Checkmate, Samael.

Cynthia Mattscheck is the only person the Devil has blocked in his contacts.

After the seventeenth time she fooled him, he knew he could no longer pretend their interactions would end with him getting the best of her.

All of sixteen herself, Cynthia was everything the witch of Rock 'n Roll, Stevie Nicks, wanted to be.

Her jet black hair shot out like a wayward roman candle fight. Her family had raised Cynthia to fear the Devil- the Mattscheck clan was a respected Baptist family in Madison, Wisconsin. Evil was simply against their nature.

Cynthia's aunt Sybil was the black sheep of the prim and proper Mattscheck clan. She smelled of patchouli and independent thought. Sybil fell into the habit of leaving secrets gifts for Cynthia. The ouija board Cynthia found for her fifteenth birthday changed everything.

***

"Fool me once, send me to Hell. Fool me seventeen times?! I'm the God damn Devil!" Samael said. Shadows flickered around his form, never letting light fully outline his silhouette. His phone showed one missed call from Cynthia Mattscheck.

"There's no way she should have this number," he said, flipping through his messages. "I don't even need her soul." Samael kicked a small demon out of his way as the gates of Hell opened before him. There wasn't any reception down there- he'd be safe from Cynthia there.

Masking her intentions was the first vital skill she learned as the child of fundamentalists. Never argue for the thing you want, instead, suggest a parallel opportunity that will allow you to pursue your desire- without ever revealing it.

Cynthia looked like the girl you'd cheat off of in math class and then accidentally run over in the hallway.

After she summoned the Devil for the first time, she realized she could alter the spell and call on spirits and deities across all cultures and faiths.

Like an eager socialite that just got unlimited minutes- Cynthia made calls every chance she got.

The benefits of being the youngest child meant that she had grown up watching negotiations. She made sure to slightly overextend on each deal- giving the illusion that the other party would get the better deal on the back end. Cynthia never asked for an overwhelming amount of power, but she did ask a vast amount of deities for it. None the wiser that their deals weren't the only ones she had made.

For each deity, Cynthia asked, she received a unique power. Each God, Goddess, Demon, Jinn, Angel, and Abyss got the same deal. Cynthia got power, and in several days, the deity could retrieve her soul from a specific location.

None of them expected to see one another there.

Cynthia stood in front of the crowd of immortals

"You can have it-- if you can claim it," she said to a shocked audience. Samael looked on in bemused satisfaction. He hadn't fathered a child in centuries but started to have doubts as he watched a young girl pit the world's powers against each other. An immortal Battle Royale-- in which she presided as queen, not a sacrificial lamb.

No one except Samael put together the size of her coup as Gods clashed together. Cynthia had snagged an ability from each one of them and kept her powers in reserve as she watched from the sidelines.

The crowd thinned as more bodies littered the ground than stood upright. The first challenger to shoot out from the group towards Cynthia met a blinding light and disappeared with a sizzle. Those on the periphery slowed down to watch a globe of crackling fire grow in Cynthia's palm.

Eons of being predators meant their instincts took notice of a more powerful opponent. The globe kept rippling outward as the realization of an apex predator stood in the form of a high school girl surged in front of it.

Cynthia smiled and pushed forward- the globe engulfed the crowd of gods, demons, and beings used to winning immortality. She smiled at Samael before turning back to the scorched earth.

"So, Cynthia, how'd you do it?" Samael asked.

"A little hustle never hurt anyone." The Devil gestured at the carnage beside them.

"I'm sure they'll pull themselves back together."

"You're a wicked girl. Are you sure you're not one of mine?"

"Who knows, Samael?"

A Winged Prophecy

People like to tell you how things are going to be. That's the problem with prophecy- it's just another case of "I told you so."

The oracles at Delphi didn't have to deal with the incessant whining of grubby teenagers. I did. And let me tell you, I would have chosen the creepy old Greek guys.

When the world saw dragons for the first time, it wasn't a storybook moment, unless you count the original Hans Christian Andersen's. The land engulfed in fire, the seas boiled, and the true Gods laughed.

This is part of the story where I tell you that I'm one of the resistance fighters or some hero with a burning tale of vengeance. But I'm not. I'm just a scout leader that got caught with his pants down. NO! Not like that. Bathroom. I saw the dragons return out of the window of a ranger waystation. I stopped to deal with some lingering dysentery (thanks, Ometepe) and found my scout troop missing. If I hadn't had just gone, I would have shit myself when I saw the dragon drop into the valley.

It looked like a fever dream. Nothing that big is supposed to fly. I know you're always supposed to worry about the kids first- but being in Glacier and seeing the winged incarnation of doom, all I could think was, no merit badge is worth this.

If there were enough people left to judge me, I'd be worried, but there aren't.

Global carbon emissions have plummeted as the human footprint disappears. I wish I had downloaded my music before this happened. Internet running out crashed the collective intelligence of our species. Most people don't realize their lack of critical thinking skills until their life depends on it.

Some places adjusted better than others. Siberia's population is the same, as with Alaska, parts of Montana, Minnesota, and Afghanistan. Say what you will, those people know how to survive.

Bicycles found a new love for a brief period. Until the nickname "meals on wheels" came into effect after some gruesome drive-by ingestions. Turns out, humans had to rely on their own two feet. Not exactly fair in a scenario where your opponent has four feet and wings. Tough shit, though.

Outside of the flying horrors and lack of company, life in a dragon ruled world beat the previous one. Not working at a Wendy's any was enough to praise the fire-filled serpents, but the quiet new landscape awoke a guilty peace. Before everything turned to guano, I kept questioning why I pretended I wanted to be anywhere besides the woods. Running the scout troop proved the only viable excuse to be in nature all weekend. Unless I wanted to be like the Zakowski twins, which given their moonshine and chili habits, I didn't.

Is life more mortally stressful with man-eating dragons flying through the skies, hoping to root out the last of my kind? Arguably. Do I get to enjoy trails and abandoned Trader Joe's to myself? Yes. It all shakes out in the end.

The Pulp Wars: A History of Florida's Fall

There are few things in life you need to take a firm side on- and the presence of pulp in orange juice is one of them.

The cultivation of citrus has a contentious history in the United States. Dating back to the initial disappointments of the Florida territory not possessing the fountain of youth, young colonizers smashed oranges to manage their aggression. Outside of the unstoppable flow of time, a brief air of calm held the burgeoning territory in its grasp, until it didn't. A fierce debate surrounded the remains of crushed oranges and the leaked juice. One young man, Francisco Pulplenti, asserted the values of keeping the white detritus. At the same time, his rival, Hernan Alivincoso, slapped Francisco's sloppy goblet away to parade his purified version of the juice.

The history of that day lived within the hearts of every true Floridian. Only through mutual disdain of Louisiana and lemonade were the two opposing forces able to tolerate one another.

Yet, the siren call of conviction corrupted both sides after three hundred years of peace.

Two field hands fell into an argument over which bottle to chill in the mini-fridge for refreshment, and just as it started three hundred years ago, it ended. The groove fell into the two sides of pro and anti-pulp. Small skirmishes peppered the state as chaos spilled onto the streets.

Before the day set, the state had to shut its borders, lest outside forces added to the ongoing battle.

The pro-pulp forces were the vocal minority; their numbers dwarfed by the populist anti-pulp masses.

In the face of overwhelming odds, the pro-pulp prevailed in pitched battles. Whispers began to circle that the pulp gave them supernatural abilities. Soon, the anti-pulp faced internal rumors that they faced a legion of pulp-powered superhumans.

The anti-pulp leadership branded pulp consumption as barbaric and alluded to a connection with witchcraft. The shift from the superhuman narrative towards evil practices quelled the morale loss from the pro-pulp victories.

Just like the noncommital, none were left exempt from choosing sides. Citrus allergy? Still have to choose- otherwise, you'll experience your death allergy.

As with all wars, factions brought it to its knees. The pro-pulp and anti-pulp fought on the pretense of the naval orange being the orange of choice.

Both forces suffered surprise attacks by the Valencia orange and Blood orange armies. The tangerine mercenaries joined the melee while the grapefruit and lemon contingents watched the carnage in disgust.

And so Florida fell- fracturing into several tribes. Each aggressive to defend their groves.

The everglades soon filled with the hum of airboats as covert trade routes formed between former allies, friends, and families. Disney World closed its borders to the rest of the state and used their private airfield to maintain its cult activities. Even still, the Mouse privately funded grapefruit enterprises to dismantle the orange infrastructure.

The corrosive nature of citrus burned into history as the rest of the country drank pale champagne mourning their own tradition. No longer would brunch, nor the nation be the same again.

Cincinnati Sky City

The hidden sky cities were the first treasure of the ancients that global warming revealed. The burning of the ozone led to one of them falling back to Earth- destroying everyone's favorite city, Cincinnati.

In truth, the rest of Ohio, America, and the world took a deeply held sign of relief when they realized the burden of Cincinnati lifted from their lives.

The worldwide celebration took precedence over an investigation of the Sky City. The party lasted for two whole weeks- it was the bastard child of Mardi Gras, Oktoberfest, and a University of Arizona pool party all combined to toast the new age of a Cincinnati-less world.

Some thanked God, others science, but most just shrugged and forgot the town ever existed. As for the giant, self-sustained miracle that lived in the clouds for thousands of years? It didn't have WiFi, so the public collectively shrugged and moved on.

It took a spirited film producer at MTV to convince someone with capital to invest in an expedition into the now earthbound city.

And that's how "MTV Real World: Cincinnati Sky City" was born.

Within a week, the city became almost as famous as a Kardashian- some would even argue a mid-level Jenner. Still, it quickly distanced itself from the initial cold shoulder.

The weekly excitement centered around the most significant problem the contestants faced- boobytraps. Usually, anything that involved "booby" was a positive for former frat boys and sorority sisters turned reality tv contestants, but not in the Sky City. Chad was the first to go after an errant turn delivered a spike pit surprise.

Michael's mishap was more traumatic to the viewers-he saw what he thought was a water bed, only to realize upon his landing that it was an early water heater. Boiled frat boys weren't originally on the menu, but by God, they made it.

Jessica was next- but the blame rests on Stephanie's shoulders- after her big ass shoulders accidentally bumped her into a motion-activated hammer sconce.

The contestants began to crack under pressure- which was reasonable as no one expects death to be apart of the "Real World" even it's a part of the natural world. Most of the pressure centered around they might die on camera in an undignified fashion. No one wants to be the first person to shit themselves on national television AND die. But they couldn't leave. The lawyers at MTV closed up their contracts water-tight. The document clearly stated that in signing them- the broadcast corporation rose to judge, jury, and God in their life. Even in death, they couldn't escape the technicalities they hid in the fine print.

They tried making a break for it, but all the exits were barred. And all the while, the public ate it up. Not even "Prison Break" had that many escape attempts. There hadn't been this sort of desperation since "Fear Factor."

By the time the contestant pool whittled down to three, the deaths and trauma had done their part. The remaining trio looked like extras out of The Hunger Games. They were broken down and reforged in the crucible of the Sky City.

Long gone were the vows of fraternal bonds and trust fund debauchery. The ancient city had hollowed the hope of those boys and hastened their transition to death.

The giant levers and sprockets seamlessly transitioned into the wall that surrounded the city. Never before had MTV been the favored viewing of scientists and party kids alike.

The nation had recovered from its Independence day worthy hangover to track the progress of the remaining dude crew through the inner sanctum of the Sky City. Archaeologists and architects worked together to map out the most viable route to the control room. And then one of the MTV executives altered that path to make the journey more entertaining to the viewers- not the participants.

Once the trio hit the inner sanctum, the live-feed went black. The nation exploded in an anxious fury, many resorting to twitter to ease their worry for their newfound heroes. The leading theory centered around an ancient EMP killed the video drones, leaving the contestants without their national audience or producer input.

A week passed, and several drones made the mechanic sacrifice, but the nation still had no answer to the fate of the fabled three. MTV prepped another contestant batch for a rescue effort, but their chance disappeared along with the city. A low thrum radiated from the city- the surrounding cameras fed images of a slowly rising city to the country.

The cameras couldn't catch any faces as the sky city rose from the ashes of Cincinnati. The drones flew after it, but a sudden thunderstorm dropped them out of the sky, the city without them.

The Dance of Death

Found lurking in the depths of every crowded bar and concert hall is the notorious Red Cap. His appearance has changed over the centuries to fit with the current generations. Thus what once appeared as an aristocrat now showed his face under the brim of a snapback.

The gentle rhythm of bass lures him into darkened rooms where drinks and cares are loose.

The one mainstay of the Red Cap that has traveled through the years with him is that if he grabs hold of your hand and you don't instantly escape, you're doomed. His grip is the single invite to the dance of death.

The concertgoers and bar dwellers always shout at first, but they're grateful to have dodged the invite themselves. The risk of public libations doesn't deal with the bridge trolls or taxi goblins, no, the real threat of a night out with friends is that the Red Cap might catch you and make you dance until you die. Which then he'll take your bloody, battered feet and dye his Red Cap once more with the blood of the unfortunate and foolish.

Escapes from his grasp have been dramatic and rare. Many people have taken to wearing loose clothing they can slip out of just in case. The fashion of harem pants and silk tops tripled Chinese exports in one summer alone.

An unprecedented double attempt occurred to the initially unfortunate and then warily smart, Arthur Tomkins.

Arthur was an arborist by trade and came to Finnegan’s Hall for a weekend drink. The night had already fallen when the distinct clue of the Red Cap's company was clear. Red flickered to his side and a long peal of laughter that cut through the music in the hall before Arthur felt a cold grip on his hand. He looked to find the wide grin split into the dark corner of the room, crowned by a red hat. Without thinking Arthur's other hand shot to his hip and drew his hatchet, it cleaved the Red Cap's grip before he saw the consequences. The Red Cap snarled backing away. Even he played by the rules; it otherwise meant incurring the wrath of Mab.

Arthur bested the Red Cap, but at a handy price. He stuck clear of taverns and dance halls for many moons until they had seen him grow accustomed to his prosthetic hand. It was more appropriate for the public than his work claw, which he argued gave him steadier purchase in the trees.

The bar brought chills to Arthur's spine as he fingered the handle of his hatchet. Stiff drinks and fast music made the fear fade from his mind. Surely no man had been tapped twice by fate for the same task.

Arthur froze at the sight of Red as it slipped his eyes. He was peeking in at the corners before a hearty tug found the Red Cap clamped down on his right hand. Fear should have frozen it, but what's dead can never die. Arthur returned the Red Cap's laugh that he safeguarded as sweet revenge for years, as he stepped away from both the Red Cap and his prosthetic hand.

Twice bested- by bravery and wit, a third victory would elevate Arthur above the station of mortal men and into fable. But all Arthur longed for were tall trees and calm breezes. He knew without prophecy, that if he ever set foot in a bar, tavern, or dance hall again, the Red Cap would descend upon him like a rabid dog.

So he never did. His life was his own, as he doomed the Red Cap to a life of fear, that he might reappear in those dark halls to best him one last time.

The Saint for Sinners

Paul Greenberg was the nicest man that lived in Bushwick. No, honestly, he was. The type to possess that supernatural ability to stem the tide of personal disasters before the waves of misery could crash. Whether it took the form of a kind word, late-night phone call, or a surprise present, he lit the path of life with kindness for not only his friends but each soul that stopped long enough for Paul to flash a grin and share a laugh.

That's why it was so confusing when you faced his bright, kind, sympathetic face when he printed out your parking ticket. The anger inside you would burn into your guts as it struggled to release itself. Instinctively, your mouth would clamp shut or stutter as some essential subconscious part of you understood there was no malice coming from the man before you. Even worse, you could see in his warm, amber eyes a generous love for each person. You'd accept the ticket with a resigned confusion. A shock that comes from meeting real-life angels.

So it went through the boroughs as Paul continued to hand out tickets, smiles, and small prayers for harmony. Some took it upon themselves to try and muster an angry response or stern word for Paul, but it fell away like autumn leaves as his eyes crinkled with understanding. Life had yet to conjure a wave of anger too fierce for Paul to quell.

The day those sweet, amber eyes didn't accompany a ticket, the people revolted. Four different meter maids found themselves at the mercy of enraged motorists as a frenzy swept through the boroughs. The absence of Paul's light created monsters of mere mortals. They stalked the street in a vain attempt to locate their blue vested saint. The last light of goodness to flicker and die in the city that never sleeps. A frenzied chant of "Where's Paul" echoed through the boroughs as the citizens seek their unlikely savior.

The status of Paul Greenberg still unknown; the city fell to the riots within two weeks. But his legacy burns through the streets. Soon, every act of kindness met the battle cry of "You're not Paul!" even that quickly reduced to a screech that spoke only of hate. Hate that's born out of loss.

The world could only watch as chaos consumed the crown jewel of the United States. Eventually, even the Pope stepped in as he decreed Paul, a saint for his love. Only the crowds wanted more. Being a saint made Paul equal to other saints, and their Paul had no equal. He rose to a God, and with it brought the destruction of the church. The horde tolerated no false idols. No Jesus. not even God was safe from their fires.

"Let there be light; let there be Paul. Without his guidance, we shall fall. We shall fall. We. Shall. Fall."

And so they fell. Upon the land, the people, and the backbone of collective knowledge. Humanity was undone- by the Sinners of Paul.