Demon Boyfriend: Jolly Jay (special preview)

I am sick of smiling. It’s as simple as that. All my life I have been told to smile, to stay upbeat, to present myself as a happy, well mannered, person. But I am disgusted with the motion of happiness now. I want to rage. I want to scream. I want to throw things and break them. I want to be so angry all the time. But I have to smile and keep smiling.

I am not alone in feeling this way. There are many others who are exhausted with smiling and of appearing happy all the time. Although it is hard to meet together these days due to the curfews, we manage to meet and show our emotions that are not ‘good’ ones. We cry, we rage, we suffer together as we discuss ways things could be different if someone just tried. But no one tries anymore, it’s almost impossible. Everyone must be happy, or else.

Or else could mean a wide berth of things. None of them are good. I have seen what ‘or else’ can mean. I have had neighbors come home changed, mentally or physically. I have never seen family members again, and if I have, I probably don’t know them anymore. The Government of Immaculate Unity sees to all the ‘or else’ that happens. Well, they call themselves a government to make themselves sound nice, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The GIU took over a long time ago, although it was barely seen. Thanks to certain Witch Hunts, they were able to wiggle their fingers into positions of power, and those wagging fingers became more insistent that an upbeat nature would solve more issues than anything. Although, I am not too clear on timelines as history isn’t taught. I mean, they teach something called history, but it’s only happy events.

I own a rather large house, one that is far too big for me. So I rent out rooms to make money, and it is usually profitable. I offer a no questions asked policy and no one argues with my prices after that. I see strange behavior often, I barely bat an eye at it anymore. As long as I receive cash and the proper forms are signed, I don’t care what one does in the rooms. I also pay my cleaning woman, Matilda, handsomely and let her take home anything left in the rooms. It was a good system until one day, a few years ago, when men in lilac and yellow suits came to my door. Both looked quite fit and large, casting a shadow over my desk. They offered me a lot of money, enough to make me an asshole the rest of my life. All I had to do was clean out my basement and rent it to them indefinitely and see to the guest who would be staying there.

Knowing what I know now, I would have turned them away and risked it. Instead, being presented with that kind of money, I agreed to it. I clean out the basement and they outfitted it with everything it needed. They took down a lot of strange equipment into the basement, things that didn’t seem very homely. I never saw anyone move in, but I was given a set of keys for the door, which had been replaced behind my back. The door was bright yellow with strange markings all over it. Sealed away with several locks and bolts, and a window at head level, and another lower that had extended shelves for delivering food.

I was told to never open the door, what times to deliver food, and was told they would only be able to reach me through an intercom they installed into the phone. I was told not to talk at length to the man in the room, and I was to deliver to him packages that would come each morning by someone in a lilac and yellow suit. If I had any issues at all, they said they would be willing to pay more money. I argued there was a problem, and they paid me more money. Anytime I have a complaint, they just give me money. I’ve learned to be okay with it.

The first few weeks were strange, of course. I didn’t know if I had a criminal locked in my basement or what. I just brought food and the packages and left whoever was in there alone. After some time, I began hearing strange noises. Buzzes and beeps and all sorts of static. This caused disruptions for my television and radio. I mean, I never used them, but they started to turn on of their own accord.

One afternoon, as I took down their breakfast and package, the shutter inside opened. I stood back, holding my breath. The opposite shutter had never opened before. I always left before it did. I stood there, watching and waiting, hoping it might close again.

“Do you have my things or don’t you?” The voice that came out was so smooth and lovely. A hand then came out that was not so smooth and lovely. The fingers were so long and had an extra joint. The nails were painted pastel pink and shaped like coffins. “Come now,” the fingers wagged. “I smell that delicious coffee.”

I approach. “Sorry, was surprised.”

“Of course,” that beautiful voice purred. “I’ve been quite shy up until this point.” Their voice actually feels like silk in the ears.

I set the tray down then set the package in sideways. I wanted to hear them speak more, but I was unsure what to say to them. I went to step back as they took their things. They then held their hand out again. “Pleasure to meet you.”

I hold my mouth stiffly, having trained to keep it flat rather than turn into a frown all my life. Better to look emotionless than lean anywhere towards being unhappy. “I’ll shake your hand later. Mine are sticky from the cinnamon bun,” I lied.

“Oh, of course.” Their hand recoiled back inside. “My name is Jay Bune.”

I was shocked. Everybody knew that name, it was the most popular radio program on air today. Some claimed he was spreading propaganda for the GIU. Others said he was hiding coded messages in his broadcasts. Most of the world just knew him as ‘their friendly neighbor, Jolly Jay’. Hell, even I listened to him sometimes.

“The radio guy?”