I have no response to that—besides starting the investigation to see if his shorts were currently on fire and perchance hanging from some nearby telephone wire.

Derek runs four fingers through his hair, messing it up even worse than before. He takes a breath and eyes the fingernails on one hand; far longer and claw-like than I would’ve preferred.

He looks up at me with a smile.

If the gesture was supposed to alleviate the clear tension in the room, it had the exact opposite effect. At that moment, Derek looked exactly like some hungry little shark that sensed fresh blood in the water.

“I’ll tell you what, Taylor from the sixth floor,” he starts off gamely. “How ‘bout we cease lying to each other from now on? Hmm? You gave me the wrong name when you first came in here and I said I was actually much older than I am. So why don’t we both speak the absolute truth from here on out?”

I nod. More of a random jerk than a real nod. “Sure. Okay. We can try that.”

“Splendid.” Again with that terrible sneer of his. “So ask away, Mr. Tay!”

“Quid pro quo,” I mutter to myself.

Derek raises a bushy brow. “So is that how everyone thinks of me? As some mediocre film villain that eats other for fun? Not that I’m complaining about being thought of that way.”

I’m slightly taken back by that. “You’ve actually seen that movie?”

“I may seem a bit eccentric to the likes of you and your fellow colleagues, but I’m not some kind of monster. I do have a Netflix account same as everyone else.”

A few moments tick by. I decide to start with the thread Derek so casually left dangling in the air.

“So how old are you? In all honesty. Early forties?”

“Three-thousand one-hundred and eleven,” he answers without pause. Then he eyes me for a moment, as if curious how I’d react.

I make a high-pitched sound in my mouth. You know the one. That noise you make when you glance at the price tag of something you really want to buy but decide against it due to your limited bank account. Like saying “Huh” without bothering to open your mouth.

“Must be one hell of a skin cream you got.”

His face wrinkles as if he’s just smelled something rotten. “You’re one of those types, aren’t you? What dry brand of comedy should I expect from you next? That I’m coming down with a case of the Mondays?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“No, but answer this if you’d be so kind.” One of his thin hands traces along the upper section of his back. The action clearly pains him. “Imagine you had a pair of wings… beautiful, mismatched wings…”

“Buffalo or teriyaki?”

It shoots right out from me. Like some uncontrollable verbal diarrhea.

I expect something from Derek. A frown. A scowl. A sneer. Anything to show contempt. But instead he snaps his fingers together with his eyes stuck on mine.

A pregnant pause follows, and slowly Derek looks down at the hand he’d snapped with. “Oh… right.” He looks up again. “Imagine you had wings to fly with. Imagine you had more power within yourself than you could ever believe. Imagine that in the course of twenty-four hours, you could destroy an entire world and create a new one in its place without leaking a single drop of sweat. Can you imagine this, Taylor from the sixth floor? Having the gifts of a god at your disposal?”

“Sure, I guess,” I tell him, even if I don’t actually have any clear idea what he’s rambling on about. “I mean, I think we’ve all imagined being superheroes at some point in our lives.”

I rethink what I just said.

“Or… super villains or whatever.”

That last reply gets the tiniest of grins from him. “Now imagine having such wonderful abilities stolen from you before becoming trapped in a world not your own; in a body not your own.”

“So you weren’t always human, then?” Once more the outlandish notion of “Demented Derek” the novel takes up residence within my skull. Now the question becomes do I include an artist’s rendition of what he used to be? Or do I leave it up the readers’ imagination instead?

“Then what were you? A wizard of some kind?”

Derek glances at me with clear pity in his eyes. “Such limited creativity. Such stunted means of thought. I say that I was once not a human, so you picture a human in a cloak with a pointy hat. Is there a wand in that picture of yours? Do I have a lightning bolt scar on my forehead, perhaps? No, gentle imbecile. I used to be something that was a combination of many things: horse, goat, dragon, eagle, lizard, blood, bone, tissue, flesh.”

My mind flashes to the upstairs breakroom’s dirty, grease-coated microwave. “So you used to be a hotdog?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes. Chaos King. Spirit of Hotdogs. You sure hit the nail on the head with that one.”

Chaos King? The term perks my interest.

“An anarchist, then? You really were a type of villain, weren’t you?” I pause as I think on that. “Not that I’m trying to lump all creepy people together in an ‘evil’ category or anything.” I pause once more, realizing just how terrible this is all starting to sound. “I mean, not that I think you’re creepy or anything. Maybe just… quirky? Like an opposite Zooey Deschanel?”

“He rambles, oh does he ramble.” Derek weaves his thin fingers together in what I can only describe as a snakelike motion. “What seems normal to the spider is chaos to the fly. I was once a creator of chaos—the best there ever was, if I wish to be so bold. And I only did what I did because it filled a void deep within me; a void that could never, ever be permanently filled. And, mostly, I did it because I simply wanted to—caring not about the repercussions, however severe they be.” His weary eyes float toward the ceiling. “Years ago, I controlled the fate of an entire world and guffawed as I went on to let it crumble around me. Nowadays? I get my kicks by changing around the regular and decaf coffee upstairs; sometimes stealing the WET FLOOR signs from the janitor’s closet. Big whoop.”

“I knew it!” I exclaim without even knowing I was going to. There’d been a long-running rumor about who was actually messing around with the coffee pots upstairs. Mystery solved, it seems. I really was turning into Velma from Scooby-Doo.

Get back to the sixth floor as fast as you can.

That mantra from only moments ago.

I should be worried. I really should.

Stuck in a dark basement with a nutball currently rambling on about immortality, other worlds, and hotdog creatures. But he’s as thin as a rail. I have a good thirty pounds on him should he attack. And his office door is still open with the elevator in plain sight.

Is it unnatural to be fascinated by distinctly damaged people? Isn’t that why we run toward car crashes and not away? To see the wreckage and be glad it’s not us? To watch Intervention in the middle of the night with an ice cold beer in our hands while we tell ourselves, “Well, at least I’m not that guy”?

Enough internal musings.

Let’s learn more about the creature in the basement known as Derek.

“So you were brought here against your will?”

“Obviously,” Derek replies dryer than unbuttered toast.

“Were you sent here by another… creature like yourself?”

The word “creature” feels odd on my tongue—as though I stepped into some terrible sci-fi movie along with all its corny terms. I‘m sure “Unobtanium” will start flying from my lips any second now.

“Not exactly,” Derek elaborates. “Oddly enough, you pictured me as a type of wizard at first, but that is exactly the type that trapped me here. A wizard by the name of Starswirl. And unless he’s purchased a rather sharp razor since the last time I saw him, he has a large beard, as well. He also happens to be a unicorn of the most loathsome variety.”

I snort. The hits just keep on coming. “So you were screwed over by a unicorn?”

“A talking one—one rather skilled in the art of magic and sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.”

“Did you try petting him first to help calm him down?”

“Of course!” he yells, making me flinch. He balls both hands into fists by the side of his computer chair. “But that only works the first handful of times, you see? Then they get wise to the powers of your skillful fingers! They start wearing hats and robes and keeping their distance from you!” He closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head. He murmurs more to himself, “That blasted mirror. Why didn’t I just destroy that stupid thing when I first saw it? I destroy loads of stuff without thinking about it! Turn it into dust. Into pudding. Into anything else but what it was!”

A few speckles of spit fly from his mouth. Whatever he’s reflecting on must be a rather sore spot.

That’s when he surprises me by glancing up. “I need to play God right now. So you’ll have to excuse me while I feed my fish.”

“Wha—” is all that I manage, before Derek spins his chair around and opens the bottom drawer to his desk. I take a step closer to him (finally noting the aroma of stale candy circulating around the thin figure) and find two equal-sized fishbowls tucked inside his desk. In each one is a goldfish; both lazily circling about.

Derek mashes his hands together playfully. “Time to play ‘Heat or Eat’, my fine, slippery friends! Who will think of me as a fair God today? Who will curse my name and completely disbelieve in my existence?”

Heat or eat? I think, right before I’m shown the answer.

From another drawer, Derek pulls out a small container of fish food.

Along with a Tabasco sauce bottle.

He lowers his head to the bowls. “Now, who will do a nice trick for their overlord? Hmm? How ‘bout you, Goldfinger? No? Goldilocks? You must be getting mighty hungry by this point.”

Uncaring of the repercussions, I snatch away the Tabasco sauce bottle and stuff it into one of my pockets. For a moment, Derek only stares at his now empty hand, before dumping a chunk of fish food into each bowl before kicking the drawer shut.

“Looks like it’s a merciful God today,” is all he says to that, as another rollercoaster bursts into colorful flames on the monitor behind him.

“You’re weird.” I feel it needs to be said aloud by this point.

“Thanks.” Derek seems pleased by the insult. “Going to report me for keeping fish in my workspace?”

I shake my head. “Nah. That’ll just be more work for me. There’s like… twelve forms to fill out before a complaint can be processed properly.”

That gets a small smile out of him. “Funny. Back in my day if I had a problem with someone, I would just snap my fingers together and deal with it in less than an eye blink. Things move so… slowly… around here. Haven’t you ever noticed that before?”

I shrug it off, wanting to get back to our original topic. “Before that game of ‘Heat or Eat’, you were mentioning a mirror? And you seemed to get pretty heated thinking about this mirror.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say heated—considering my body temperature didn’t rise a single degree—but, yes, you could say I don’t like that mirror a whole lot. It’s the entire reason I’m here, after all.” Derek showcases his yellow teeth again. Clearly, he’s thought of something amusing. “Here’s another question for you, Mr. T. Say you had complete control over all of Earth. Say you grow bored with it one day. Then let’s say that soon afterwards, a particular individual tells you about another world. A completely untouched world. Perhaps it’s Mars, or Venus, or something of the like. A world ready to be conquered and ruled.”

I furrow my brows. “This individual doesn’t happen to be that bearded unicorn you mentioned earlier, does he?”

“Starswirl. But let’s call him Swirly for the time being.” He takes a breath. “So this individual—Swirly—tells you that this entire new world can be yours, and all you have to do is go there. Leave his world alone and you can have a brand new one just like that! He even has a magic mirror that’ll take you there! What he fails to mention is that this particular trip is one way only… and that your vast amounts of magic will not be coming with you.”

“So you were tricked,” I simplify. “By a talking unicorn with a magic mirror. Have you ever tried selling this story to Disney?”

Again, Derek turns one of his hands over and stares at it, rubbing two fingers and a thumb together. “Before I arrived here, one snap of these bad boys and your guts would end up as my new wallpaper. One snap and this building would flip upside-down, spinning so fast it would reach China in a fortnight. And now?”

He looks away from his fingers to focus on the lone light bulb hanging above the door.

Derek snaps his fingers together. Nothing happens.

He does it again to much the same effect.

“Is something supposed to—”

“Shut up and let me concentrate!” he barks out, clenching his jaws tight while he snaps his fingers another four times in a row. On the last one, the light on the wall flickers a single time before humming along as normal. Only when that finally happens does Derek let out a breath and lean back in his chair.

“See?” he says happily. “There’s still some magic in these old fingers of mine. It took seventy-seven years, but I know it’s coming back. Slowly, but surely. Every day a little bit more!”

I look from him to the light bulb above the door—the one that has now flickered twice more since Derek stopped snapping his fingers together. “See what? The wiring’s atrocious down here. The lights flicker on and off all the time.”

Derek frowns and crosses his arms. “You could’ve at least humored me, you jerk-faced jerk. What’re you planning on eating for lunch today, huh? A whole plateful of jerky?”

Should I feel bad at this moment? Not believing in this basement dweller’s delusional ramblings? Unicorns? Magic mirrors? Chaos fingers?

It’s odd, but I sort of do in a way. A very small way, mind you.

“So this mirror is basically a portal,” I say. “And what’s stopping you from going back to this… Mars… Venus… magical unicorn world?”

“Equestria.”

I chuckle. “Oh, horse terms. You came prepared.”

“Because the mirror was destroyed the moment I was sent through it, obviously.” There’s a hint of edge to his tone now. Like he’s embarrassed how it all turned out for him. “I’m not sure when a return trip will be possible, but if I had to guess, it’ll be about a thousand years from when I was first shoved through. One thousand years seems to be the number of choice where I come from.” Then he laughs like a child that’s just watched another child flip over the handlebars of their bike. “But perhaps I’m forgetting the most important part—the real reason why it’s not wise to trick a draconequus.”

“More horse terms. I like. But I thought you were a hotdog God?”

Derek ignores me. He appears close to drooling now. “Right as I realized Swirly’s true plan, I made sure to use that last bit of magic to place a curse on him. Should I have perhaps been thinking about self-preservation instead? Probably. But revenge is just so much fun!”

“What—”

“Did I do to him?” he finishes for me without pause. “As I told you, I cursed him. Cursed him hard. Swirly will never die. Not unless I am the one that kills him. As an immortal being, my mind is more than strong enough to deal with the harsh rigors of countless millennia of time to kill. But his? He was meant to die by one-hundred and ten at best. But immortals like me? To put it simply: my brain will never snap. Not completely, at least.”

“You sure about that?” I blurt out once more. It’s difficult when he sets it up so damn easily.

Derek snaps his fingers again and I more than flinch when the door to his office slams shut. Without the dull hum from the flickering lights out in the hallway, the silence in the room only grows. I feel my chest heaving. Is that the beginning of sweat on my temples? My mind whirls for a moment. You can’t just snap your fingers and things magically happen, right?

Right?

“Have I got your attention, Taylor?” Derek asks tentatively. From behind his back he pulls out a small remote control with a single button. He stands momentarily to open his office door again, before pressing the button on the remote. The door closes.

“A remote control?” There’s a small quiver in my voice. “Really? But why?”

He shrugs, flicking the remote to the ground near my shoes. “Why not?”

“Because that has to be against company policy for one thing; screwing around with company property.”

“You going to tattle on me, Taylor?”

I think on that. “I won’t. Mostly because I honestly don’t care about this company. But… why? Just why?”

That hungry shark grin again. “To elicit fear from you.”

I shake my head. “If only I was scared.”

“No?” He looks somewhat pained by that. “Then what’s that smell in the air? I know it’s been some time since I’ve smelled it, but I’d recognize it most anywhere. Could it be fear? Genuine fear?”

Another pregnant pause follows. One so long, I start to worry about the unborn child still stuck in the womb.

“Shall we continue?” he asks casually. “I’m sure you have a good two minutes more before your fellow workers start worrying about you.”

“All right.” I take a quiet breath to steady myself. Can’t believe I got spooked by a freaking door closing. Like one of those stupid jump scare gimmicks reserved solely for PG-13 horror flicks. “Just try and wrap whatever this is up soon, all right?”

“Fine by me.”

Derek goes to the far corner of his desk, where a handmade text as thick as a phonebook sits. No two pages look identical, and the spine is held together by little more than duck tape and staples. Without warning, he lobs it at me, and I manage to catch it after it bounces off my chest, almost knocking the wind out of me.

“Maybe a little warning next time?” I squeak out, once I get some air back.

“Who says there'll even be a next time? Do most people throw things at you without warning?”

I get a hand under the thick book and flip to the first page, trying my best to keep all the pieces from tumbling to the floor. The writing inside is a mixture of both printed and handwritten pages. There’re even a few doodles around the edges. Of grey unicorns and dragon monsters, mostly.

I scan the very first line: “1. TELL HIM HE’S BEEN A BAD PONY.”

Then I scan the next: “2. TELL HIM HE’S BEEN A VERY BAD PONY.”

Finally, after reading another dozen or so entries, I glance up. “These are about Swirly, aren’t they?”

Derek nods. “You take it correctly. Every last thing I plan on doing to that little pest once I return. Be that in a thousand years time—when his mind’s been turned to mush and he’s drooling around the mouth—or whenever I manage to get enough magic back in me to return early and unannounced.” Then he stares off into the distance for a moment, like some explorer overlooking a breathtaking vista. “It’s gonna be sweet! Not for him, mind you. But for me? Totally.”

I read the line I’m currently on out loud. “37. Flick his right ear with my pointer finger. 38. Flick his left ear with my pointer finger.” I look to him again. “No offense, but these seem a little childish to be inflicted on some unicorn that banished and ruined your life for a thousand years.”

“Oh, that’s only the beginning,” he states proudly. “Things start to get a little more extreme around the three-thousand-and-five mark. I’ll have to make sure I get some garbage bags and pull ties ready for the occasion.”

Closing the book, I set it on the table nearby. It effortlessly crushes everything underneath.

“So that’s it?” I ask. “That’s the whole story?”

Derek purses his lips. “It’s the same story I’ve been telling just about anyone that’ll listen. And yet you all still seem to have me pegged as some creepy, lying weirdo that just so happens to have an amazing sense of fashion.”

“Then why haven’t you done anything? You said you’ve already been here for seventy-plus years, so what have you done in all that time? You say you’re smart and ruthless and used to be a God, so what the hell happened to that?”

I pause to run my hand through my hair.

“Don’t know if you happened to notice, bud, but you’re not exactly king of the castle right now. At the moment, you’re literally stuck in a basement with no windows, crunching numbers for jackasses that make six times as much as you do! Why not become the next CEO if you’re so damn smart? The next President, why not? You said before that you wanted to conquer all of Earth, right?”

Derek narrows his tired eyes until their nearly slits. “And why would I want to work so hard for so little? I can’t take a million dollar mansion back home, now can I? Try fitting that through a mirror! And President? They don’t just let rambling sociopaths into the White House!”

He shakes his head, as slowly as he can.

“No, Taylor from the sixth floor. I am merely biding my time right now. At this very moment, I’m serving a rather stiff thousand year sentence. And so far, I’ve been here for less than ten percent of that. Oh, I’m sure things will occur. Events will transpire like they always do.” He again eyes up the light bulb above the door. “But for now, let’s just say that I’m taking things easy. Having a little relaxing vacation. Don’t good things come to those who wait and all that Hallmark crap?”

I don’t have any good answer to that. At that moment, I just feel tired and want coffee; hopefully back upstairs where I can brew a fresh pot. One that I know won’t be decaf.

I turn toward the door. “Just don’t forget the assignment, okay? They want it by the fourth. Earlier if you can.”

“Of course,” he answers at once, swinging his chair back around to face his trio of monitors. He clicks on the middle one, enlarging a cartoon I don’t recognize. He stares at his thin fingers again.

“Bye, then.” I open the door an inch and Derek snaps his fingers together, causing the knob to whip out from my grasp and for the door to slam shut. I sigh—more annoyed than anything—when I remember the remote control he set up.

Only to find it still on the floor and nowhere close to him.

“A second remote?” I ask. There’s nothing on his desk or even near his hands that looks like a remote. Maybe he has something on his computer?

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Taylor.”

I grab the knob again and hold it firm, half expecting it to slam shut again. It doesn’t, but before I exit Derek’s damp and dark office, he turns to me once last time with an oddly honest question.

“Do I scare you? Tell me that I do.”

I sigh. “Sure. You’re a pretty scary dude, Derek.”

“Thanks. It’s still nice to hear that every now and then.” He pauses. “You want to smoke some pot after work on the roof?”

I take the time to ponder that, and the phrase “hedge one’s bets” comes to mind. Then I wonder if it’s in my best interests to be on the good side of a potential Chaos King.

The answer seems clear enough to me. “Sure.”

Derek smiles one last time before I leave. “Wonderful. I’ll make sure to bring the appropriate music.”

Then the door slams shut behind me and the song starts up again.

“We all live in a yellow submarine… a yellow submarine… a yellow submarine.”

Author's Notes:

So this particular story's been on the backburner for some time. The original premise came after reading the "Magic Is Fiendship" comics -- namely, the one where Starswirl battles the Sirens and later sends them to Earth in human form. My thought was "What if he sent Discord to the human world? Maybe as a boring accountant?"

Originally, I was aiming for comedy, but realized I wanted to try something different. Then it switched over to dark or tragedy. Again, I wasn't a big fan. So... here's random! I'm just glad it's done so I can move on!

And, of course:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vefJAtG-ZKI