Bezel squirmed in his chair, doodling absently on the yellow legal pad in front of him. He sketched a pitchfork, then scribbled it out. Too on the nose.
D. K. Wall:Around the Obsidian conference table set 11 Senior Vice Presidents of Torment, each one radiating centuries of malevolent experience. Their nameplates gleamed in the flickering hellfire sconces, Anguish Division. Despair Operations. Petty Frustrations.
D. K. Wall:That last one was Bezel's new department. The old boss fell out of favor and was shipped off to a role in purgatory. Until they identified a permanent replacement, Bezel had been named acting lead. Keeping the seat warm, so to speak.
D. K. Wall:He was the youngest demon at the table by at least four hundred years. His horns had barely come in. His executive ID badge read temporary in bold red letters, which in an organization that dealt in eternity was particularly demoralizing.
D. K. Wall:The meeting had droned on for two hours— a presentation on updated soul collection metrics, a budget dispute between pestilence and bureaucracy, turf war naturally— when the double doors at the far end of the chamber blew open with a blast of hot wind that smelled distinctly of sulfur and burned coffee.
D. K. Wall:In walked Azazel. Number two in the entire organization. One of the very few who interacted directly with the boss. One of the even fewer who had actually seen him and lived to tell about it, though lived was a generous term down here.
D. K. Wall:Azazel was seven feet tall, carved from shadow and sinew with cheekbones that could cut glass and eyes that glowed the deep, pulsing red of dying stars. His suit was immaculate— Italian, charcoal, clearly bespoke— and his goatee was trimmed to a geometric precision that would make a barber weep. When he spoke, his voice resonated somewhere below the bass clef, a sound that made your sternum hum.
D. K. Wall:Sit down, he said. Though everyone was already sitting, three demons sat down harder. Azazel placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. The boss is not happy. The room went cold, impressive given the ambient temperature.
D. K. Wall:He wants fresh ideas, disruptive ideas. The night to counteract the day initiative was good foundational work. And winter? He kissed his fingertips. Brilliant. Making the nights extra long, cold, and dark. Perfect cover for our field agents. Seasonal misery at scale. The numbers were extraordinary.
D. K. Wall:He paced his hooves clicking on the stone floor. But the other side, he gestured vaguely upward with obvious distaste, came up with axial tilt. Now half the year, their precious humans get more daylight than darkness, longer evenings, sunshine, hope. He said the word like it tasted of spoiled milk. This century's numbers are suffering, so I need ideas, and I need them now.
D. K. Wall:He pointed a long clawed finger at Moloch, Senior Vice President of Anguish. You go. Moloch straightened. What if we made all their shoes slightly too tight on one...? Azazel dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. Small. Next.
D. K. Wall:Belphara from Despair Operations leaned forward eagerly. How about a plague of...? Azazel slammed his hand onto the conference table and growled. Pestilence already has 17 plagues in the pipeline. I need original thinking. Next.
D. K. Wall:One by one, Azazel pointed. And one by one, each senior demon offered something. Cursed weather patterns, a new breed of biting insect, making all public restrooms perpetually out of toilet paper. And one by one, each was dismissed.
D. K. Wall:Bezel sank lower in his chair with each rejection, attempting a feat of geometric impossibility, making a five foot ten demon occupy the space of a throw pillow.
D. K. Wall:He stared at his legal pad where beneath the scribbled out pitchfork, he had written three words during the budget presentation, almost without thinking. Just a silly little thought, a half formed nugget of chaos.
D. K. Wall:You. Bezel looked up. Those red eyes were locked on him like targeting lasers. The new one from Petty Frustrations. Azazel glanced at a dossier. Bezel, is it? Promoted from... a slight smirk. Hang Nails and Splinters?
D. K. Wall:A snicker rippled through the room. Bezel felt his skin flush red, redder than its normal red, which was already quite red. Show me something, Azazel said, and do make it worth my time.
D. K. Wall:Bezel gripped the edge of the table. Nothing risked, nothing gained, he told himself. But he also understood with crystalline clarity that there were far worse places to be reassigned down here than endless committee meetings in an executive conference room.
D. K. Wall:He took a deep breath that tasted a brimstone. What if he said his voice cracking slightly. We made them change their clocks. Silence cloaked the room.
D. K. Wall:Azazel raised one sculpted eyebrow above a glowing eye. A minor inconvenience. They had adjust within a day. I need bigger.
D. K. Wall:No, sir.
D. K. Wall:Not just once. Bezel stood up surprising himself. Twice a year. Every year. We make them set their clocks forward one hour in the spring and back one hour in the autumn permanently forever on a schedule, except we will keep changing that schedule.
D. K. Wall:The eyebrow climbed higher. Long spindly fingers rose to stroke the geometric goatee. A roar of laughter erupted from Bezel's left. Moloch slapped the table. Change their clocks. That's your grand vision? They'll barely notice.
D. K. Wall:Oh, they'll notice, Bezel said, his confidence catching like a flame. He flipped to a new page on his legal pad where he realized with some alarm he had apparently been working out details for weeks in his subconscious.
D. K. Wall:When the clocks spring forward, every human loses one hour of sleep on the same night. Every single one. Millions of them all at once, all sleep deprived on the same Monday morning.
D. K. Wall:He looked around the room. A few demons had stopped smirking. My projections show a measurable spike in heart attacks that Monday. Car accidents, workplace injuries, emergency room visits, all from one lost hour of sleep. He tapped his pad, and that is just day one.
D. K. Wall:Azazel said nothing but pulled out a chair and sat down, which Biesel took as an encouraging sign, or at least a not immediately fatal one. Go on, Azazel said.
D. K. Wall:Bezel's words came faster now. Parents with young children, the kids won't understand the time change. Babies will scream at the wrong hours. Toddlers will refuse to sleep.
D. K. Wall:Dogs will demand breakfast at what is now 4AM, and no one can explain to a dog why the clock's changed. The entire household descends into chaos twice a year, every year. A murmur of appreciation spread around the table.
D. K. Wall:Then there's a confusion factor. Spring forward, fall back. Half of them will forget which direction to go. People will show up to work an hour early, an hour late. They'll miss flights, miss funerals, miss church, and we know he'll like that one.
D. K. Wall:He was pacing now, mimicking Azazel's actions without realizing it. And the clocks, their phones will update automatically, but the microwave won't. The oven won't. That one clock in the car that requires a seven step process, marvelous invention, by the way. That clock will be wrong for six months until the time changes again and it's accidentally correct.
D. K. Wall:Actual laughter now rippled around the room, not derisive, but delighted. Couples will argue. Did you change the clocks? I thought you were changing the clocks. It will be a recurring fight twice a year for the duration of every relationship.
D. K. Wall:Azazel leaned back, his red eyes narrowing with what might have been admiration. Interesting. But surely, they'll simply agree to stop. Humans do occasionally stumble onto common sense.
D. K. Wall:That's where it gets beautiful, sir. Bezel grinned. A proper demonic grin, the best one he had ever managed. We'll build in a deadlock.
D. K. Wall:We make it so that any jurisdiction can opt out and stay on the original standard time year round. Simple process. A few places will do it. Arizona, probably, maybe parts of Indiana, just enough to prove it's possible and add just an inkling more complication.
D. K. Wall:So they'll all opt out Azazel said. No, sir. They'll agree that they wanna stop changing clocks, but we will split them. Half the population will wanna keep standard time, and the other half will wanna go to the new time permanently.
D. K. Wall:And they'll fight about it endlessly in legislatures, on social media, at Thanksgiving dinner. They'll argue about whether they'd rather have the extra light in the morning or the evening, and neither side will ever convince the other. Azazel's goatee twitched.
D. K. Wall:And the politicians, Bezel continued, will campaign on it. They'll promise to fix it. They'll pass bills through one chamber, but not the other. They'll hold press conferences. They'll form committees and nothing will change for decades, centuries, maybe forever.
D. K. Wall:Politicians. Azazel spoke the words slowly, enunciating each syllable. The boss says they are quite possibly our finest work. Everyone murmured in reverent agreement.
D. K. Wall:But wait, there's more. Bezel was on fire now. Almost literally Tiny wisps of smoke curled from his collar. Once we roll this out internationally, we'll make different countries change their clocks on different weekends. So for a few weeks, every spring and fall, no one on earth will be entirely sure what time it is anywhere else.
D. K. Wall:International conference calls will be missed. Stock trades will be botched. A businessman in New York will call his colleague in London at what he thinks is 3PM their time, but it's actually 2PM or 4PM because one country changed and the other hasn't.
D. K. Wall:Azazel stood, he walked to the whiteboard at the front of the room and picked up a marker. Smoke curled from the tip as he held it poised. Does this idea have a name? Bezel looked down at the three words on his legal pad, the ones he had scrawled without thinking, as if something ancient and wicked had guided his hand. Yes, sir. Daylight saving time.
D. K. Wall:Moloch snorted from across the table. Saving? Saving? What fool would believe they're actually saving daylight by moving the hands on a clock.
D. K. Wall:Before Bezel could respond. Azazel answered for him. His voice dry as ash. They're humans. Moloch. They fall for our schemes every single time.
D. K. Wall:Azazel turned back to Bezel studying him with those smoldering eyes daylight saving. Is that saving or savings? Bezel allowed himself a small wicked smile. That's half the fun, sir. We'll let them argue about that too.
D. K. Wall:Azazel stared at the board for a long moment, then he chuckled. A low rolling sound like distant thunder. One more question. Won't they eventually blame us? Figure out the whole thing is designed to cause suffering?
D. K. Wall:I've already thought of that, sir. We'll plant the idea that it was invented to help farmers. Farmers?
D. K. Wall:Yes, sir. Even though farmers will actually hate it. Cows don't wear watches and the crops don't care what the clock says, but humans will repeat it to each other with absolute confidence for generations. They'll say it's for the farmers at every dinner party, every office break room, every time the subject comes up and no one will ever bother to verify it.
D. K. Wall:The room erupted. Demons pounded the table. Belphora was openly weeping with joy. Even Moloch grudgingly slow clapped.
D. K. Wall:Azazel smiled a rare and terrifying sight. I'll take it to the boss, but I am sure he will love it. He strode to the door, but paused before exiting. Oh, and Beasel report to the 666th floor Monday morning. You have just been promoted to Senior VP of Petty Frustrations.
D. K. Wall:He swept out of the room, leaving behind the scent of sulfur. Bezel sat down, his heart or whatever approximated one, hammering in his chest. He looked at the smoking words on the whiteboard, then down at the temporary badge clipped to his lapel. He peeled it off and flicked it into the nearest hellfire sconce. Nothing temporary about this. He would have this job for an eternity.
D. K. Wall:Nothing temporary about this. He would have this job for an eternity.